PAST MASTERS

SIXTY-TWO

February 2022

Part 2

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: Strychnine for Village Dogs / Arthur Gask

2: The Mummy's Foot / Theophile Gautier

3: The Interpreter / L. Adams Beck (novelette)

4: The Cardboard Clue / Walter Ripperger

5: The Going Out of Alessandro Pozzone / Richard Dowling

6: A Circumstantial Puzzle / Robert Edward Francillon

7: The Mystery of the Essex Stairs / Sir Gilbert Campbell

8: How the Girl Came to Bentley's / E Charles Vivian

9: The Faith of Men / William Le Queux

10: The Yellow Imps / Thomas Burke

11: The Horrible God / Thomas Burke

12: Laughing Lillian / Thomas Burke

13: What was the Lady's Choice? / Thomas Nelson Page

14: The Diamond Necklace / Anonymous

15: The Emerald Beetle / Richard Mace

16: White Flame / Frederick Graves

Cumulative Index 61-62

______________

1: Strychnine for Village Dogs

Arthur Gask

1869-1951

The Chronicle, Adelaide, 18 Nov 1937

This text: Project Gutenberg Aust

IN the dark hours of the night the destroyer had descended upon the little village of Finchingfield. Convulsions had seized his victims, their limbs had stiffened and, in a great agony their bodies had been arched. Then death had come, and the friends of man had sped to the Valhalla where the spirits go.

And there they lay— five dogs outstretched upon the village road.

The landlord of the "Goose and Feathers" had lost his greyhound; Mr. Spraggs of the village store, his fox terrier; old Mrs. Jinks, weeping more than she ever wept when her late husband died, her little dog of most mysterious descent; Joe Rolls, the butcher his prize cocker spaniel, and Dr. Kains, his beautiful and soft eyed collie, beloved by every child for miles around.

Strychnine had killed them all. Dr. Kains knew it instantly, when he saw his own dog beside two others on the road before his house, and, at once, he used language that as a church warden should have fallen from his lips only upon Whit-Sunday, in the singing of the Athanasian Creed.

The whole business was as a little earthquake in the lives of the homely village folks and, speculate as they might, they could hazard no idea as to the identity of the fiend who had laid the poor animals low.

The news spread like wildfire through the district, and consternation and terror took possession of all whose dogs had so far escaped.

The Vicar locked up his setter in the tool-shed, pending the coming of the Chelmsford detectives, whom he insisted should be communicated with at once. The Misses Wardle, to whose cook the dreadful news had been imparted by the milkman, telephoned instantly to Braintree, imploring that a strong leather dog lead for their little Pekinese be despatched forthwith by the carrier, and Professor Welder's housekeeper, arriving in the village for her usual morning's shopping and hearing what had happened, rushed precipitately back home, remembering then in trepidation that she had not noticed their bulldog Ajax, about that morning.

The village constable, Abel Dance, was urged to instant action, and he did his best to pacify the bereaved by his confident assurance that all steps would be taken, at once, to get to the bottom of the matter.

Then Rumor began to clamor with her thousand tongues and, with no delay, Professor Welder's dog, along with several others, was added to the number of the slain. Indeed, to a passing but highly interested stranger who had alighted from his motor cycle at the "Goose and Feathers" for refreshment— a double rum— was very quickly imparted the names of no less than eleven dog owners whose animals had died.

Rumor, as it happened, had some reason for her clamoring, for at 20 minutes to 10 news filtered through that Squire Manning's little Pomeranian was sick unto death and at 9.55 old Colonel Jones, with a red and furious face, was ushered into the little office of Police Constable Dance to announce the passing of his bull-terrier, Bill.

Now, Colonel Jones was a very important person in the village and, as chairman of the bench of magistrates at Braintree, he could not be put off with the vague promises like the other sufferers. So the constable at once proceeded to give him chapter and verse as to what had been done.

Chelmsford had been communicated with and the whole matter laid before them, the seriousness and wide-spread nature of the outrage being stressed, most urgently.

"But I'm afraid, sir," added Dance with a shrug of his shoulders, "that they won't take much notice. All their comment was that if any of the dead dogs were not registered then I was to take immediate steps to proceed against their owners."

"But it is monstrous," boomed the Colonel, "for the poisoning may go on. Other kinds of animals may die next, and in a few days there may not be a paw or a hoof in the district." His face was purple in his indignation. "They ought to send down the best detectives they've got, at once."

Dance put his finger to his lips and, glancing furtively round to make sure that the door of his little sanctum was firmly closed, dropped his voice into a very low tone.

"Speaking about detectives, Colonel Jones," he whispered, "it happens we have one of the best staying in the village now." His eyes were opened very wide. "Gilbert Larose, one of the cracks up at the Yard is at the present moment at the 'Goose and Feathers'. He's there on holiday under the name of Brown. He doesn't know me, but I recognised him in the taproom last night."

"Gilbert Larose!" ejaculated the Colonel. "Ah, I've heard of him." He looked fierce and important. "Well, do you think if I approached him and gave him my name, suggesting some small remuneration for his trouble, say a couple of pounds, that he would take up the case?"

The constable would have given a week's pay to have been able to laugh. "Oh, I wouldn't do that, Colonel," he smiled. "These chaps, high up, are very touchy and easily offended." He nodded vigorously. "But I'll tell you how you might get at him. He's a fisherman and I heard he caught nothing yesterday. Why not approach him accidentally and, not telling him you know who he is, say he may fish in your private water? Then bring up the poisoning and ask his advice." He nodded again. "He's very keen on all crime work and although he's on holiday may take this up, just for the sport."

"But giving him my name should be quite sufficient," the Colonel frowned. He thought for a moment. "Still, it's not a bad idea. I'll think over it," and with a curt nod he marched out of the room.

Now if there was one thing Colonel Jones loathed, it was the presence of strangers in his grounds. There were boards up everywhere, notifying that trespassers would be prosecuted, and it was well known on the bench that, in his particular outlook on life, blacking a wife's eyes, or striking a mother-in-law, were far less heinous offences than snaring a partridge or a rabbit, or the hooking of an unlawful trout. So it was with rather reluctant steps that he made his way to the village inn and enquired for Mr. Brown.

There he learnt that that gentleman had gone fishing for the day, but would probably be found at "the bend" for he had been heard to say he was going to try his luck there.

So at the end of the little river he came upon Larose, and smoothing his rather frowning face into good humor, he approached and entered into conversation. No, there was nothing much doing, Mr. Brown told him, and except upon his hands and face where the midges were much in evidence, he had not had a single bite.

The Colonel appeared to consider and then remarked grandly, "Well, come into my place. I'm Colonel Jones, and I own the river for a mile higher up. I'll show you a place where you'll get some big two-pounders." He frowned. "But I must limit you to a round dozen, for my friend, Lord Rottingdean, is coming down next week, and I don't want the water fished out. Pick up your tackle now and I'll show you where to go."

Larose was delighted with the prospect, but at the same time very puzzled at the amiability of this red-faced man of Mars, for already in the taproom of the "Goose and Feathers" he had heard quite a lot about his irascibility and intolerance to strangers.

Proceeding leisurely in the direction of where the great two-pounders were to be found, Colonel Jones at once began to discuss the dreadful deeds of the poisoner in their midst, and insisted vehemently that he, of all sufferers, had been especially singled out.

"By Gad, sir," he exclaimed, "the brute made no mistake about getting my poor dog, for I picked up no less than three unswallowed baits upon the drive, cunning baits, too, thin pieces of prime beef, rolled up and tied loosely with strips of stringy membrane from under the fat." He shook his head angrily. "Diabolical, I call it! They made a dead set at me, for no untaken baits have been found anywhere else!"

"Tied up with membrane!" Larose exclaimed, "as carefully done as all that!"

"Yes," snorted the Colonel, "quite little works of art, and each one appears to contain just enough strychnine, not too much to make the animal vomit, but just the right quantity that he would keep down and would kill him." He snorted again. "I am convinced the poisoner was an expert, and has poisoned many times before."

"If you have kept them, I'd like to see these baits," said Larose. "I might be—"

"Come straightaway, sir," said the Colonel. He waved his hand towards the little river. "You can have the fishing of my water any time."

So Larose was led up to the house, a comfortable and roomy old English home, and shown the baits that had been preserved in a cardboard cigarette box. Then he asked to see where they had been found, and was taken to just inside two big gates, about a hundred yards distant from the house.

Colonel Jones, with all his pomposity, was in some ways as simple as a little child, and he was soon finding it most difficult to keep up the deceit that he was unaware of the identity of his visitor. So all at once, getting even redder than ever, he pulled a most apologetic smile and burst out, "Look here, sir, forgive the little subterfuge of a very sad old man, for I was devoted to my dog and shall feel his loss for many a long day." He looked intently at Larose. "I know who you are, sir. You are Mr. Gilbert Larose."

"I was beginning to think you did," laughed Larose, "for I happened to see you going into the policeman's house this morning just as I was coming out of the inn, and I had noticed that gentleman give me one or two hard looks when I was in the taproom last night." He nodded. "Yes, I'll help you all I can, for this seems to be a little problem quite out of the way, but you must promise me you'll let no one know who I am."

So it ended in Larose staying for lunch, and over a couple of glasses of excellent port he asked the colonel a great many questions, many of which the latter thought were quite irrelevant to the matter in hand. But Larose was evidently meaning to waste no time, for he kept looking at his watch during the questioning, and at length asked the colonel to drive him into Braintree, about nine miles distant, in his car. Then they paid brief visits to Professor Welder and Squire Manning, and finally Larose was dropped just outside the village, bidding the Colonel a very cheery farewell and adding that it was just possible there might be good news for him within the next twenty-four hours.

"By Gad!" said the old Colonel to his wife when he returned home, "that chap's a hustler." He frowned. "But he's been ordering me about as if I were a private in my own regiment."

In the meantime Larose was in earnest conversation with the village policeman.

"All right, constable," he laughed to that rather embarrassed young man, "you needn't apologise for telling Colonel Jones I was here. You've introduced me to quite an interesting case, and what's more, with any luck, it may mean promotion for you." He became grave again. "Now tell me all you know about those poisonings."

P.C. Dance, who was no fool, but an alert, intelligent young fellow, in quick staccato tones rattled off everything that had come to his knowledge. Two more dogs had been added to the list, nine in all having been poisoned.

"Now, let us sum everything up," said Larose, when the recital was finished, "and see what strikes us first." He nodded impressively. "Now, every one of these baits was thrown down from the high road. I mean the poisoner went up no byroads and turned into no narrow lanes to distribute his baits. Therefore, I think we may safely assume that he threw them out when he was going along in a car. I am the more inclined to take this view because the only three unswallowed baits that have been found smelt most decidedly of oil, as if an oily hand had touched them. Then Colonel Jones is positive that two of the baits were close together when he picked them up upon his drive, suggesting, of course, that they were thrown out hurriedly, at the same time, and not separately as would be the natural thing to do if the poisoner had been standing still when he cast them away." He looked sharply at the young policeman. "You follow me there?"

"Yes, sir," nodded Dance, "and you are going to argue that, coming in a motor car as he did, he does not belong to the village. He is not a local man."

"Exactly!" nodded Larose. He smiled. "Really, I see it's going to be a pleasure to work with you."

The policeman reddened delightedly, and Larose went on.

"Well, we may presume at once that there was a particular motive for laying these baits. If there were not, if there were no motive for this wholesale destruction, then the poisoner must be mad." He shook his head. "But I dismiss this idea of a madman, at once, for anyone mad and in the possession of strychnine would have gone for much bigger game than dogs. He would have tried for human beings and have poisoned wells, or, maybe, that memorial fountain I see you've got here, and then he might have thrown some in that horse-trough in front of the 'Goose and Feathers.' No, we may be quite certain that those baits were meant for dogs, and dogs only."

He spoke very sharply. "Besides, this man is a professional poisoner. It is not the first time he has done it, and he is an old hand at the game. I took those three baits into a Braintree chemist this afternoon, and they had each got exactly the same amount of strychnine in them, one and a half grains, weighed most accurately, so the chemist says." He raised his hand. "Well, what was the motive of this man? What is the first thing that comes into our minds?"

"Some dog was in his way, sir," replied the policeman promptly. "He wants to have the coast clear to break into some house somewhere. He contemplates a burglary."

"Just what I think," smiled Larose. "He wanted to get rid of one particular dog, and in order to conceal his special motive, he has poisoned all these other eight."

"Then in that case," commented the policemen with some excitement in his tones, "he is going to break in either at Squire Manning's or Colonel Jones's, and, as you say, he must have thrown at least four baits on to the Colonel's drive, it's any odds then it's to his house he's going. Yes, he made a dead set on him."

But Larose shook his head. "What is there to burgle at Colonel Jones's?" he asked scornfully. "I've gone over everything with him this afternoon and all he's got is about £150 worth of old silver which he keeps under his bed at night. He is always well prepared, too, as everyone in the village appears to know, with a big cavalry revolver. And then Squire Manning's? What's worth taking there? Just a comfortable well-furnished house, but with nothing of any portable value! Certainly, he's got some old and ugly-looking portraits of his ancestors, but who'd take them?"

He lowered his voice impressively. "But what about Professor Welder's place? What about his collection of gold coins? Colonel Jones says he's one of the best-known numismatists in the kingdom and he's got coins there that are not even in the British Museum!"

"Phew!" whistled the policeman, "and not a month ago scores of long-haired elderly men, with high foreheads, and large spectacles, came through the village, asking where he lived! I never saw such a funny-looking crowd."

"Yes," nodded Larose. "I was talking to him not half an hour ago and he told me all about it. He gave an 'at home' to any members of the Numismatist Society who cared to come, and I understand anyone can be a member of the society for 10/6. He nodded again. "What an opportunity they had to spy out the land! Yes, if we're right and they're going for anybody, it's Professor Welder's house they've marked down. All his coins could be carried away in a little handbag."

The policeman seemed doubtful. "But look here, sir," he said, "that knocks all our ideas on the head, for remember, they didn't go for the Professor's dog. It was certainly rumored this morning that he was dead but, as I have to send in a report to Braintree of all the animals killed, I rang up the professor's at midday and one of the maids then said their dog was quite all right and being kept locked up in the garage."

"That doesn't signify in the least," snapped Larose, "for as I make it, it is only by chance he's alive. In the fog that there was last night, Colonel Jones's place was mistaken for the Professor's. The gates are not two hundred yards apart and they are very similar in appearance, and last night they were both of the same white color."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Larose," said the policeman quickly, "but you're wrong there. Colonel Jones's gates are brown, as they always have been. I happened to go by there this afternoon and am quite positive no change has been made in their color."

Larose looked amused. "But they weren't brown last night," he laughed. "The Colonel's gardener started to repaint them yesterday and he burnt off all the old brown paint and then gave them a good coating of white for the new brown he put on this morning." He snapped his fingers together. "Yes, that's where, I think, Mr. Poisoner made a bloomer by throwing the baits over the wrong gates."

The policeman opened his eyes very wide. "The devil! Then perhaps you're right, sir. That would explain everything." He looked worried. "But what do you suggest I ought to do? You see, the Braintree inspector is not too interested in these poisonings, and thinks I can make all the necessary enquiries myself. He believes some local person has done it, in spite, because dogs have been spoiling his garden, or something like that." He hesitated. "Should I ring him up and tell him what we think?"

"Certainly not," said Larose sharply. "We'll manage this all ourselves. Then if it turns out there is anything in it"— he laughed— "you shall take all the credit, for I'm on holiday, and don't want my name mentioned." He nodded. "My word, but what a feather it would be in your cap, constable, if we caught anyone red-handed at the job! It'd mean promotion for you, at once."

The policeman thrilled at the thought and his face flushed. "But I shall want help, Mr. Larose," he said quickly. "If they come there may be three or four of them. It's not likely to be a one-man job."

"Of course you'll want help," agreed Larose, "and we will get it here in the village. Those chaps who've lost their dogs will be as keen as mustard to come." He smiled. "I'll rope them all in, so that if nothing comes of it, they won't laugh at you. I'll shoulder all the blame." He nodded. "It'll probably be tonight the burglars will come, for it's not likely they'll lose any time."

Then for half an hour and more they discussed ways and means and pored over a large ordnance map that the policeman produced. Then the latter said slowly, "There's a chap here who would be very useful if we could get him. He works on the roads and is called Jim Viles. He's an inveterate poacher and I've been out many nights trying to catch him, but he's beaten me every time. He's got a little mongrel dog that he boasts can smell out human beings when they're two hundred yards away, and I'm inclined to believe him, for I've never been able to get closer to him than that, when he's been on his poaching jobs."

"Splendid, the very man we want!" exclaimed Larose. "I'll go round and see him at once." He half rose from his chair, but then reseated himself. "One moment," he said slowly. "There's one little doubt in my mind." He frowned. "I asked Colonel Jones if he'd got any enemies and he said plenty, because he was a magistrate. Then he laughed and said he had even got one on the adjoining property, for his friend Professor Welder was his enemy inasmuch as they were going to be deadly rivals at the Braintree Flower Show next week."

"Oh, that's nothing," laughed the policeman. "They have a fight at the flower show every year, and one or other of them invariably takes first prize for his roses."

"Ah, but, as I've told you, I've seen the professor," said Larose, "and candidly, I don't altogether like the look of him. He could be petulant as a child in some ways, and he seems very cunning to me." He appeared to dismiss the matter from his mind. "Well, never mind about that. I'll go and see this chap with the dog now."

The reputed poacher's cottage was just at the end of the village, and when Larose tapped with his knuckles upon the door, a most appetising odour assailed his nostrils.

A slim, but wiry-looking, young fellow of about 25 or 26 opened the door. He had an impudent cockney type of face, with laughing and very light blue eyes. He regarded his caller very shrewdly.

"Mr. Viles, I believe," said Larose. "Then can I have a word with you?"

"A dozen, if you want them," smiled the man, and, stepping out on to the path of the little garden, he carefully pulled to the door behind him.

"You're a poacher, I understand," smiled back Larose, "and, unless I am very much mistaken, it's roast pheasant you've now got for your tea." He sniffed hard. "It smells good."

The man gasped, and his eyes opened as wide as saucers, then, seeing Larose was still smiling, his face relaxed a little, and he growled. "You smell wrong, as it happens, Boss. You're too clever. It's only a bit of pork."

"Well, that's all right," nodded Larose reassuringly, "as long as you've not left any of the pig's feathers about."

He looked intently at the man and dropped his voice to a whisper. "See here, now. I've got a job that'll just suit a smart chap like you, and the better poacher you are, the better you'll do me, for it's night work I want you for." He nodded again. "It'll mean a quid for you, anyhow; and, if it turns out as I expect it to, it may mean a tenner."

The man looked suspicious. "What's your game?" he asked with a frown. "Who are you?"

Larose jerked his head towards the village. "I'm staying at the 'Goose and Feathers,' on a little fishing holiday, and I happen to be a dog lover. That's what I am, and"— his voice hardened— "I'm out to get that devil who poisoned those poor dogs last night," and then very quickly he proceeded to acquaint the poacher with his suspicions, and what they were intending to do.

"What about the policeman?" asked the poacher quickly. "Is he in it?"

"Rather," replied Larose, "and he sort of sent me to you. He said you were the very man for the job, and had got the sharpest little dog in the kingdom." He grinned. "He is sure he would have had you dozens of times if it hadn't been for that little bitch of yours!"

The man grinned back. "All right, Boss," he said quietly. "I'm in with you, and if anyone comes along, my Nellie will smell them out."

So it came about that at 11 o'clock that night a ghostly little band filed out of the back yard of the "Goose and Feathers," six of them altogether, and they all of them appeared to have weapons, except the poacher, who was carrying a very alert-looking little terrier under his arm. The constable had got his truncheon and a pair of handcuffs in each pocket; the landlord, a stout ash stick of good dimensions; the grocer an axe-handle that he had taken out of stock; the butcher an ugly-looking hammer, and the doctor a cricket-wicket, the much prized memento of a great match of his Varsity days.

Larose and the policeman, after much anxious thought, had marked out the plan of campaign. They were of opinion that if any burglars were coming they would, of course, come in a motor car and, with lights out and the engine switched off, would in all probability free-wheel down the hill into a little by-lane just at the back of a small wood, about 200 yards distant from the low fence surrounding Professor Welder's property.

The night was dark but there was faint star-light showing, and they took up a position inside the wood and prepared to wait patiently.

"And we mustn't expect them much before 1 o'cock," whispered Larose, whose identity had not been disclosed to anybody, "for they're not likely to begin the journey where they come from, until they expect everybody will be in bed."

But 1 o'clock came and nothing had happened, then half-past 1, and the little mongrel upon her master's lap had not once moved or shown any interest in anything. The grocer had dropped off to sleep and the butcher, forbidden to smoke, was sucking viciously at a cold pipe.

Then suddenly the poacher, sitting next to Larose, bent forward and, gripping him by the arm, pointed to his dog. She had pricked up her ears and her sharp little head was now turned intently towards the main road. Then she lifted her face to her master's and gave the faintest of whispers.

"She hears something," whispered the poacher. "She never makes a mistake. Someone is coming."

A long silence followed, five minutes, 10, and now the dog who had kept her ears pricked all the time, was gradually turning her muzzle into quite a different direction.

"They've moved off," whispered the poacher. "They're going towards the professor's house." He took command of the situation at once. "But this is no good," he grunted. "I'd better go and see what's happening. Wait here. I won't be long," and, to the professional disgust of the policeman the man disappeared into the brush wood like the dissolving away of a shadow.

"And that's why I've never been able to catch him," he growled into Larose's ear. "I don't wonder now."

Fully 10 minutes passed and then the poacher reappeared, less like a shadow now, for long before they saw him they had heard his hurried progress through the bushes. He was carrying the dog again under his arm.

"Come on, now," he whispered excitedly. "I'll show you something. Better not make too much noise, although I don't think there'll be any danger for a few minutes. They've come, right enough, and they'll be in the professor's grounds by now."

Grasping their weapons with determination and with their hearts beating painfully, the little band followed quickly in the poacher's steps. For about 250 yards he glided between the trees and then, gaining the far side of the road, pointed excitedly to a black object by the side of a thick hedge, close near.

"Jerusalem!" exclaimed the grocer, who was a man of mild expletives, "it's a sidecar outfit!"

And a sidecar outfit it certainly was but so covered over with a large spread of black tarpaulin, that unless anyone were specially looking for it, it might have escaped all notice in the darkness. The cylinders of the engine were quite hot.

"Now, we'll soon see which way they went," said Viles, as he dropped his little terrier on to the ground. "Nose 'em, Nellie, there's a good girl Nose 'em."

A very short trail led them up to Professor Welder's fence and they peered excitedly over.

"Now, what'll we do, Mr. Brown," asked the constable, "go after them?"

"Not on your life," replied Larose. "We'll ambush them in the wood as they come back to the sidecar. We'll get them red-handed, with the coins in their possession."

Then followed a thrilling hour, with every man crouching in his appointed place. There was no more sleep for the grocer, and the butcher could not have smoked a pipe of the sweetest tobacco if it had been offered him. He was grasping his hammer tightly all the time and he wetted his lips nervously every few seconds.

Then, all at once, things began to happen very quickly. There was the crackling of twigs, the heavy panting of tired runners and two rushing figures burst through. One of them tore off the tarpaulin and threw himself on to the saddle of the motor bicycle, whilst the other dropped a bag, that gave out a metallic chink, into the sidecar and was preparing to jump in himself—when the avalanche descended.

THERE WAS the blinding flash of torches, the uttering of dismayed oaths, and a wave of leaping forms surged over the sidecar. Then, quicker than it takes to tell, the two marauders were overcome and handcuffed, the grocer being with difficulty restrained from using his axe handle and the butcher his hammer.

It was all over in a few seconds and then the two prisoners were examined. They were both strong and hefty fellows and, but for the sudden nature of their capture, and their exhausted state from their long run, would undoubtedly have put up a good fight. As it was, all they could do was to curse deeply.

At length, one of them overcoming his curiosity, panted out:— "How the devil does it happen you came here?"

Police Constable Dance, in his excitement, forgot his reticence. He coughed importantly. "From information received—" he began, when the poacher interrupted rudely.

"Oh! cheese it, constable," he called out. "Cheese it, old chap," and he thrust his face close up to those of the two prisoners who were seated on the ground. "I'll tell you, gents, how it happens you've been nabbed." He held up his little terrier before them. "You poisoned one dog too few, and also there was a nosey chap staying at the 'Goose and Feathers' who spotted you had chucked four baits over one gate and he wanted to know the reason why." He chuckled merrily. "That's how it happens you two beauts are now going to get seven years."

After a hurried consultation, the constable, the grocer, the butcher, and the landlord moved off with the prisoners, Viles following with the motor bicycle, whilst Larose and Dr. Kains made their way to professor Welder's, to acquaint him with all that had happened.

"It's better to knock him up," said Larose, "for it'll be less of a shock to the household than for them to find out in the morning that the burglars have been."

Crossing over the big lawn before the professor's house, Larose thought he saw some movement by the fence adjoining Colonel Jones's property and, instantly, he flashed his torch.

Thereupon, a startled figure began to make away in desperate haste, but upon Larose and the doctor proceeding to give chase, the figure stopped and then, to the amazement of his two pursuers, they saw it was the professor himself.

"Good heavens, Welder," exclaimed Dr. Kains, "then you knew all about it! You were going after them?"

The professor's face was the picture of amazement, and even when he realised who was speaking to him, the picture of embarrassment, too, Larose thought.

"What is it?" he stammered. "What are you doing here? I'd got a headache and came out for some fresh air. I couldn't sleep."

They told him what had happened, and his exclamations rose to a wail until they assured him the coins were all safe, and had only been taken to the policeman's house to serve as an exhibit when the two burglars would appear before the Braintree magistrates in the morning.

Then the professor invited them into the house to have a whisky and soda, but Larose lagged behind for a couple of minutes or so— to take a stone out of his shoe, so he explained.

In the dining-room, the tale was soon told, and then Larose said he wanted to speak to the professor for a moment, alone. The professor frowned in surprise at the request, but then, leaving Dr. Kains to his whisky, led the way into the study.

"Now, sir," said Larose sternly, "you are either going to drink a couple of mouthfuls of that water in those two cans I saw you had got over by Colonel Jones's fence, or you are going to confess to me you were intending to water your friend's roses with weed-killer, and write a cheque for £100 to be divided among the four men from the village who have done you such good service tonight."

"What do you mean?" gasped the professor, with a scared and white face. "I wasn't touching those cans. It's only ordinary water in them, and they are always left there."

"You are lying, sir," said Larose harshly, "I've just been over to them, and it's warm water they contain now. You are taking advantage of the colonel's dog being dead and you were going to ruin his flowers. Quick! Make your decision, or I shall call Dr. Kains to be a witness."

The professor turned to the desk and snatched a cheque book out of a drawer. "It's blackmail," he exclaimed furiously, "but I can't afford any scandal to be attached to me." He tore out a cheque and seized upon a pen. "Now, what's your name? I don't remember it."

"No, it's not to be made out to me," said Larose with a grim smile. "There's to be no stopping the cheque when the bank opens. You'll make it out to Dr. Kains, please, and you'll give it him yourself, now, telling him for whom it is intended." He nodded significantly. "And if anything happens to Colonel Jones's roses between now and next week you'll hear from me again."

So the next day four very delighted men in the village received £25 each, and much approval was expressed of Professor Welder's generosity. A week later, too, Colonel Jones won the first prize for his roses at the flower show, the judge, however, remarking that it was a close thing between the colonel and Professor Welder.

The burglars, as Jim Viles said they would be, were sentenced to seven years' imprisonment with hard labor, and Constable Dance, as Larose had prophesied, received immediate promotion, a warm tribute having been paid at the assizes to the intelligence and resource he had shown.

ONE DAY several months later, Professor Welder, who had never ventured to broach the subject before, remarked casually to Colonel Jones, "By-the-by, who was that friend of yours you introduced me to that day before those burglars came? I've often thought since that his face was familiar to me."

"I really don't know anything about him," replied the Colonel. "He was just a chance acquaintance I happened to get friendly with that day, because of the sympathy he expressed when my poor dog was poisoned." Then, always ready to have a joke at his learned friend's expense, he added slyly, "But they do say in the village that he's some sort of relation of that poaching fellow, Viles."

"Ah!" exclaimed the professor viciously, thinking of the nice fat cheque he had parted with, "I'm not at all astonished at it. He looked that very type of man to me," and the colonel chuckled, enjoying the good joke.

____________

2: The Mummy's Foot

Theophile Gautier

1811-1872

(Transl Helen S Conant, 1839-1899)

Harper’s New Monthly Magazine April 1871

I HAD ENTERED, in an idle mood, the shop of one of those curiosity-venders, who are called marchands de bric-a-brac in that Parisian argot which is so perfectly unintelligible elsewhere in France.

You have doubtless glanced occasionally through the windows of some of these shops, which have become so numerous now that it is fashionable to buy antiquated furniture, and that every petty stock-broker thinks he must have his chambre au moyen age.

There is one thing there which clings alike to the shop of the dealer in old iron, the wareroom of the tapestry-maker, the laboratory of the chemist, and the studio of the painter:— in all those gloomy dens where a furtive daylight filters in through the window-shutters, the most manifestly ancient thing is dust;— the cobwebs are more authentic than the guimp laces; and the old pear-tree furniture on exhibition is actually younger than the mahogany which arrived but yesterday from America.

The warehouse of my bric-a-brac dealer was a veritable Capharnaum; all ages and all nations seemed to have made their rendezvous there; an Etruscan lamp of red clay stood upon a Boule cabinet, with ebony panels, brightly striped by lines of inlaid brass; a duchess of the court of Louis XV nonchalantly extended her fawn-like feet under a massive table of the time of Louis XIII with heavy spiral supports of oak, and carven designs of chimeras and foliage intermingled.

Upon the denticulated shelves of several sideboards glittered immense Japanese dishes with red and blue designs relieved by gilded hatching; side by side with enameled works by Bernard Palissy, representing serpents, frogs, and lizards in relief.

From disemboweled cabinets escaped cascades of silver-lustrous Chinese silks and waves of tinsel, which an oblique sunbeam shot through with luminous beads; while portraits of every era, in frames more or less tarnished, smiled through their yellow varnish.

The striped breastplate of a damascened suit of Milanese armor glittered in one corner; Loves and Nymphs of porcelain; Chinese Grotesques, vases of celadon and crackle-ware; Saxon and old Souvres cups encumbered the shelves and nooks of the apartment.

The dealer followed me closely through the tortuous way contrived between the piles of furniture; warding off with his hands the hazardous sweep of my coat-skirts; watching my elbows with the uneasy attention of an antiquarian and a usurer.

It was a singular face that of the merchant:— an immense skull, polished like a knee, and surrounded by a thin aureole of white hair, which brought out the clear salmon tint of his complexion all the more strikingly, lent him a false aspect of patriarchal bonhomie, counteracted, however, by the scintillation of two little yellow eyes which trembled in their orbits like two louis-d'or upon quicksilver. The curve of his nose presented an aquiline silhouette, which suggested the Oriental or Jewish type. His hands— thin, slender, full of nerves which projected like strings upon the finger-board of a violin, and armed with claws like those on the terminations of bats' wings— shook with senile trembling; but those convulsively agitated hands became firmer than steel pincers or lobsters' claws when they lifted any precious article— an onyx cup, a Venetian glass, or a dish of Bohemian crystal. This strange old man had an aspect so thoroughly rabbinical and cabalistic that he would have been burnt on the mere testimony of his face three centuries ago.

"Will you not buy something from me to-day, sir? Here is a Malay kreese with a blade undulating like flame: look at those grooves contrived for the blood to run along, those teeth set backwards so as to tear out the entrails in withdrawing the weapon— it is a fine character of ferocious arm, and will look well in your collection: this two-handed sword is very beautiful— it is the work of Josepe de la Hera; and this colichemarde, with its fenestrated guard— what a superb specimen of handicraft!"

"No; I have quite enough weapons and instruments of carnage;— I want a small figure, something which will suit me as a paper-weight; for I cannot endure those trumpery bronzes which the stationers sell, and which may be found on everybody's desk."

The old gnome foraged among his ancient wares, and finally arranged before me some antique bronzes— so-called, at least; fragments of malachite; little Hindoo or Chinese idols— a kind of poussah toys in jadestone, representing the incarnations of Brahma or Vishnoo, and wonderfully appropriate to the very undivine office of holding papers and letters in place.

I was hesitating between a porcelain dragon, all constellated with warts— its mouth formidable with bristling tusks and ranges of teeth— and an abominable little Mexican fetish, representing the god Zitziliputzili au naturel, when I caught sight of a charming foot, which I at first took for a fragment of some antique Venus.

It had those beautiful ruddy and tawny tints that lend to Florentine bronze that warm living look so much preferable to the gray-green aspect of common bronzes, which might easily be mistaken for statues in a state of putrefaction: satiny gleams played over its rounded forms, doubtless polished by the amorous kisses of twenty centuries; for it seemed a Corinthian bronze, a work of the best era of art— perhaps molded by Lysippus himself.

"That foot will be my choice," I said to the merchant, who regarded me with an ironical and saturnine air, and held out the object desired that I might examine it more fully.

I was surprised at its lightness; it was not a foot of metal, but in sooth a foot of flesh— an embalmed foot— a mummy's foot: on examining it still more closely the very grain of the skin, and the almost imperceptible lines impressed upon it by the texture of the bandages, became perceptible. The toes were slender and delicate, and terminated by perfectly formed nails, pure and transparent as agates; the great toe, slightly separated from the rest, afforded a happy contrast, in the antique style, to the position of the other toes, and lent it an aerial lightness— the grace of a bird's foot;— the sole, scarcely streaked by a few almost imperceptible cross lines, afforded evidence that it had never touched the bare ground, and had only come in contact with the finest matting of Nile rushes, and the softest carpets of panther skin.

"Ha, ha!— you want the foot of the Princess Hermonthis,"— exclaimed the merchant, with a strange giggle, fixing his owlish eyes upon me— "ha, ha, ha!— for a paper-weight!— an original idea!— artistic idea! Old Pharaoh would certainly have been surprised had some one told him that the foot of his adored daughter would be used for a paper-weight after he had had a mountain of granite hollowed out as a receptacle for the triple coffin, painted and gilded— covered with hieroglyphics and beautiful paintings of the Judgment of Souls,"— continued the queer little merchant, half audibly, as though talking to himself!

"How much will you charge me for this mummy fragment?"

"Ah, the highest price I can get; for it is a superb piece: if I had the match of it you could not have it for less than five hundred francs;— the daughter of a Pharaoh! nothing is more rare."

"Assuredly that is not a common article; but, still, how much do you want? In the first place let me warn you that all my wealth consists of just five louis: I can buy anything that costs five louis, but nothing dearer;— you might search my vest pockets and most secret drawers without even finding one poor— five-franc piece more."

"Five louis for the foot of the Princess Hermonthis! that is very little, very little indeed; 'tis an authentic foot," muttered the merchant, shaking his head, and imparting a peculiar rotary motion to his eyes.

"Well, take it, and I will give you the bandages into the bargain," he added, wrapping the foot in an ancient damask rag— "very fine! real damask— Indian damask which has never been redyed; it is strong, and yet it is soft," he mumbled, stroking the frayed tissue with his fingers, through the trade-acquired habit which moved him to praise even an object of so little value that he himself deemed it only worth the giving away.

He poured the gold coins into a sort of mediaeval alms-purse hanging at his belt, repeating:

"The foot of the Princess Hermonthis, to be used for a paper-weight!"

Then turning his phosphorescent eyes upon me, he exclaimed in a voice strident as the crying of a cat which has swallowed a fish-bone:

"Old Pharaoh will not be well pleased; he loved his daughter— the dear man!"

"You speak as if you were a contemporary of his: you are old enough, goodness knows! but you do not date back to the Pyramids of Egypt," I answered, laughingly, from the threshold. I went home, delighted with my acquisition.

With the idea of putting it to profitable use as soon as possible, I placed the foot of the divine Princess Hermonthis upon a heap of papers scribbled over with verses, in themselves an undecipherable mosaic work of erasures; articles freshly begun; letters forgotten, and posted in the table drawer instead of the letter-box— an error to which absent-minded people are peculiarly liable. The effect was charming, bizarre, and romantic.

Well satisfied with this embellishment, I went out with the gravity and price becoming one who feels that he has the ineffable advantage over all the passers-by whom he elbows, of possessing a piece of the Princess Hermonthis, daughter of Pharaoh.

I looked upon all who did not possess, like myself, a paper-weight so authentically Egyptian, as very ridiculous people; and it seemed to me that the proper occupation of every sensible man should consist in the mere fact of having a mummy's foot upon his desk.

Happily I met some friends, whose presence distracted me in my infatuation with this new acquisition: I went to dinner with them; for I could not very well have dined with myself.

When I came back that evening, with my brain slightly confused by a few glasses of wine, a vague whiff of Oriental perfume delicately titillated my olfactory nerves: the heat of the room had warmed the natron, bitumen, and myrrh in which the paraschistes, who cut open the bodies of the dead, had bathed the corpse of the princess;— it was a perfume at once sweet and penetrating— a perfume that four thousand years had not been able to dissipate.

The Dream of Egypt was Eternity: her odors have the solidity of granite, and endure as long.

I soon drank deeply from the black cup of sleep: for a few hours all remained opaque to me; Oblivion and Nothingness inundated me with their somber waves.

Yet light gradually dawned upon the darkness of my mind; dreams commenced to touch me softly in their silent flight.

The eyes of my soul were opened; and I beheld my chamber as it actually was; I might have believed myself awake, but for a vague consciousness which assured me that I slept, and that something fantastic was about to take place.

The odor of the myrrh had augmented in intensity; and I felt a slight headache, which I very naturally attributed to several glasses of champagne that we had drunk to the unknown gods and our future fortunes.

I peered through my room with a feeling of expectation which I saw nothing to justify: every article of furniture was in its proper place; the lamp, softly shaded by its globe of ground crystal, burned upon its bracket; the water-color sketches shone under their Bohemian glass; the curtains hung down languidly; everything wore an aspect of tranquil slumber.

After a few moments, however, all this calm interior appeared to become disturbed; the woodwork cracked stealthily; the ash-covered log suddenly emitted a jet of blue flame; and the disks of the pateras seemed like great metallic eyes, watching, like myself, for the things which were about to happen.

My eyes accidentally fell upon the desk where I had placed the foot of the Princess Hermonthis.

Instead of remaining quiet— as behooved a foot which had been embalmed for four thousand years— it commenced to act in a nervous manner; contracted itself, and leaped over the papers like a startled frog;— one would have imagined that it had suddenly been brought into contact with a galvanic battery: I could distinctly hear the dry sound made by its little heel, hard as the hoof of a gazelle.

I became rather discontented with my acquisition, inasmuch as I wished my paper-weights to be of a sedentary disposition, and thought it very unnatural that feet should walk about without legs; and I commenced to experience a feeling closely akin to fear.

Suddenly I saw the folds of my bed-curtain stir; and heard a bumping sound, like that caused by some person hopping on one foot across the floor. I must confess I became alternately hot and cold; that I felt a strange wind chill my back; and that my suddenly rising hair caused my nightcap to execute a leap of several yards.

The bed-curtains opened and I beheld the strangest figure imaginable before me.

It was a young girl of a very deep coffee-brown complexion, like the bayadere Amani, and possessing the purest Egyptian type of perfect beauty: her eyes were almond-shaped and oblique, with eyebrows so black that they seemed blue; her nose was exquisitely chiseled, almost Greek in its delicacy of outline; and she might indeed have been taken for a Corinthian statue of bronze, but for the prominence of her cheek-bones and the slightly African fulness of her lips, which compelled one to recognize her as belonging beyond all doubt to the hieroglyphic race which dwelt upon the banks of the Nile.

Her arms, slender and spindle-shaped, like those of very young girls, were encircled by a peculiar kind of metal bands and bracelets of glass beads; her hair was all twisted into little cords; and she wore upon her bosom a little idol-figure of green paste, bearing a whip with seven lashes, which proved it to be an image of Isis: her brow was adorned with a shining plate of gold; and a few traces of paint relieved the coppery tint of her cheeks.

As for her costume, it was very odd indeed. Fancy a pagne or skirt all formed of little strips of material bedizened with red and black hieroglyphics, stiffened with bitumen, and apparrently belonging to a freshly unbandaged mummy.

In one of those sudden flights of thought so common in dreams I heard the hoarse falsetto of the bric-a-brac dealer, repeating like a monotonous refrain the phrase he had uttered in his shop with so enigmatical an intonation:

"Old Pharaoh will not be well pleased: he loved his daughter, the dear man!"

One strange circumstance, which was not at all calculated to restore my equanimity, was that the apparition had but one foot; the other was broken off at the ankle!

She approached the table where the foot was starting and fidgeting about more than ever, and there supported herself upon the edge of the desk. I saw her eyes fill with pearly-gleaming tears.

Although she had not as yet spoken, I fully comprehended the thoughts which agitated her: she looked at her foot— it was indeed her own— with an exquisitely graceful expression of coquettish sadness; but the foot leaped and ran hither and thither, as though impelled on steel springs.

Twice or thrice she extended her hand to seize it, but could not succeed.

Then commenced between the Princess Hermonthis and her foot— which appeared to be endowed with a special life of its own— a very fantastic dialogue in a most ancient Coptic tongue, such as might have been spoken thirty centuries ago in the syrinxes of the land of Ser: luckily, I understood Coptic perfectly well that night.

The Princess Hermonthis cried, in a voice sweet and vibrant as the tones of a crystal bell:

"Well, my dear little foot, you always flee from me; yet I always took good care of you. I bathed you with perfumed water in a bowl of alabaster; I smoothed your heel with pumice-stone mixed with palm oil; your nails were cut with golden scissors and polished with a hippopotamus tooth; I was careful to select tatbebs for you, painted and embroidered and turned up at the toes, which were the envy of all the young girls in Egypt: you wore on your great toe rings bearing the device of the sacred Scarabaeus; and you supported one of the lightest bodies that a lazy foot could sustain."

The foot replied, in a pouting and chagrined tone:

"You know well that I do not belong to myself any longer;— I have been bought and paid for; the old merchant knew what he was about; he bore you a grudge for having refused to espouse him;— this is an ill turn which he has done you. The Arab who violated your royal coffin in the subterranean pit of the necropolis of Thebes was sent thither by him: he desired to prevent you from being present at the reunion of the shadowy nations in the cities below. Have you five pieces of gold for my ransom?"

"Alas, no!— my jewels, my rings, my purses of gold and silver, they were all stolen from me," answered the Princess Hermonthis, with a sob.

"Princess," I then exclaimed, "I never retained anybody's foot unjustly;— even though you have not got the five louis which it cost me, I present it to you gladly: I should feel unutterably wretched to think that I were the cause of so amiable a person as the Princess Hermonthis being lame."

I delivered this discourse in a royally gallant, troubadour tone, which must have astonished the beautiful Egyptian girl.

She turned a look of deepest gratitude upon me; and her eyes shone with bluish gleams of light.

She took her foot— which surrendered itself willingly this time— like a woman about to put on her little shoe, and adjusted it to her leg with much skill.

This operation over, she took a few steps about the room, as though to assure herself that she was really no longer lame.

"Ah, how pleased my father will be!— he who was so unhappy because of my mutilation, and who from the moment of my birth set a whole nation at work to hollow me out a tomb so deep that he might preserve me intact until that last day, when souls must be weighed in the balance of Amenthi! Come with me to my father;— he will receive you kindly; for you have given me back my foot."

I thought this proposition natural enough. I arrayed myself in a dressing-gown of large-flowered pattern, which lent me a very Pharaonic aspect; hurriedly put on a pair of Turkish slippers, and informed the Princess Hermonthis that I was ready to follow her.

Before starting, Hermonthis took from her neck the little idol of green paste, and laid it on the scattered sheets of paper which covered the table.

"It is only fair," she observed smilingly, "that I should replace your paper-weight."

She gave me her hand, which felt soft and cold, like the skin of a serpent; and we departed.

We passed for some time with the velocity of an arrow through a fluid and grayish expanse, in which half-formed silhouettes flitted swiftly by us, to right and left.

For an instant we saw only sky and sea.

A few moments later obelisks commenced to tower in the distance: pylons and vast flights of steps guarded by sphinxes became clearly outlined against the horizon.

We had reached our destination. The princess conducted me to the mountain of rose-colored granite, in the face of which appeared an opening so narrow and low that it would have been difficult to distinguish it from the fissures in the rock, had not its location been marked by two stelae wrought with sculptures.

Hermonthis kindled a torch, and led the way before me.

We traversed corridors hewn through the living rock: their walls, covered with hieroglyphics and paintings of allegorical processions, might well have occupied thousands of arms for thousands of years in their formation;— these corridors, of interminable length, opened into square chambers, in the midst of which pits had been contrived, through which we descended by cramp-irons or spiral stairways;— these pits again conducted us into other chambers, opening into other corridors, likewise decorated with painted sparrow-hawks, serpents coiled in circles, the symbols of the tau and pedum— prodigious works of art which no living eye can ever examine— interminable legends of granite which only the dead have time to read through all eternity.

At last we found ourselves in a hall so vast, so enormous, so immeasurable, that the eye could not reach its limits; files of monstrous columns streatched far out of sight on every side, between which twinkled livid stars of yellowish flame;— points of light which revealed further depths incalculable in the darkness beyond.

The Princess Hermonthis still held my hand, and graciously saluted the mummies of her acquaintance.

My eyes became accustomed to the dim twilight, and objects became discernible.

I beheld the kings of the subterranean races seated upon thrones— grand old men, though dry, withered, wrinkled like parchment, and blackened with naphtha and bitumen— all wearing pshents of gold, and breastplaces and gorgets glittering with precious stones; their eyes immovably fixed like the eyes of sphinxes, and their long beards whitened by the snow of centuries. Behind them stood their peoples, in the stiff and constrained posture enjoined by Egyptian art, all eternally preserving the attitude prescribed by the hieratic code. Behind these nations, the cats, ibises, and crocodiles contemporary with them— rendered monstrous of aspect by their swathing bands— mewed, flapped their wings, or extended their jaws in a saurian giggle.

All the Pharaohs were there— Cheops, Chephrenes, Psammetichus, Sesostris, Amenotaph— all the dark rulers of the pyramids and syrinxes— on yet higher thrones sat Chronos and Xixouthros— who was contemporary with the deluge; and Tubal Cain, who reigned before it.

The beard of King Xixouthros had grown seven times around the granite table, upon which he leaned, lost in deep reverie— and buried in dreams.

Further back, through a dusty cloud, I beheld dimly the seventy-two pre-Adamite Kings, with their seventy-two peoples— forever passed away.

After permitting me to gaze upon this bewildering spectacle a few moments, the Princess Hermonthis presented me to her father Pharaoh, who favored me with a most gracious nod.

"I have found my foot again!— I have found my foot!" cried the Princess, clapping her little hands together with every sign of frantic joy: "it was this gentleman who restored it to me."

The races of Kemi, the races of Nahasi— all the black, bronzed, and copper-colored nations repeated in chorus:

"The Princess Hermonthis has found her foot again!"

Even Xixouthros himself was visibly affected.

He raised his heavy eyelids, stroked his mustache with his fingers, and turned upon me a glance weighty with centuries.

"By Oms, the dog of Hell, and Tmei, daughter of the Sun and of Truth! this is a brave and worthy lad!" exclaimed Pharaoh, pointing to me with his scepter, which was terminated with a lotus-flower.

"What recompense do you desire?"

Filled with that daring inspired by dreams in which nothing seems impossible, I asked him for the hand of the Princess Hermonthis;— the hand seemed to me a very proper antithetic recompense for the foot.

Pharaoh opened wide his great eyes of glass in astonishment at my witty request.

"What country do you come from? and what is your age?"

"I am a Frenchman; and I am twenty-seven years old, venerable Pharaoh."

"—Twenty-seven years old! and he wishes to espouse the Princess Hermonthis, who is thirty centuries old!" cried out at once all the Thrones and all the Circles of Nations.

Only Hermonthis herself did not seem to think my request unreasonable.

"If you were even only two thousand years old," replied the ancient King, "I would willingly give you the Princess; but the disproportion is too great; and, besides, we must give our daughters husbands who will last well: you do not know how to preserve yourselves any longer; even those who died only fifteen centuries ago are already no more than a handful of dust;— behold! my flesh is solid as basalt; my bones are bars of steel!

"I shall be present on the last day of the world, with the same body and the same features which I had during my lifetime: my daughter Hermonthis will last longer than a statue of bronze.

"Then the last particles of your dust will have been scattered abroad by the winds; and even Isis herself, who was able to find the atoms of Osiris, would scarce be able to recompose your being.

"See how vigorous I yet remain, and how mighty is my grasp," he added, shaking my hand in the English fashion with a strength that buried my rings in the flesh of my fingers.

He squeezed me so hard that I awoke, and found my friend Alfred shaking me by the arm to make me get up.

"O you everlasting sleeper!— must I have you carried out into the middle of the street, and fireworks exploded in your ears? It is after noon; don't you recollect your promise to take me with you to see M. Aguado's Spanish pictures?"

"God! I forgot all, all about it," I answered, dressing myself hurriedly; "we will go there at once; I have the permit lying on my desk."

I started to find it;— but fancy my astonishment when I beheld, instead of the mummy's foot I had purchased the evening before, the little green paste idol left in its place by the Princess Hermonthis!

________________

3: The Interpreter

L. Adams Beck

(Lily Adams Beck, c1862-1931)

The Atlantic Monthly, Jul, Aug 1921

THERE are strange things in this story, but, so far as I understand them, I tell the truth. If you measure the East with a Western foot-rule, you will say, 'Impossible.' I should have said it myself.

Of myself I will say as little as I can, for this story is of Vanna Loring. Iam an incident only, though I did not know that at first.

My name is Stephen Clifden, and I was eight-and-thirty; plenty of money, sound in wind and limb. I had been by way of being a writer before the war, the hobby ofa rich man; but if I picked up anything in the welter in France, it was that real work is the only salvation this mad world has to offer; so I meant to begin at the beginning, and learn my trade like a journeyman laborer.

I had come to the right place. A very wonderful city is Peshawar— the Key of India, and a city of Romance, which stands at every corner, and cries aloud in the market-place. But there was society here, and I was swept into it— there was chatter, and it galled me.

I was beginning to feel that I had missed my mark, and must go farther afield, perhaps up into Central Asia, when I met Vanna Loring. If I say that her hair was soft and dark; that she had the deepest hazel eyes I have ever seen, and a sensitive, tender mouth; that she moved with a flowing grace like 'a wave of the sea'— it sounds like the portrait of a beauty, and she was never that. Also, incidentally, it gives none of her charm. I never heard anyone get any further than that she was 'oddly attractive'— let us leave it at that. She was certainly attractive to me.

She was the governess of little Winifred Meryon, whose father held the august position of General Commanding the Frontier Forces, and her mother the more commanding position of the reigning beauty of Northern India, generally speaking.

But Vanna— I gleaned her story by bits when I came across her with the child in the gardens. I was beginning to piece it together now.

Her love of the strange and beautiful she had inherited from a young Italian mother, daughter of a political refugee; her childhood had been spent in a remote little village in the West of England; half reluctantly she told me how she had brought herself up after her mother's death and her father's second marriage. Little was said of that, but I gathered that it had been a grief to her, a factor in her flight to the East.

'So when I came to three-and-twenty,' she said slowly, 'I felt I must break away from our narrow life. I had a call to India stronger than anything on earth. You would not understand, but that was so, and I had spent every spare moment in teaching myself India— its history, legends, religions, everything! And I was not wanted at home, and I had grown afraid.'

'What were you afraid of?'

'Of growing old and missing what was waiting for me out here. But I could not get away like other people. No money, you see. So I thought I would come out and teach here. Dare I? Would they let me? I knew I was fighting life and chances and risks if I did it; but it was death if I stayed there. And then—Do you really care to hear?'

'Of course. Tell me how you broke your chain.'

'I spare you the family quarrels. I can never go back. But I was spurred— spurred to take some wild leap; and I took it. So six years ago I came out. First I went to a doctor and his wife at Cawnpore. They had a wonderful knowledge of the Indian peoples, and there I learned Hindustani and much else. Then he died. But an aunt had left me two hundred pounds, and I could wait a little and choose; and so I came here.'

It interested me. The courage that pale elastic type of woman has!

"Have you ever regretted it? Would they take you back if you failed?'

'Never, to both questions,' she said, smiling. 'Life is glorious. I've drunk of a cup I never thought to taste; and if I died to-morrow I should know I had done right. I rejoice in every moment I live— even when Winifred and I are wrestling with arithmetic.'

'I shouldn't have thought life was very easy with Lady Meryon.'

'Oh, she is kind enough in an indifferent sort of way. I am not the persecuted Jane Eyre sort of governess at all. But that is all on the surface and does not matter. It is India I care for— the people, the sun, the infinite beauty. It was coming home. You would laugh if I told you I knew Peshawar long before I came here. Knew it— walked here, lived. Before there were English in India at all.' She broke off. 'You won't understand.'

'Oh, I have had that feeling, too,' I said patronizingly. 'If one has read very much about a place —'

'That was not quite what I meant. Never mind. The people, the place— that is the real thing to me. All this is the dream.'

The sweep of her hand took in not only Winifred and myself, but the general's stately residence, which to blas- pheme in Peshawar is rank infidelity.

'By George, I would give thousands to feel that! I can't get out of Europe here. I want to write, Miss Loring,' I found myself saying. 'I'd done a bit, and then the war came and blew my life to pieces. Now I want to get inside the skin of the East, and I can't do it. I see it from outside, with a pane of glass between. No life in it. If you feel as you say, for God's sake be my interpreter!"

'Interpret?' she said, looking at me with clear hazel eyes; 'how could I? You were in the native city yesterday. What did you miss?'

'Everything! I saw masses of color, light, movement. Brilliantly picturesque people. Children like Asiatic angels. Magnificently scowling ruffians in sheepskin coats. In fact, a movie staged for my benefit. I was afraid they would ring down the curtain before I had had enough. It had no meaning. When I got back to my diggings I tried to put down what I had just seen, and I swear there's more inspiration in the guide-book.'

'Did you go alone?'

"Yes, I certainly would not go sight-seeing with the Meryon crowd. Tell me what you felt when you saw it first.'

'I went with Sir John's uncle. He was a great traveler. The color struck me dumb. It flames— it sings. Think of the gray pinched life in the West! I saw a grave dark potter turning his wheel, while his little girl stood by, glad at our pleasure, her head veiled like a miniature woman, tiny baggy trousers, and a silver nose-stud, like a star, in one delicate nostril. In her thin arms she held a heavy baby in a gilt cap, like a monkey. And the wheel turned and whirled until it seemed to be spinning dreams, thick as motes in the sun. The clay rose in smooth spirals under his hand, and the wheel sang, "Shall the vessel reprove him who made one to honor and one to dishonor?" And I saw the potter thumping his wet clay, and the clay, plastic as dream-stuff, shaped swift as light, and the three Fates stood at his shoulder. Dreams, dreams, and all in the spinning of the wheel, and the rich shadows of the old broken courtyard where he sat. And the wheel stopped and the thread broke, and the little new shapes he had made stood all about him, and he was only a potter in Peshawar.'

Her voice was like a song. She had utterly forgotten my existence. I did not dislike it at the moment, for I want- ed to hear more, and the impersonal is the rarest gift a woman can give a man.

'Did you buy anything?'

"He gave me a gift— a flawed jar of turquoise blue, faint turquoise green round the lip. He saw I understood. And then I bought a little gold cap and a wooden box of jade-green Kabul grapes. About a rupee, all told. But it was Eastern merchandise, and I was trading from Balsora and Baghdad, and Eleazar's camels were swaying down from Damascus along the Khyber Pass, and coming in at the great Darwazah, and friends' eyes met me everywhere. I am profoundly happy here.'

The sinking sun lit an almost ecstatic face.

'It may be very beautiful on the surface,' I said morosely; 'but there's a lot of misery below— hateful, they tell me.'

'Of course, I shall get to work one day. But look at the sunset. It opens like a mysterious flower. I must take Winifred home now.'

"One moment,' I pleaded; 'I can only see it through your eyes. I feel it while you speak, and then the good minute goes.'

She laughed.

'And so must I. Come, Winifred. Look, there's an owl; not like the owls in the summer dark in England—

'Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping,

Wavy in the dark, lit by one low star.'

Suddenly she turned again and looked at me half wistfully.

"It is good to talk to you. You want to know. You are so near it all. I wish I could help you; I am so exquisitely happy myself.'

My writing was at a standstill. It seemed the groping of a blind man in a radiant world. Once perhaps I had felt that life was good in itself— when the guns came thundering toward the Vimy Ridge in a mad gallop of horses, and men shouting and swearing and frantically urging them on. Then, riding for more than life, I had tasted life for an instant. Not before or since. But this woman had the secret.

Lady Meryon, with her escort of girls and subalterns, came daintily past the hotel compound, and startled me from my brooding with her pretty silvery voice.

'Dreaming, Mr. Clifden? It is n't at all wholesome to dream in the East. Come and dine with us to-morrow. A tiny dance afterwards, you know; or bridge for those who like it.'

I had not the faintest notion whether governesses dined with the family or came in afterward with the coffee; but it was a sporting chance, and I took it. Then Sir John came up and joined us.

"You can't well dance to-morrow, Kitty,' he said to his wife. 'There's been an outpost affair in the Swat Hills, and young Fitzgerald has been shot. Come to dinner of course, Clifden. Glad to see you. But no dancing, I think.'

ii

NEXT EVENING I went into Lady Meryon's flower-scented drawing-room.

Governesses dine, it appeared, only to fill an unexpected place, or make a decorous entry afterward, to play accompaniments. Fortunately Kitty Meryon sang, in a pinched little soprano, not nearly so pretty as her silver ripple of talk.

It was when the party had settled down to bridge and I was standing out, that I ventured to go up to her as she sat knitting by a window— not unwatched by the quick blue flash of Lady Meryon's eyes as I did it.

'I think you hypnotize me, Miss Loring. When I hear anything, I straightway want to know what you will say. Have you heard of Fitzgerald's death?'

"That is why we are not dancing tonight. To-morrow the cable will reach his home in England. He was an only child, and they are the great people of the village where we are little people. I knew his mother as one knows a great lady who is kind to all the village folk. It may kill her. It is traveling tonight like a bullet to her heart, and she does not know.'

'His father?'

'A brave man— a soldier himself. He will know it was a good death and that Harry would not fail. He did not at Ypres. He would not here. But all joy and hope will be dead in that house to-morrow.'

'And what do you think?'

'I am not sorry for Harry, if you

mean that. He knew— we all know— that he was on guard here holding the outposts against blood and treachery and terrible things— playing the Great Game. One never loses at that game if one plays it straight, and I am sure that at the last it was joy he felt and not fear. He has not lost. Did you notice in the church a niche before every soldier's seat to hold his loaded gun? And the tablets on the walls: "Killed at Kabu River, aged 22."— "Killed on outpost duty."— "Murdered by an Afghan fanatic." This will be one mem ory more. Why be sorry?'

Presently: —

'l am going up to the hills to-morrow, to the Malakhand Fort, with Mrs. Delany, Lady Meryon's aunt, and we shall see the wonderful Tahkt-i-Bahi Monastery on the way. You should do that run before you go. The fort is the last but one on the way to Chitral, and beyond that the road is so beset that only soldiers may go farther, and indeed the regiments escort each other up and down. But it is an early start, for we must be back in Peshawar at six for fear of raiding natives.'

'I know; they hauled me up in the dusk the other day, and told me I should be swept off to the hills if I fooled about after dusk. But I say— is it safe for you to go? You ought to have a man. Could I go, too?'

I thought she did not look enthusiastic at the proposal.

"Ask. You know I settle nothing. I go where I am sent.'

She left the room; and when the bridge was over, I made my request. Lady Meryon shrugged her shoulders and declared it would be a terribly dull run— the scenery nothing, 'and only' (she whispered) 'Aunt Selina and poor Miss Loring.'

Of course I saw at once that she did not like it; but Sir John was all for my going, and that saved the situation.

I certainly could have dispensed with Aunt Selina when the automobile drew up in the golden river of the sunrise at the hotel. There were only the driver, a personal servant, and the two ladies: Mrs. Delany, comely, pleasant, talkative, and Vanna —

We glided along the straight military road from Peshawar to Nowshera, the gold-bright sun dazzling in its whiteness— a strange drive through the flat, burned country, with the ominous Kabul River flowing through it. Military preparations everywhere, and the hills looking watchfully down— alive, as it were, with keen, hostile eyes. War was as present about us as behind the lines in France; and when we crossed the Kabul River on a bridge of boats, and I saw its haunted waters, I began to feel the atmosphere of the place closing down upon me. It had a sinister beauty; it breathed suspense; and I wished, as I was sure Vanna did, for silence that was not at our command.

For Mrs. Delany felt nothing of it. A bright shallow ripple of talk was her contribution to the joys of the day; though it was, fortunately, enough for her happiness if we listened and agreed. I knew Vanna listened only in show. Her intent eyes were fixed on the Tahkt-i-Bahi hills after we had swept out of Nowshera; and when the car drew up at the rough track, she had a strange look of suspense and pallor. I remember I wondered at the time if she were nervous in the wild open country.

'Now pray don't be shocked,' said Mrs. Delany comfortably; 'but you two young people may go up to the monastery, and I shall stay here. I am dreadfully ashamed of myself, but the sight of that hill is enough for me. Don't hurry. I may have a little doze, and be all the better company when you get back. No, don't try to persuade me, Mr. Clifden. It isn't the part of a friend.'

I cannot say I was sorry, though I had a moment of panic when Vanna offered to stay with her— very much, too, as if she really meant it. So we set out perforce, Vanna leading steadily, as if she knew the way. She never looked up, and her wish for silence was so evident, that I followed, lending my hand mutely when the difficulties obliged it, she accepting absently, and as if her thoughts were far away.

Suddenly she quickened her pace. We had climbed about nine hundred feet, and now the narrow track twisted through the rocks— a track that looked as age-worn as no doubt it was. We threaded it, and struggled over the ridge, and looked down victorious on the other side.

There she stopped. A very wonderful sight, of which I had never seen the like, lay below us. Rock and waste and towering crags, and the mighty ruin of the monastery set in the fangs of the mountain like a robber baron's castle, looking far away to the blue mountains of the Debatable Land— the land of mystery and danger. It stood there the great ruin of a vast habitation of men. Building after building, mysterious and broken, corridors, halls, refectories, cells; the dwelling of a faith so alien that I could not reconstruct the life that gave it being. And all sinking gently into ruin that in a century more would confound it with the roots of the mountains. Gray and wonderful, it clung to the heights and looked with eyeless windows at the past. Somehow I found it infinitely pathetic: the very faith it expressed is dead in India, and none left so poor to do it reverence.

But Vanna knew her way. Unerringly she led me from point to point, and she was visibly at home in the intricacies. Such knowledge in a young woman bewildered me. Could she have studied the plans in the Museum? How else should she know where the abbot lived, or where the refractory brothers were punished?

Once I missed her, while I stooped to examine some scroll-work, and following, found her before one of the few images of the Buddha that the rapacious Museum had spared— a singularly beautiful bas-relief, the hand raised to enforce the truth the calm lips were speaking, the drapery falling in stately folds to the bare feet. As I came up, she had an air as if she had just ceased from movement, and I had a distinct feeling that she had knelt before it— I saw the look of worship! The thing troubled me like a dream, haunting, impossible, but real.

'How beautiful!' I said in spite of myself, as she pointed to the image. 'In this utter solitude it seems the very spirit of the place.'

'He was. He is,' said Vanna.

'Explain to me. I don't understand. I know so little of him. What is the subject?'

She hesitated; then chose her words as if for a beginner:—

'It is the Blessed One preaching to the Tree-Spirits. See how eagerly they lean from the boughs to listen. This other relief represents him in the state of mystic vision. Here he is drowned in peace. See how it overflows from the closed eyes; the closed lips. The air is filled with his quiet.'

'What is he dreaming?'

'Not dreaming— seeing. Peace. He sits at the point where time and infinity meet. To attain that vision was the aim of the monks who lived here.'

'Did they attain?' I found myself speaking as if she could certainly answer.

'A few. There was one, Vasettha, the Brahmin, a young man who had renounced all his possessions and riches, and seated here before this image of the Blessed One, he fell often into the mystic state. He had a strange vision at one time of the future of India, which will surely be fulfilled. He did not forget it in his rebirths. He remembers—'

She broke off suddenly and said with forced indifference,—

"He would sit here often looking out over the mountains; the monks sat at his feet to hear. He became abbot while still young. But his story is a sad one.'

'I entreat you to tell me.'

She looked away over the mountains.

"While he was abbot here,— still a young man,—a famous Chinese pilgrim came down through Kashmir to visit the Holy Places in India. The abbot went forward with him to Peshawar, that he might make him welcome. And there came a dancer to Peshawar, named Lilavanti, most beautiful! I dare not tell you her beauty. I tremble now to think—'

Again she paused, and again the faint creeping sense of mystery invaded me. She resumed:—

"The abbot saw her and he loved her. He was young still, you remember. She was a woman of the Hindu faith and hated Buddhism. It swept him down into the lower worlds of storm and desire. He fled with Lilavanti and never returned here. So in his rebirth he fell—'

She stopped dead; her face pale as death.

"How do you know? Where have you read it? If I could only find what you find and know what you know! The East is like an open book to you. Tell me the rest.'

'How should I know any more?' she said hurriedly. 'We must be going back. You should study the plans of this place at Peshawar. They were very learned monks who lived here. It is famous for learning.'

The life had gone out of her words— out of the ruins. There was no more to be said.

We clambered down the hill in the hot sunshine, speaking only of the view, the strange shrubs and flowers, and, once, the swift gliding of a snake, and found Mrs. Delany blissfully asleep in the most padded corner of the car. The spirit of the East vanished in her comfortable presence, and luncheon seemed the only matter of moment.

'I wonder, my dears,' she said, 'if you would be very disappointed and think me very dense if I proposed our giving up the Malakhand Fort? Mr. Clifden can lunch with the officers at Nowshera and come any day. I know I am an atrocity.'

That night I resolutely began my packing, and wrote a note of farewell to Lady Meryon. The next morning I furiously undid it, and destroyed the note. And that afternoon I took the shortest way to the Sunset Road to lounge about and wait for Vanna and Winifred. She never came, and I was as unreasonably angry as if I had deserved the blessing of her presence. Next day I could see that she tried, gently but clearly, to discourage our meeting; and for three days I never saw her at all. Yet I knew that in her solitary life our talks counted for a pleasure.

iii

ON THE DAY when things became clear to me, I was walking toward the Meryons' gates when I met her coming alone along the Sunset Road, in the late gold of the afternoon. She looked pale and a little wearied, and I remember that I wished I did not know every change of her face as I did.

'So you have been up the Khyber Pass,' she said as I fell into step at her side. 'Tell me— was it as wonderful as you expected?'

'No, no— you tell me. It will give me what I missed. Begin at the beginning. Tell me what I saw.'

I could not miss the delight of her words, and she laughed, knowing my whim.

'Oh, that pass! But did you go on Tuesday or Friday?'

For these are the only two days in the week when the Khyber can be safely entered. The British then turn out the Khyber Rifles and man every crag, and the loaded caravans move like a tide, and go up and down the narrow road on their occasions.

'Tuesday. But make a picture for me.'

'You went up to Jumrood Fort at the entrance. Did they tell you it is an old Sikh fort and has been on duty in that turbulent place for five hundred years? And did you see the machine- guns in the court? And everyone armed— even the boys, with belts of cartridges? Then you went up the narrow winding track between the mountains, and you said to yourself, "This is the road of pure romance. It goes up to silken Samarcand, and I can ride to Bokhara of the beautiful women, and to all the dreams. Am I alive and is it real?" You felt that?'

'All, every bit. Go on!'

She smiled with pleasure.

'And you saw the little forts on the crags and the men on guard all along— rifles ready! You could hear the guns rattle as they saluted. Do you know that up there men plough with rifles loaded beside them? They have to be men, indeed.'

"Do you mean to imply that we are not men?'

'Different men, at least. This is life in a Border ballad. Such a life as you knew in France, but beautiful in a wild-hawk sort of way. Don't the Khyber Rifles bewilder you? They are drawn from these very Hill tribes, and will shoot their own fathers and brothers in the way of duty as comfortably as if they were jackals. Once there was a scrap here and one of the tribesmen sniped our men unbearably. What do you suppose happened? A Khyber Rifle came to the colonel and said, "Let me put an end to him, Colonel Sahib. I know exactly where he sits. He is my grandfather." And he did it.'

'The bond of bread and salt?'

'Yes, and discipline. I'm sometimes half frightened of discipline. It moulds a man like wax. Even God doesn't do that. Well— then you saw the traders: wild shaggy men in sheepskin, and women in massive jewelry of silver and turquoise— great earrings, heavy bracelets loading their arms, wild, fierce, handsome. And the camels,— thousands of them,— some going up, some coming down,— a mass of human and animal life. Above you, moving figures against the keen blue sky, or deep below you in the ravines. The camels were swaying along with huge bales of goods, and with dark beautiful women in wicker cages perched on them. Silks and carpets from Bokhara, and blue-eyed Persian cats, and bluer Persian turquoises. Wonderful! And the dust— gilded by the sunshine— makes a vaporous golden atmosphere for it all.'

"What was the most wonderful thing you saw there?' I asked her.

'The most beautiful of all, I think, was a man—a splendid dark ruffian, lounging along. He wanted to show off, and his swagger was perfect. Long black onyx eyes, and a tumble of black curls, and teeth like almonds. But what do you think he carried on his wrist? A hawk with fierce yellow eyes, ringed and chained. Hawking is a favorite sport in the hills. Oh, why doesn't some great painter come and paint it all be- fore they take to trains and cars? I long to see it all again, but I never shall.'

'Surely Sir John can get you up there any day.'

'I am leaving.'

'Leaving?' My heart gave a leap. 'Why? Where?'

'I had rather not tell you.'

'I shall ask Lady Meryon.'

'I forbid you.'

And then the unexpected happened, and an unbearable impulse swept me into folly— or was it wisdom?

'Listen to me. I would not have said it yet, but this settles it. I want you to marry me. I want it atrociously!'

It was a strange word. What I felt for her at that moment was difficult to describe.

She looked at me in transparent astonishment.

'Mr. Clifden, are you dreaming? You can't mean what you say.'

"Why can't I? I do. I want you. You have the key of all I care for.'

'Surely you have all the world can give? What do you want more?'

'The power to enjoy it— to understand it. I want you always with me to interpret, like a guide to a blind fellow. I am no better.'

'Say like a dog, at once!' she interrupted. 'At least, you are frank enough to put it on that ground. You have not said that you love me. You could not say it.'

'I don't know whether I do or not. I know nothing about love. I want you. Indescribably. Perhaps that is love— is it? I never wanted anyone before. I have tried to get away and I can't.'

"Why have you tried?'

'Because every man likes freedom. But I like you better.'

'I can tell you the reason,' she said, in her gentle, unwavering voice. 'I am Lady Meryon's governess, and an un- desirable. You have felt that?'

'Don't make me out such a snob. No— yes. You force me into honesty. I did feel it at first. But I could kick myself when I think of that now. It is utterly forgotten. Take me and make me what you will, and forgive me. Only tell me your secret of joy. How is it you understand everything alive or dead? I want to live—to see, to know.'

It was a rhapsody like a boy's. Yet at the moment I was not even ashamed of it, so sharp was my need.

'I think,' she said, slowly, looking straight before her, 'that I had better be quite frank. I don't love you. I don't know what love means in the Western sense. It has a very different meaning for me. Your voice comes to me from an immense distance when you speak in that way. You want me— but never with a thought of what I might want. Is that love? I like you very deeply as a friend, but we are of different races. There is a gulf.'

'A gulf? You are English.'

'By birth, yes. In mind, no. And there are things that go deeper, that you could not understand. So I refuse quite definitely, and our ways part here, for in a few days I go. I shall not see you again, but I wished to say good-bye.'

I felt as if my all were deserting me— a sickening feeling of loneliness.

'I entreat you to tell me why, and where.'

'Since you have made me this offer, I will tell you why. Lady Meryon objected to my friendship with you, and objected in a way which—'

She stopped, flushing palely. I caught her hand.

'That settles it, that she should have dared! I'll go up this minute and tell her we are engaged. Vanna— Vanna!'

For she disengaged her hand.

'On no account. How can I make it more plain to you? I should have gone soon in any case. My place is in the native city— that is the life I want. I have work there; I knew it before I came out. My sympathies are all with them. They know what life is— why, even the beggars, poorer than poor, are perfectly happy, basking in the great generous sun. Oh, the splendor and riot of life and color! That's my life— I sicken of this.'

'But I will give it to you. Marry me, and we will travel till you're tired of it.'

"And look on as at a play. No, I'm going to work there.'

'For God's sake, how? Let me come too.'

"You can't. You're not in it. I am going to attach myself to the medical mission at Lahore and learn nursing, and then I shall go to my own people.'

'Missionaries?'

'They teach what I want. Mr. Clifden, I shall not come this way again. If I remember— I'll write to you, and tell you what the real world is like.'

She smiled, the absorbed little smile I knew and feared.

'Vanna, before you go, give me your gift of sight. Interpret for me. Stay with me a little and make me see.'

'What do you mean, exactly?' she asked in her gentlest voice, half turning to me.

'Make one journey with me, as my sister, if you will do no more. Though I warn you that all the time I shall be trying to win my wife. But come with me once, and after that— if you will go, you must. Say yes.'

She hesitated— a hesitation full of hope— and looked at me with intent eyes.

'I will tell you frankly,' she said at last, 'that I know my knowledge of the East and kinship with it goes far beyond mere words. In my case the doors were not shut. I believe— I know that long ago this was my life. If I spoke forever, I could not make you understand how much I know, and why. So I shall quite certainly go back to it. Nothing— you, least of all— can hold me. But you are my friend— that is a true bond. And if you would wish me to give you two months before I go, I might do that if it would in any way help you. As your friend only— you clearly understand. You would not re- proach me afterward when I left you, as I should most certainly do?'

'I swear I would not. I swear I would protect you even from myself. I want you forever; but if you will only give me two months— Come! But have you thought that people will talk? I'm not worth that, God knows.'

She spoke very quietly.

'That does not trouble me. It would only trouble me if you asked what I have not to give. For two months I would travel with you as a friend, if, like a friend, I paid my own expenses. —No,I must do as I say; I would go on no other terms. It would be hard if, because we are man and woman, I might not do one act of friendship for you before we part. For though I refuse your offer utterly, I appreciate it, and I would make what little return I can. It would be a sharp pain to me to distress you.'

Her gentleness and calm, the magnitude of the offer she was making, stunned me so that I could scarcely speak. She gave me such opportunities as the most ardent lover might in his wildest dream desire, and with the remoteness in her eyes and her still voice she de- prived them of all hope.

'Vanna, is it a promise? You mean it?'

'If you wish it, yes. But I warn you that I think it will not make it easier for you when the time is over.'

"Why two months?'

'Partly because I can afford no more. No! I know what you would say. Partly because I can spare no more time. I think it unwise for you. I would protect you if I could— indeed I would!'

It was my turn to hesitate now. Would it not be better to let her go before she had become a part of my daily experience? I began to fear I was courting my own shipwreck. She read my thoughts clearly.

'Indeed you would be wise to decide against it. Release me from my promise. It was a mad scheme.'

The superiority— or so I felt it— of her gentleness maddened me. It might have been I who needed protec- tion, who was running the risk of mis- judgment— not she, a lonely woman. I felt utterly exiled from the real pur- pose of her life.

'I will never release you. I claim your promise. I hold to it.'

She extended her hand, cool as a snowflake, and was gone, walking swiftly up the road. Ah, let a man beware when his wishes fulfilled rain down upon him!

To what had I committed myself?

Strange she is and secret,

Strange her eyes; her cheeks are cold and as cold sea-shells,

Yet I would risk it.

Next day this reached me: —

Dear Mr. Clifden, —

Iam going to some Indian friends for a time. On the 15th of June I shall be at Srinagar in Kashmir. A friend has allowed me to take her little houseboat, the Kedarnath. If you like this plan, we will share the cost for two months. I warn you it is not luxurious, but I think you will like it. I shall do this whether you come or no, for I want a quiet time before I take up my nursing in Lahore. In thinking of all this, will you remember that I am not a girl but a woman? I shall be twenty-nine my next birthday.

Sincerely yours, Vanna Lorine.

P.S. But I still think you would be wiser not to come. I hope to hear you will not.

I replied only this: —

Dear Miss Lorine,— I think I understand the position fully. I will be there. I thank you with all my heart. Gratefully yours,

Stephen Clifden.

iv

ON THE 15th of June, I found myself riding into Srinagar in Kashmir, through the pure, tremulous green of the mighty poplars that hedge the road into the city. The beauty of the country had half stunned me when I entered the mountain barrier of Baramula and saw the snowy peaks that guard the Happy Valley, with the Jhelum flowing through its tranquil loveliness. The flush of the almond-blossom was over, but the iris, like a sea of peace, had overflowed the world, and the blue meadows smiled at the radiant sky. Such blossom! the blue shading into clear violet, like a shoaling sea. The earth, like a cup held in the hand of a god, brimmed with the draught of youth and summer and—love? But no. For me the very word was sinister. Vanna's face, immutably calm, confronted it.

The night I had slept in a boat at Sopor had been my first in Kashmir; and I remember that, waking at midnight, I looked out and saw a mountain with a gloriole of hazy silver about it, misty and faint as a cobweb threaded with dew. The river, there spreading into a lake, was dark under it, flowing in a deep, smooth blackness of shad- ow, and everything waited— for what? Even while I looked, the moon floated serenely above the peak, and all was bathed in pure light, the water rippling in broken silver and pearl. So had Vanna floated into my life, sweet, remote, luminous.

I rode past the lovely wooden bridges, where the balconied houses totter to each other across the canals in a dim splendor of carving and age; where the many-colored native life crowds down to the river-steps and cleanses its flower-bright robes, its gold-bright brass vessels, in the shining stream; and my heart said only, 'Vanna, Vanna!'

My servant dismounted and led his horse, asking from everyone where the Kedarnath could be found; and two little bronze images detached them- selves from the crowd of boys and ran, fleet as fauns, before us.

Above the last bridge the Jhelum broadens out into a stately river, controlled at one side by the banked walk known as the Bund, with the Club House upon it and the line of house-boats beneath. She would not be here; my heart told me that; and sure enough the boys were leading across the bridge, and by a quiet shady way to one of the many backwaters that the great river makes in the enchanting city. There is one waterway stretching on and afar to the Dal Lake. It looks like a river— it is the very haunt of peace. Under those mighty chenar or plane trees, that are the glory of Kashmir, clouding the water with deep green shadows, the sun can scarcely pierce, save in a dipping sparkle here and there, to intensify the green gloom. The murmur of the city, the chatter of the club, are hundreds of miles away.

We rode downward under the towering trees, and dismounting, saw a little houseboat tethered to the bank. It was not of the richer sort that haunts the Bund, where the native servants follow in a separate boat, and even the electric light is turned on as part of the luxury. This was a long, low craft, very broad, thatched like a country cottage afloat. In the afterpart the native owner and his family lived— our crew, our cooks and servants; for they played many parts in our service. And in the forepart, room for a life, a dream, the joy or curse of my days to be.

But then, I saw only one thing— Vanna sat under the trees, reading, or looking at the cool, dim, watery vista, with a single boat, loaded to the river's edge with melons and scarlet tomatoes, punting lazily down to Srinagar in the sleepy afternoon.

For the first time I knew she was beautiful. Beauty shone in her like the flame in an alabaster lamp, serene, diffused in the very air about her, so that to me she moved in a mild radiance. She rose to meet me with both hands outstretched— the kindest, most cordial welcome. Not an eyelash flickered, not a trace of self-consciousness.

I tried, with a hopeless pretence, to follow her example and hide what I felt, where she had nothing to hide.

'What a place you have found! Why, it's like the deep heart of a wood.'

I threw myself on the grass beside her with a feeling of perfect rest.

The very spirit of Quiet seemed to be drowsing in those branches towering up into the blue, dipping their green fingers into the crystal of the water. What a heaven!

I shut my eyes and see still that first meal of my new life. The little table that Pir Baksh, breathing full East in his jade-green turban, set before her, with its cloth worked in a pattern of the chenar leaves that are the symbol of Kashmir; the brown cakes made by Ahmed Khan in a miraculous kitchen of his own invention —a few holes burrowed in the river-bank, a smouldering fire beneath them, and a width of canvas for a roof. But it served, and no more need be asked of luxury. And Vanna, making it mysteriously the first home I ever had known, the central joy of it all. Oh, wonderful days of life that breathe the spirit of immortality and pass so quickly— surely they must be treasured somewhere in Eternity, that we may look upon their beloved light once more!

'Now you must see the boat. The Kedarnath is not a Dreadnought, but she is broad and very comfortable. And we have many chaperons. They all live in the stern, and exist simply to protect the Sahib-log from all discomfort; and very well they do it. That is Ahmed Khan by the kitchen. He cooks for us. Salama owns the boat, and steers her and engages the men to tow us when we move. And when I arrived, he aired a little English and said piously, "The Lord help me to give you no trouble, and the Lord help you!" That is his wife sitting on the bank. She speaks little but Kashmiri, but I know a little of that. Look at the hundred rat-tail plaits of her hair, lengthened with wool; and see her silver and turquoise jewelry! She wears much of the family fortune and is quite a walking bank. Salama, Ahmed Khan, and I talk by the hour. Ahmed comes from Fyzabad. Look at Salama's boy —I call him the Orange Imp. Did you ever see anything so beautiful?'

I looked in sheer delight, and grasped my camera. Sitting near us was a lovely little Kashmiri boy of about eight, in a faded orange coat, anda turban exactly like his father's. His curled black eyelashes were so long that they made a soft gloom over the upper part of the little golden face. The perfect bow of the scarlet lips, the long eyes, the shy smile, suggested an Indian Eros. He sat dipping his feet in the water, with little pigeon-like cries of content.

'He paddles at the bow of our little shikara boat, with a paddle exactly like a water-lily leaf. Do you like our friends? I love them already, and know all their affairs.— And now for the boat.'

'One moment. If we are friends on a great adventure, I must call you Vanna, and you me Stephen.'

"Yes, I suppose that is part of it,' she said, smiling. 'Come, Stephen.'

It was like music, but a cold music that chilled me. She should have hesitated, should have flushed— it was I who trembled.

So I followed her across the broad plank into our new home.

'This is our sitting-room. Look, how charming!'

It was better than charming: it was home, indeed. Windows at each side opening down almost to the water; a little table for meals, with a gray pot of irises in the middle; another table for writing, photographing, and all the little pursuits of travel; a bookshelf, with some well-worn friends; two low, cushioned chairs, two others for meals, and a Bokhara rug, soft and pleasant for the feet. The interior was plain un- painted wood, but set so that the grain showed like satin in the rippling lights from the water.

"It is perfect,' was all I said, as she waved her hand proudly to show it; "it is home.'

We dined on the bank that evening, the lamp burning steadily in the still air and throwing broken reflections in the water, while the moon looked in up- on us among the leaves. I felt extraor- dinarily young and happy.

The quiet of her voice was as soft as the little lap of water against the bank; and Kahdra, the Orange Imp, was sing- ing a little wordless song to himself as he washed the plates beside us.

'The wealth of the world could not buy this,' I said; and was silent.

v

AND SO BEGAN a life of sheer enchantment. Looking back, I know in what a wonder-world I was privileged to live. Vanna could talk with all our shipmates. She did not move apart, a condescending or indifferent foreigner. Little Kahdra would come to her knee and chatter to her of the great snake that lived up on Mahadeo, to devour erring boys who omitted to say their prayers at proper Moslem intervals. She would sit with the baby in her lap, while the mother busied herself in the sunny boat with the mysterious dishes that smelt so good to a hungry man.

'I am graduating as a nurse,' she would say laughing, as she bent over the lean arm of some weirdly wrinkled old lady, bandaging and soothing at the same time. Her reward would be some bit of folk-lore, some quaintness of gratitude, which I noted down in the little book I kept for remembrance— and do not need, for every word is in my heart.

We pulled down through the city next day, Salama rowing, and Kahdra lazily paddling at the bow. A wonderful city, with its narrow ways begrimed with the dirt of ages, and its balconied houses looking as if disease and sin had soaked into them and given them a vicious, tottering beauty, horrible, yet lovely too. We saw the swarming life of the bazaar; the white turbans coming and going, diversified by the rose and yellow Hindu turbans; the fine aquiline faces and the caste-marks, orange and red, on the dark brows. I saw two women— girls— painted and tired like Jezebel, looking out of one window carved and old, and the gray burnished doves flying about it. They leaned indolently, like all the old, old wickedness of the East that yet is ever young— 'Flowers of Delight,' with smooth black hair braided with gold and blossoms, and covered with pale-rose veils, and gold-embossed disks swinging like lamps beside the olive cheeks, the great eyes artificially lengthened and. darkened with soorma, and the curves of the full lips emphasized with vermilion. They looked down on us with apathy, a dull weariness that held all the old evil of the wicked, humming city. It had taken shape in those indolent bodies and heavy eyes, which could flash into life as a snake wakes into fierce darting energy when the time comes to spring— direct inheritrixes from Lilith, in the fittest setting in the world— the almost exhausted vice of an Oriental city as old as time.

"Look— below here,' said Vanna, pointing to one of the great ghats— long rugged steps running down to the river. 'When I came yesterday, a great broken crowd was collected, almost shouldering each other into the water, where a boat lay rocking. In it was the body of a man, brutally murdered for the sake of a few rupees and flung into the river. I could see the poor brown body stark in the boat, with a friend weeping beside it. On the lovely deodar bridge people leaned over, watching with grim, open-mouthed curiosity, and business went on gayly where the jewelers make the silver bangles for slender wrists, and the rows of silver coins that make the necks like "the Tower of Damascus builded for an armory." It was all very wild and cruel. I went down to them—'

"Vanna— you went down?  Horrible!'

"No; you see I heard them say the wife was almost a child and needed help. So I went. Once, long ago, at Peshawar, I saw the same thing happen, and they came and took the child for the service of the gods, for she was most lovely, and she clung to the feet of a man in terror, and the priest stabbed her to the heart. She died in my arms.'

"Good God!' I said, shuddering; 'what a sight for you! Did they never hang him?'

'He was not punished. I told you it was a very long time ago.'

She said no more. But in her words and the terrible crowding of its life, Srinagar seemed to me more of a nightmare than anything I had seen, excepting only Benares; for the holy Benares is a memory of horror, with a sense of blood hidden under its frantic, crazy devotion, and not far hidden, either.

Our own green shade, when we pulled back to it in the evening cool, was a refuge of unspeakable quiet. She read aloud to me that evening, by the small light of our lamp beneath the trees; and, singularly, she read of joy.

'I have drunk of the Cup of the Ineffable,

I have found the Key of the Mystery;

Traveling by no track, I have come to the Sorrowless Land; very easily has the mercy of the great Lord come upon me.

Wonder is that Land of rest to which no merit can win.

There have I seen joy filled to the brim, perfection of joy.

He dances in rapture and waves of form arise from his dance.

He holds all within his bliss.'

"What is that?' I asked, when the music ceased for a moment.

'It is from the songs of the great Indian mystic— Kabir. Let me read you more. It is like the singing ofa lark, lost in the infinite of light and heaven.'

So in the soft darkness I heard for the first time those immortal words; and hearing, a faint glimmer of understand- ing broke upon me as to the source of the peace that surrounded her. I had accepted it as an emanation of her own heart, when it was the pulsing of the tide of the Divine. She read, choosing a verse here and there, and I listened with absorption. Suppose I had been wrong in believing that sorrow is the key-note of life; that pain is the road of ascent, if road there be; that an implacable Nature presides over all our piti- ful struggles and writes a black 'Finis' to the holograph of our existence? What then? Was she teaching me that joy is the only truth,— the only reality,— and all else illusion? Was she the Interpreter of a Beauty eternal in the heavens and reflected in broken prisms in the beauty that walked vis- ible beside me? I listened as a man to an unknown tongue; but I listened, though I ventured my protest.

'In India, in this strange country where men have time and will for speculation, such thoughts may be natural. Can they be found in the West?'

'This is from the West— might not Kabir himself have said it? Certainly he would have felt it.. "Happy is he who seeks not to understand the Mystery of God, but who, merging his spirit into thine, sings to thy Face, O Lord, like a harp, understanding how difficult it is to know— how easy to love Thee." We debate and argue, and the Vision passes us by. We try to prove it, and kill it in the laboratory of our minds, when on the altar of our souls it will dwell forever.'

Silence— and I pondered. Finally she laid the book aside and repeated from memory and in a tone of perfect music: 'Kabir says, "I shall go to the House of my Lord with my Love at my side; then shall I sound the trumpet of triumph."''

When she left me alone, the old doubts came back— the fear that I saw only through her eyes; and I began to believe in joy, only because I loved her. I remember that I wrote in the little book that I kept for my stray thoughts these words, which are not mine but reflect my vision of her.

'Thine is the skill of the Fairy Woman, and the virtue of St. Bride, and the faith of Mary the Mild, and the gra- cious way of the Greek woman, and the beauty of lovely Emer, and the tender- ness of heart-sweet Deirdré, and the courage of Maev the great Queen, and the charm of Mouth-of-Music.'

Yes, all that and more; but I feared lest I should see the heaven of joy through her eyes only, and find it mirage, as I had found so much else.

vi

EARLY in the pure dawn the men came, and our boat was towed up into the Dal Lake through crystal waterways and flowery banks, the men on the path keeping step and straining at the rope until the bronze muscles stood out on their legs and backs, and shouting strong rhythmic phrases to mark the pull.

"They shout the Wondrous Names of God— as they are called,' said Vanna, when I asked. 'They always do that for a timed effort. Badshah! The Lord, the Compassionate, and so on. I don't think there is any religion about it, but it is as natural to them as one, two, three to us. It gives a tremendous lift. Watch and see.'

It was part of the delightful strangeness that we should move to that strong music.

We moored by a low bank, under a great wood of chenar trees, and saw the little table in the wilderness set in the greenest shade, with our chairs beside it, and my pipe laid reverently upon it by Kahdra.

Across the glittering water lay, on one side, the Shalimar Garden, known to all readers of Lalla Rookh— a paradise of roses; and beyond it again the lovelier gardens of Nur-Mahal, the Light of the Palace, that imperial woman who ruled India under the weak Emperor's name— she whose name he set thus upon his coins: 'By order of King Jehangir, gold has a hundred splendors added to it by receiving the name of Nur-Jahan the Queen.'

Has any woman ever had a more royal homage than this most royal woman— known first as Mihr-u-Nissa, Sun of Women; later, as Nur-Mahal, Light of the Palace; and, latest, Nur-Jahan-Begam, Queen, Light of the World?

Here, in these gardens, she had lived— had seen the snow mountains change from the silver of dawn to the illimitable rose of sunset. The life, the color beat insistently upon my brain. They built a world of magic where every moment was pure gold. Surely— surely to Vanna it must be the same! I believed in my very soul that she who gave and shared such joy could not be utterly apart from me.

Just then, in the sunset, she was sitting on deck, singing under her breath and looking absently away to the Gardens across the Lake. I could hear the words here and there, and knew them.

'Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar,

Where are you now— who lies beneath your spell?

Whom do you lead on Rapture's roadway far,

Before you agonize them in farewell?'

'Don't!' I said abruptly. 'You did that on purpose!'

'What?' she asked in surprise. 'That is the song everyone remembers here. Poor Laurence Hope! How she knew and loved my India! What are you grumbling at?'

Her smile stung me.

'Never mind,' I said morosely. 'You don't understand. You never will.'

And yet I believed sometimes that she would— that time was on my side. When Kahdra and I pulled her across to Nur-Mahal's garden next day, how could I not believe it, her face was so full of joy as she looked at me for sympathy?

We were pulling in among the reeds and the huge carved leaves of the water- plants, and the snake-headed buds lolling upon them with the slippery half- sinister look that water-flowers have, as if their cold secret life belonged to the hidden water-world and not to ours. But now the boat was touching the lit- tle wooden steps.

Oh, beautiful, most beautiful— the green lawns, shaded with huge pyramids of the chenar trees; the terraced gardens where the marble steps climbed from one to the other, and the mountain streams flashed singing and shining down the carved marble slopes. Even in the glory of sunshine, the passing of all fair things was present with me as I saw the empty shell that had held the Pearl of Empire, and her roses that still bloom, her waters that still sing for others.

The spray of a hundred fountains was misty diamond-dust in the warm air laden with the scent of myriad flowers.

Kahdra followed us everywhere, singing his little tuneless, happy song. The world brimmed with beauty and joy. And we were together.

Words broke from me:—

'Vanna, let it be forever! Let us live here. I'll give up all the world for this and you.'

'But you see,' she said delicately, 'it would be "giving up." You use the right word. It is not your life. It is a lovely holiday, no more. You would weary of it. You would want the city life and your own kind.'

I protested with all my soul. But she went on:—

'No. Indeed, I will say frankly that it would be lowering yourself to live a lotos-eating life among my people. It is a life with which you have no tie. A Westerner who lives like that steps down; he loses his birthright, just as an Easterner does who Europeanizes himself. He cannot live your life, nor you his. If you had work here, it would be different. No— six or eight weeks more; then go away and forget it.'

I turned from her. The serpent was in Paradise. When is he absent?

On one of the terraces a man was beating a tom-tom, and veiled women listened, grouped about him in brilliant colors.

"Isn't that all India?' she said; 'that dull reiterated sound? It half stupefies, half maddens. Once, at Darjiling, I saw the Llamas' Devil Dance: the soul, a white-faced child with eyes unnaturally enlarged, fleeing among a rabble of devils— the evil passions. It fled wildly here and there, and every way was blocked. The child fell on its knees, screaming dumbly— you could see the despair in the starting eyes; but all was drowned in the thunder of Thibetan drums. No mercy— no escape. Horrible!'

'Even in Europe the drum is awful,' I said. 'Do you remember in the French Revolution, how they drowned the victims' voices in a thunder-roll of drums?'

'I shall always see the face of the child, hunted down to hell, falling on its knees, and screaming without a sound, when I hear the drum. But listen —a flute! Now, if that were the Flute of Krishna, you would have to follow. Let us come!'

I could hear nothing of it; but she insisted, and we followed the music, inaudible to me, up the slopes of the garden that is the foot-hill of the mighty mountain of Mahadeo; and still I could hear nothing.

Vanna told me strange stories of the Apollo of India, whom all hearts most adore, even as the herd-girls adored him in his golden youth by Jumna River and in the pastures of Brindaban.

vii

NEXT DAY we were climbing the hill to the ruins where the evil magician brought the King's daughter nightly to his will, flying low under a golden moon. Vanna took my arm, and I pulled her, laughing, up the steepest flowery slopes until we reached the height; and, lo! the arched windows were eyeless, a lonely breeze was blowing through the cloisters, and the beautiful yellowish stone arches supported nothing and were but frames for the blue of far lake and mountain and the divine sky. We climbed the broken stairs, where the lizards went by like flashes; and had I the tongues of men and angels, I could not tell the wonder that lay before us— the whole wide valley of Kashmir in summer glory, with its scented breeze singing, singing above it.

We sat on the crushed aromatic herbs and among the wild roses, and looked down.

'To think,' she said, 'that we might have died and never seen it!'

There followed a long silence. I thought she was tired and would not break it. Suddenly she spoke in a strange voice, low and toneless:—

"The story of this place. She was the Princess Padmavati, and her home was in Ayodhya. When she woke and found herself here by the lake, she was so terrified that she flung herself in and was drowned. They held her back, but she died.'

"How do you know?'

'Because a wandering monk came to the abbey of Tahk-i-Bahi near Peshawar, and told Vasettha the Abbot.'

I had nearly spoiled it all by an exclamation, but I held myself back. I saw she was dreaming awake and was unconscious of what she said.

'The Abbot said, "Do not describe her. What talk is this for holy men? The young monks must not hear. Some of them have never seen a woman. Should a monk speak of such toys?": But the wanderer disobeyed and spoke, and there was a great tumult, and the monks threw him out at the command of the young Abbot, and he wandered down to Peshawar; and it was he later— the evil one!— that brought his sister, Lilavanti the Dancer, to Peshawar, and the Abbot fell into her snare. That was his revenge!'

Her face was fixed and strange; for a moment her cheeks looked hollow, her eyes dim and grief-worn. What was she seeing? what remembering? Was it a story— a memory? What was it?

"Men have said so; but for it he sur- rendered the Peace. Do not speak of her accursed beauty.'

Her voice died away to a drowsy murmur; her head dropped on my shoulder; and for the mere delight of contact I sat still and scarcely breathed, praying that she might speak again. But the good minute was gone. She drew one or two deep breaths, and sat up with a bewildered look, which quickly passed, and left only a painful knitting of the brows.

'I was quite sleepy for a minute. The climb was so strenuous. Hark— I hear the Flute of Krishna again.'

Again I could hear nothing, but she said it was sounding from the trees at the base of the hill. Later, when we climbed down, I found she was right— that a peasant lad, dark and amazingly beautiful, as these Kashmiris often are, was playing on the Flute to a girl at his feet, looking up at him with rapt eyes. He flung Vanna a flower as we passed. She caught it and put it in her bosom. A singular blossom, three petals of purest white, set against three green leaves of purest green; and lower down the stem the three green leaves were re- peated. It was still in her bosom after dinner, and I looked at it more closely.

'That is a curious flower,' I said. 'Three and three and three. Nine. That makes the mystic number. I never saw a purer white. What is it?'

'Of course it is mystic,' she said seriously. 'It is the Ninefold flower. You saw who gave it?'

'That peasant lad.'

She smiled.

"You will see more some day. Some might not even have seen that.'

"Does it grow here?'

'This is the first I have seen. It is said to grow only where the gods walk. Do you know that throughout all India Kashmir is said to be holy ground? It was called long ago the land of the Gods, and of strange, but not evil, sorceries. Great marvels were seen here.'

I felt that the labyrinthine enchantments of that enchanted land were clos- ing about me —a slender web, gray, almost impalpable, finer than fairy silk, was winding itself about my feet. My eyes were opening to things I had not dreamed. She saw my thought.

'But you could not have seen even that much of him in Peshawar. You did not know then.'

'He was not there,' I answered, fall- ing half-unconsciously into her tone.

'He is always there— everywhere; and when he plays, all who hear must follow. He was the Pied Piper in Hamelin; he was Pan in Hellas. You will hear his wild fluting in many strange places when you know how to listen. When one has seen him, the rest comes soon. And then you will follow.'

'Not away from you, Vanna.'

'From the marriage feast, from the Table of the Lord!' she said, smiling strangely. 'The man who wrote that spoke of another call, but it is the same— Krishna or Christ. When we hear the music, we follow. And we may lose or gain heaven.'

It might have been her compelling personality, it might have been the marvels of beauty about me, but I knew well that I had entered at some mystic gate. My talk with Vanna grew less personal and more introspective. I felt the touch of her finger-tips leading me along the ways of Quiet: my feet brushed a shining dew. Once, in the twilight under the chenar trees, I saw a white gleaming and thought it a swiftly passing Being; but when in haste I gained the tree, I found there only a Ninefold flower, white as a spirit in the evening calm. I would not gather it, but told Vanna what I had seen.

'You nearly saw,' she said. 'She passed so quickly. It was the Snowy One, Uma, the Daughter of the Himalaya. That mountain is the mountain of her lord— Shiva. It is natural she should be here. I saw her last night leaning over the height— her chin pillowed on her folded arms, with a low star in the mists of her hair. Her eyes were like lakes of blue darkness, vast and wonderful. She is the Mystic Mother of India. You will see soon. You could not have seen the flower until now.'

'Do you know,' she added, 'that in the mountains there are poppies clear blue— blue as turquoise? We will go up into the heights and find them.'

And next moment she was planning the camping details —the men, the ponies— with a practical zest that seemed to relegate the occult to the absurd. Yet the very next day came a wonderful happening.

The sun was just setting and, as it were, suddenly the purple glooms banked up heavy with thunder. The sky was black with fury, the earth passive with dread. I never saw such lightning— it was continuous and tore in zigzag flashes down the mountains, literally like rents in the substance of the world's fabric. And the thunder roared up in the mountain gorges with shattering echoes. Then fell the rain, and the whole lake seemed to rise to meet it.

We were standing by the cabin window, and she suddenly caught my hand, and I saw in a light of their own two dancing figures on the tormented water before us. Wild in the tumult, embodied delight, with arms tossed violently above their heads, and feet flung up behind them, skimming the waves like sea-gulls, they passed. I saw the fierce aerial faces and their unhuman glee as they fled by; and she dropped my hand and they were gone.

Slowly the storm lessened, and in the west the clouds tore raggedly asunder and a flood of livid yellow light poured down upon the lake— an awful light that struck it into an abyss of fire. Then, as if at a word of command, two glorious rainbows sprang across the water with the mountains for their piers, each with its proper colors chorded. They made a Bridge of Dread that stood out radiant against the background of storm— the Twilight of the Gods, and the doomed Gods marching forth to the last fight. And the thunder growled sullenly away into the recesses of the hill, and the terrible rainbows faded until the stars came quietly out, and it was a still night. But I had seen that what is our dread is the joy of the spirits of the Mighty Mother; and though the vision faded, and I doubted what I had seen, it prepared the way for what I was yet to see.

viii

A FEW DAYS later we started on what was to be the most exquisite memory of my life. In the cool gray of a divine morning, with little rosy clouds flecking the eastern sky, we set out from Islamabad for Vernag. And this was the order of our going. She and I led the way, attended by a sais (groom), and a coolie carrying the luncheon basket. Half-way we would stop in some green dell, or by some rushing stream, and there rest and eat our little meal, while the rest of the cavalcade passed on to the appointed camping-place; and in the late afternoon we would follow, riding slowly, and find the tents pitched.

It was strange that, later, much of what she said escaped me. Some I noted down at the time, but there were hints, shadows of lovelier things beyond, that eluded all but the fringes of memory when I tried to piece them together and make a coherence of a living wonder. For that reason, the best things cannot be told in this history. It is only the cruder, grosser matters that words will hold. The half-touchings— vanishing looks, breaths— O God, I know them, but cannot tell!

In the smaller villages, the headman came often to greet us and make us welcome, bearing on a flat dish a little offering of cakes and fruit, the produce of the place. One evening a headman so approached, stately in white robes and turban, attended by a little lad who carried the patriarchal gift beside him. Our tents were pitched under a glorious walnut tree, with a running stream at our feet.

Vanna, of course, was the interpreter, and I called her from her tent as the man stood salaaming before me. It was strange that, when she came, dressed in white, he stopped in his salutation, and gazed at her in what, I thought, was silent wonder. She spoke earnestly to him, standing before him with clasped hands— almost, I could think, in the attitude of a suppliant.

The man listened gravely, with only an interjection now and again; and once he turned and looked curiously at me. Then, in his turn, he spoke, evi- dently making some announcement, which she received with bowed head; and when he turned to go with a grave salute, she performed a very singular ceremony, walking slowly round him three times, keeping him always on the right. He repaid it with the usual salaam and greeting of peace, which he bestowed also on me, and then departed in deep meditation, his eyes fixed on the ground.

I ventured to ask what it all meant, and she looked thoughtfully at me before replying.

'It was a strange thing. I fear you will not altogether understand, but I will tell you what I can. That man, though living here among Mohammedans, is a Brahmin from Benares, and, what is very rare in India, a Buddhist. And when he saw me, he believed he remembered me in a former birth. The ceremony you saw me perform is one of honor in India. It was his due.'

'Did you remember him?' I knew my voice was incredulous.

'Very well. He has changed little, but is further on the upward path. I saw him with dread, for he holds the memory of a great wrong I did. Yet he told me a thing that has filled my heart with joy.'

'Vanna— what is it?'

She had a clear, uplifted look which startled me. There was suddenly a chill air blowing between us.

'I must not tell you yet, but you will know soon. He was a good man. I am glad we have met.'

She buried herself in writing in a small book that I had noticed and long- ed to look into, and no more was said.

We struck camp next day and trekked on toward Vernag —a rough march, but one of great beauty, beneath the shade of forest trees, garlanded with pale roses that climbed! from bough to bough and tossed triumphant wreaths into the uppermost blue. In the after- noon thunder was flapping its wings far off in the mountains, and a little rain fell while we were lunching under a big tree. I was considering anxiously how to shelter Vanna, when a farmer invited us to his house —a scene of Biblical hospitality that delighted us both. He led us up some breakneck little stairs to a large bare room, open to the clean air all around the roof, and with a kind of rough enclosure on the wooden floor, where the family slept at night. There he opened our basket, and then, with anxious care, hung clothes and rough draperies about us, that our meal might be unwatched by one or two friends who had followed us in with breathless interest.

Still further to entertain us, a great rarity was brought out and laid at Vanna's feet, as something we might like to watch— a curious bird in a cage, with brightly barred wings and a singular cry. She fed it with a fruit, and it fluttered to her hand. Just so Abraham might have welcomed his guests; and when we left, with words of deepest gratitude, our host made the beautiful obeisance of touching his forehead with joined hands as he bowed.

To me the whole incident had an extraordinary beauty, and ennobled both host and guest. But we met an ascending scale of beauty, so varied in its aspects that I passed from one emotion to another, and knew no sameness.

That afternoon the camp was pitched at the foot of a mighty hill, under the waving pyramids of the chenars, sweeping their green like the robes of a god- dess. Near by was a half-circle of low arches falling into ruin, and as we went in among them, I beheld a wondrous sight— the huge octagonal tank made by the Mogul Emperor Jehangir to receive the waters of a mighty spring which wells from the hill and has been held sacred by Hindu and Moslem. And if loveliness can sanctify, surely it is sacred, indeed.

'How all the Mogul Emperors loved running water!' said Vanna. 'I can see them leaning over it in these carved pavilions, with delicate dark faces and pensive eyes beneath their turbans, lost in the endless reverie of the East, while liquid melody passes into their dream. It was the music they best loved.'

She was leading me into the royal garden below, where the young river flows beneath the pavilion set above and across the rush of the water.

'I remember before I came to India,' she went on, 'there were certain words and phrases that meant the whole East to me. It was an enchantment. The first flash picture I had was Milton's

Dark faces with white silken turbans wreathed,

and it still is. I have thought ever since that every man should wear a turban. It dignifies the uncomeliest, and it is quite curious to see how many inches a man descends in the scale of beauty the moment he takes it off and you see only the skull-cup about which they wind it. They wind it with wonderful skill, too. I have seen a man take eighteen yards of muslin and throw it round his head with a few turns; and in five or six minutes the beautiful folds were all in order and he looked like a king. Some of the Gujars here wear black ones, and they are very effective and worth painting— the black folds and the sullen tempestuous black brows underneath.'

We sat in the pavilion for a while, looking down on the rushing water, and she spoke of Akbar, the greatest of the Moguls, and spoke with a curious personal touch, as I thought.

'I wish you would try to write a story of him— one on more human lines than has been done yet. No one has accounted for the passionate quest of truth that was the real secret of his life. Strange in an Oriental despot if you think of it! It really can be understood only from the Buddhist belief (which, curiously, seems to have been the only one he neglected) that a mysterious Karma influenced all his thoughts. If I tell you, as a key-note for your story, that in a past life he had been a Buddhist priest,— one who had fallen away,— would that at all account to you for attempts to recover the lost Way? Try to think that out, and to write the story, not as a Western mind sees it, but pure East.'

"That would be a great book to write if one could catch the voices of the past. But how to do that?'

'I will give you one day a little book that may help you. The other story I wish you would write is the story of a dancer of Peshawar. There is a connection between the two —a story of ruin and repentance.'

'Will you tell it to me?'

'A part. In this same book you will find much more, but not all. All cannot be told. You must imagine much; but I think your imagination will be true.'

'Why do you think so?'

'Because in these few days you have learned so much. You have seen the Ninefold flower, and the rain-spirits. You will soon hear the Flute of Krishna, which none can hear who cannot dream true.'

That night I heard it. I waked, suddenly, to music, and standing in the door of my tent, in the dead silence of the night, lit only by a few low stars, I heard the poignant notes of a flute. If it had called my name, it could not have summoned me more clearly, and I followed without a thought of delay, forgetting even Vanna in the strange urgency that filled me.

The music was elusive, seeming to come first from one side, then from the other; but finally I tracked it as a bee does a flower, by the scent, to the gate of the royal garden— the pleasure place of the dead Emperors. The gate stood ajar— strange! for I had seen the custodian close it that evening. Now it stood wide, and I went in, walking noiselessly over the dewy grass. I knew, and could not tell how, that I must be noiseless. Passing as if I were guided down the course of the strong young river, I came to the pavilion that span- ned it,— the place where we had stood that afternoon, —and there, to my profound amazement, I saw Vanna, leaning against a slight wooden pillar. As if she had expected me, she laid one finger on her lip, and stretching out her hand, took mine and drew me beside her as a mother might a child. And instantly I saw!

On the farther bank a young man in a strange diadem or mitre of jewels, bare-breasted and beautiful, stood among the flowering oleanders, one foot lightly crossed over the other as he stood. He was like an image of pale radiant gold, and I could have sworn that the light came from within rather than fell upon him, for the night was very dark. He held the Flute to his lips, and as I looked, I became aware that the noise of the rushing water tapered off into a murmur scarcely louder than that of a summer bee in the heart of arose. Therefore, the music rose like a fountain of crystal drops, cold, clear, and of an entrancing sweetness, and the face above it was such that I had no power to turn my eyesaway. Howshall I say what it was? All that I had ever desired, dreamed, hoped; prayed, looked at me from the remote beauty of the eyes, and with the most persuasive gentleness entreated me, rather than commanded, to follow fearlessly and win. But these are words, and words shaped in the rough mould of thought cannot convey the deep desire that would have hurled me to his feet if Vanna had not held me with a firm restraining hand.

Looking up in adoring love to the dark face was a ring of woodland creatures. I thought I could distinguish the white clouded robe of a snow leopard, the soft clumsiness of a young bear, and many more; but these shifted and blurred like dream creatures— I could not be sure of them or define their num- bers. The eyes of the Player looked down upon their passionate delight with careless kindness.

Dim images passed through my mind. Orpheus— no, this was no Greek. Pan— yet again, no. Where were the pipes, the goat-hoofs? The young Dio- nysos— no; there were strange jewels instead of his vines. And then Vanna's voice said as if from a great distance, —

'Krishna— the Beloved'; and I said aloud, 'I see!' And, even as I said it, the whole picture blurred together like a dream, and I was alone in the pavilion and the water was foaming past me.

Had I walked in my sleep? I wondered, as I made my way back. As I gained the garden gate, before me, like a snowflake, I saw the Ninefold flower.

When I told her next day, speaking of it as a dream, she said simply, 'They have opened the door to you. You will not need me soon.'

'I shall always need you. You have taught meeverything. I could see nothing last night until you took my hand.'

'I was not there,' she said smiling. 'It was only the thought of me, and you can have that when I am very far away. I was sleeping in my tent. What you called in me then you can always call, even if I am— dead.'

'That is a word which is beginning to have no meaning for me. You have  in the universe for the thing we have called death.'

She smiled her sweet wise smile.

'Where we are, death is not. Where death is, we are not. But you will understand better soon.'

ix

OUR MARCH, curving, took us by the Mogul gardens of Achibal, and the glorious ruins of the great Temple at Martund, and so down to Bawan, with its crystal waters and that loveliest camping-ground besidethem. A mighty grove of chenar trees, so huge that I felt as if we were in a great sea-cave where the air is dyed with the deep shadowy green of the inmost ocean, and the murmuring of the myriad leaves was like a sea at rest. The water ran with a great joyous rush of release from the mountain behind, but was first received in a basin full of sacred fish and reflecting a little temple of Maheshwara and one of Surya the Sun. Here, in this basin, the water lay pure and still as an ecstasy, and beside it was musing the young Brahmin priest who served the temple.

Since I had joined Vanna I had begun, with her help, to study a little Hindostani, and, with an aptitude for language, could understand here and there. I caught a word or two, as she spoke with him, that startled me, when the high-bred ascetic face turned serenely upon her, and he addressed her as 'My sister,' adding a sentence beyond my learning, but which she willingly translated later: 'May He who sits above the Mysteries, have mercy upon thy rebirth.'

She said afterward, —

'How beautiful some of these men are. It seems a different type of beauty from ours— nearer to nature and the old gods. Look at that priest: the tall, figure, the clear olive skin, the dark level brows, the long lashes that make a soft gloom about the eyes,— eyes that have the fathomless depth of a deer's,— the proud arch of the lip. I think there is no country where aristocracy is more clearly marked than in India. The Brahmins are the aristocrats of the world. You see, it is a religious aristocracy as well. It has everything that can foster pride and exclusiveness. They spring from the Mouth of Deity. They are his word incarnate. Not many kings are of the Brahmin caste, and the Brahmins look down upon those who are not, from sovereign heights.'

And so, in marches of about ten miles a day, we came to Pahlgam on the banks of the dancing Lidar. There were now only three weeks left of the time she had promised. After a few days at Pahlgam the march would turn and bend its way back to Srinagar, and to— what? I could not believe it was to separation: in her lovely kindness she had grown so close to me that, even for the sake of friendship, I believed our paths must run together to the end; and there were moments when I could still half con- vince myself that I had grown as neces- sary to her as she was to me. No— not as necessary, for she was life and soul to me; but perhaps a part of her daily experience that she valued and would not easily part with.

That evening we were sitting outside the tents, near the camp-fire of pine logs and cones. The men, in various attitudes of rest, were lying about, and one had been telling a story, which had just ended in excitement and loud applause.

'These are Mohammedans,' said Vanna, 'and it is only a story of love and fighting, like the Arabian Nights. If they had been Hindus, it might well have been of Krishna or of Rama and Sita. Their faith comes from an earlier time, and they still see visions. The Moslem is a hard practical faith for men— men of the world, too. It is not visionary.'

'I wish you would tell me what you think of the visions or apparitions of the Gods that are seen here. Is it all illusion? Tell me your thought.'

'How difficult that is to answer! I suppose that, if love and faith are strong enough, they will always create the vibrations to which the greater vibrations respond, and so create God in their own image at any time or place. But that they call up what is the truest reality, I have never doubted. There is no shadow without a substance. The substance is beyond us, but under certain conditions the shadow is projected and we see it.'

'Have I seen, or has it been dream?'

'I cannot tell. It may have been the impress of my mind on yours, for I see such things always. You say I took your hand?'

"Take it now.'

She obeyed, and instantly, as I felt the firm cool clasp, I heard the rain of music through the pines— the Flute- Player was passing! She dropped it, smiling, and the sweet sound ceased.

"You see! How can I tell what you have seen? You will know better when Iam gone. You will stand alone then.'

'You will not go— you cannot! I have seen how you have loved all this wonderful time. I believe it has been as dear to you as to me. And every day I have loved you more. You could not— you who are so gentle— you could not commit the senseless cruelty of leaving me when you have taught me to love you with every beat of my heart. I have been patient —I have held myself in; but I must speak now. Marry me, and teach me. I know nothing. You know all I need to know. For pity's sake, be my wife.'

I had not meant to say it; it broke from me in the firelit moonlight with a power that I could not stay. She looked at me with a discerning gentleness.

"Is this fair? Do you remember how at Peshawar I told you I thought it was a dangerous experiment, and that it would make things harder for you? But you took the risk like a brave man, because you felt there were things to be gained— knowledge, insight, beauty. Have you not gained them?'

'Yes. Absolutely.'

'Then— is it all loss if I go?'

'Not all. But loss I dare not face.'

'I will tell you this. I could not stay if I would. Do you remember the old man on the way to Vernag? He told me that I must very soon take up an entirely new life. I have no choice, though, if I had, I would still do it.'

There was silence, and down a long arcade, without any touch of her hand, I heard the music, receding with exquisite modulations to a very great distance; and between the pillared stems, I saw a faint light.

"Do you wish to go?'

'Entirely. But I shall not forget you, Stephen. I will tell you something. For me, since I came to India, the gate that shuts us out at birth has opened. How shall I explain? Do you remember Kipling's "Finest Story in the World"?'

"Yes: fiction!'

'Not fiction— true, whether he knew it or no. But for me the door has opened wide. First, I remembered piece- meal, with wide gaps; then more connectedly. Then, at the end of the first year, I met one day at Cawnpore an ascetic, an old man of great beauty and wisdom, and he was able by his own knowledge to enlighten mine. Not wholly— much has come since then; has come, some of it, in ways you could not understand now, but much by direct sight and hearing. Long, long ago I lived in Peshawar, and my story was a sorrowful one. I will tell you a little before I go.'

'I hold you to your promise. What is there I cannot believe when you tell me? But does that life put you altogether away from me? Was there no place for me in any of your memories that has drawn us together now? Give me a little hope that, in the eternal pilgrimage, there is some bond between us, and some rebirth where we may meet again.'

'I will tell you that also before we part. I have grown to believe that you do love me— and therefore love something which is infinitely above me.'

'And do you love me at all? Am I nothing, Vanna— Vanna?'

'My friend,' she said, and laid her hand on mine. A silence and then she spoke, very low. "You must be prepared for very great change, Stephen, and yet believe that it does not really change things at all. See how even the Gods passand do not change. The early Gods of India are gone, and Shiva, Vishnu, Krishna have taken their places and are one and the same. The Gods cannot die, nor can we, or anything that has life. Now I must go inside.'

The days that were left we spent in wandering up the Lidar River to the hills that are the first ramp of the as- cent to the great heights. She sat, one day, on a rock, holding the sculptured leaves and massive seed-vessels of some glorious plant that the Kashmiris believe has magic virtues hidden in the seeds of pure rose embedded in the white down.

'If you fast for three days and eat nine of these in the Night of No Moon, you can rise on the air light as thistle-down and stand on the peak of Haramoukh. And on Haramoukh, as you know, it is believed that the Gods dwell. There was a man here who tried this enchantment. He was a changed man for- ever after, wandering and muttering to himself, and avoiding all human intercourse as far as he could. He said he had seen the Dream of the God!

'Do you think he had seen anything?'

"What do I know? Will you eat the seeds? The Night of No Moon willsoon be here.'

She held out the seed-vessels, laughing. I write that down; but how record the lovely light of kindliness in her eyes— the almost submissive gentleness that yet was a defense stronger than steel? I never knew—how should I?— whether she was sitting by my side or heavens away from me in her own strange world. But always she was a sweetness that I could not reach, a cup of nectar that I might not drink, unalterably her own and never mine, and yet— my friend.

She showed me the wild track up into the mountains, where the pilgrims go to pay their devotions to the Great God's shrine in the awful heights.

Above where we were sitting, the river fell in a tormented white cascade, crashing and feathering into spray-dust of diamonds. An eagle was flying above it, with a mighty spread of wings that seemed almost double-jointed in the middle, they curved and flapped so wide and free. The fierce head was out- stretched with the rake of a plundering galley, as he swept down the wind, seeking his meat from God, and passed majestic from our sight.

Vanna spoke, and as she spoke I saw. What are her words as I record them? Stray dead leaves pressed in a book— the life and grace dead. Yet I record, for she taught me, what I believe the world should learn, that the Buddhist philosophers are right when they teach that all forms of what we call matter are really but aggregates of spiritual units, and that life itself is a curtain hiding reality, as the vast veil of day conceals from our sight the countless orbs of space. So that the purified mind, even while prisoned in the body, may enter into union with the Real and, according to attainment, see it as it is.

She was an interpreter because she believed this truth profoundly. She saw the spiritual essence beneath the lovely illusion of matter, and the air about her was radiant with the motion of strange forces for which the dull world has many names, aiming indeed at the truth, but falling, oh, how far short of her calm perception! She was of a House higher than the Household of Faith. She had received enlightenment. She believed because she had seen.

x

NEXT DAY our camp was struck, and we turned our faces again to Srinagar and to the day of parting. I set down but one strange incident of our journey, of which I did not speak even to her.

We were camping at Bijbehara, awaiting our house-boat, and the site was by the Maharaja's lodge above the little town. It was midnight and I was sleepless— the shadow of the near future was upon me. I wandered down to the lovely old wooden bridge across the Jhelum, where the strong young trees grow up from the piles. Beyond it the moon was shining on the ancient Hindu remains close to the new temple; and as I stood on the bridge, I could see the figure of a man in deepest meditation by the ruins. He was no European. I could see the straight, dignified folds of therobes. But it was not surprising that he should be there, and I should have thought no more of it, had I not heard at that instant from the farther side of the river the music of the Flute. I cannot hope to describe that music to any who have not heard it. Suffice it to say that, where it calls, he who hears must follow, whether in the body or the spirit. Nor can I now tell in which I followed. One day it will call me across the River of Death, and I shall ford it or sink in the immeasurable depths, and either will be well.

But immediately I was at the other side of the river, standing by the stone Bull of Shiva where he kneels before the Symbol, and looking steadfastly upon me a few paces away was a man in the dress of a Buddhist monk. He wore the yellow robe that leaves one shoulder bare; his head was bare, also, and he held in one hand a small bowl like a stemless chalice. I knew I was seeing a very strange and inexplicable sight, —one that in Kashmir should be incredible,— but I put wonder aside, for I knew now that I was moving in the sphere where the incredible may well be the actual. His expression was of the most unbroken calm. If I compare it to the passionless gaze of the Sphinx, I misrepresent, for the Riddle of the Sphinx still awaits solution, but in this face was a noble acquiescence and a content which, had it vibrated, must have passed into joy.

Words or their equivalent passed between us. I felt his voice.

'You have heard the music of the Flute?'

'I have heard.'

'What has it given?'

'A consuming longing.'

'It is the music of the Eternal. The creeds and the faiths are the words that men have set to that melody. Listening, it will lead you to Wisdom. Day by day you will interpret more surely.'

'I cannot stand alone.'

'You will not need. What has led you will lead you still. Through many births it has led you. How should it fail?'

'What should I do?'

'Go forward.'

'What should I shun?'

'Sorrow and fear.'

'What should I seek?'

'Joy.'

'And the end?'

'Joy. Wisdom. They are the Light and Dark of the Divine.'

A cold breeze passed and touched my forehead. I was still standing in the middle of the bridge above the water gliding to the ocean, and there was no figure by the Bull of Shiva. I was alone. I passed back to the tents, with the shudder that is not fear but akin to death upon me. I knew that I had been profoundly withdrawn from what we call actual life, and the return is dread.

The days passed as we floated down the river to Srinagar.

On board the Kedarnath, now lying in our first berth beneath the chenars, near and yet far from the city, the last night had come. Next morning I should begin the long ride to Baramula, and beyond that barrier of the Happy Valley down to Murree and the Punjab. Where afterward? I neither knew nor cared. My lesson was before me to be learned. I must try to detach myself from all I had prized— to say to my heart that it was but a loan and a gift, and to cling only to the imperishable. And did I as yet certainly know more than the A B C of the hard doctrine by which I must live? Que vivre est difficile, O mon ceur fatigué!— An immense weariness possessed me— a passive grief.

Vanna would follow later with the wife of an Indian doctor. I believed she was bound for Lahore; but on that point she had not spoken certainly, and I felt that we should not meet again.

And now my packing was finished, and, so far as my possessions went, the little cabin had the soulless emptiness that comes with departure.

I was enduring as best I could. If she had held loyally to her pact, could I do less? Was she to blame for my wild hope that in the end she would relent and step down to the household levels of love?

She sat by the window— the last time I should see the moonlit banks and her clear face against them. I made and won my fight for the courage of words.

'And now I've finished everything, thank goodness! and we can talk. Vanna— you will write to me?'

'Once. I promise that.'

'Only once? Why? I counted on your words.'

'I want to speak to you of something else now. I want to tell you a memory. But look first at the pale light behind the Takht-i-Suliman.'

So I had seen it with her. So I should not see it again. We watched until a line of silver sparkled on the black water, and then she spoke.

'Stephen, do you remember in the ruined monastery near Peshawar, how I told you of the young Abbot, who came down to Peshawar with a Chinese pilgrim? And he never returned.'

'I remember. There was a dancer.'

'There was a dancer. She was Lilavanti, and was brought there to trap him; but when she saw him she loved him, and that was his ruin and hers. Trickery he would have known and escaped. Love caught him in an unbreakable net, and they fled down the Punjab, and no one knew any more. But I know. For two years they lived together, and she saw the agony in his heart— the anguish of his broken vows, the face of the Blessed One receding into an infinite distance. She knew that every day added a link to the heavy Karma that was bound about the feet she loved, and her soul said, "Set him free," and her heart refused the torture. But hersoul was the stronger. She set him free.'

'How?'

'She took poison. He became an ascetic in the hills, and died in peace, but with a long expiation upon him.'

'And she?'

'I am she.'

'You!' I heard my voice as if it were another man's. Was it possible that I —a man of the twentieth century— believed this impossible thing? Impossible, and yet— What had I learned if not the unity of Time, the illusion of matter? What is the twentieth cen- tury, what the first? Do they not lie before the Supreme as one, and clean from our petty divisions? And I my- self had seen what, if I could trust it, asserted the marvels that are no mar- vels to those who know.

'You loved him?'

'T love him.'

'Then there is nothing at all for me.'

She resumed as if she had heard nothing.

'I have lost him for many lives. He stepped above me at once; for he was clean gold, though he fell; and though I have followed, I have not found. But that Buddhist beyond Islamabad— you shall hear now what he said. It was this. "The shut door opens, and this time he waits." I cannot yet say all it means, but there is no Lahore for me. I shall meet him soon.'

'Vanna, you would not harm yourself again?'

'Never. I should not meet him. But you will see. Now I can talk no more. I will be there to-morrow when you go, and ride with you to the poplar road.'

She passed like a shadow into her little dark cabin, and I was left alone. I will not dwell on that black loneliness of the spirit, for it has passed— it was the darkness of hell, a madness of jealousy, and could have no enduring life in any heart that had known her. But it was death while it lasted. I had moments of horrible belief, of horrible disbelief; but however it might be, I knew that she was out of reach forever. Near me— yes! but only as the silver image of the moon floating in the water by the boat, with the moon herself cold myriads of miles away. I will say no more of that last eclipse of what she had wrought in me.

The bright morning came, sunny as if my joys were beginning instead of ending. Vanna mounted her horse, and led the way from the boat. I cast one long look at the little Kedarnath, the home of those perfect weeks, of such joy and sorrow as would have seemed impossible to me in the chrysalis of my former existence. Little Kahdra stood crying bitterly on the bank; the kindly folk who had served us were gathered, saddened and quiet.

How dear she looked, how kind, how gentle her appealing eyes, as I drew up beside her! She knew what I felt, that the sight of little Kahdra, crying as he said good-bye, was the last pull at my sore heart. Still she rode steadily on, and still I followed. Once she spoke.

"Stephen, there was a man in Peshawar, kind and true, who loved that Lilavanti, who had no heart for him. And when she died, it was in his arms, as a sister might cling to a brother; for the man she loved had left her. It seems that will not be in this life, but do not think I have been so blind that I did not know my friend.'

I could not answer— it was the realization of the utmost I could hope, and it came like healing to my spirit. Better that bond between us, slight as most men might think it, than the dearest and closest with a woman not Vanna. It was the first thrill of a néw joy in my heart— the first, I thank the Infinite, of many and steadily growing joys and hopes that cannot be uttered here.

I bent to take the hand she stretched to me; but even as our hands touched, I saw, passing behind the trees by the road, the young man I had seen in the garden at Vernag— most beautiful, in the strange mitre of his jeweled diadem. His Flute was at his lips, and the music rang out sudden and crystal-clear, as if a woodland god were passing to awaken all the joys of the dawn.

The horses heard, too. In an instant hers had swerved wildly, and she lay on the ground at my feet.

xi

DAYS HAD gone before I could recall what had happened then. I lifted her in my arms and carried her into the rest-house near at hand, and the doctor came and looked grave, and a nurse was sent from the Mission Hospital. No doubt all was done that was possible; but I knew from the first what it meant and how it would be. She lay in a white quietness, and the room was still as death. I remembered with unspeakable gratitude later that the nurse had been merciful and had not sent me away.

So Vanna lay all day and all night; and when the dawn came again, she stirred and motioned with her hand, although her eyes were closed. I understood, and, kneeling, I put my hand under her head, and rested it against my shoulder. Her faint voice murmured at my ear.

'I dreamed— I was in the pine wood at Pahlgam, and it was the Night of No Moon, and I was afraid, for it was dark; but suddenly all the trees were covered with little lights like stars, and the greater light was beyond. Nothing to be afraid of.'

'Nothing, beloved.'

'And I looked beyond Peshawar, farther than eyes could see; and in the ruins of the monastery where we stood, you and I— I saw him, and he lay with his head at the feet of the Blessed One. That is well, is it not?'

'Well, beloved.'

'And it is well I go? Is it not?'

'It is well.'

A long silence. The first sun-ray touched the floor. Again the whisper:—

'Believe what I have told you. For we shall meet again.'

I repeated, 'We shall meet again."

In my arms she died.

Later, when all was over, I asked myself if I believed this, and answered with full assurance, Yes.

If the story thus told sounds incred- ible, it was not incredible to me. I had had a profound experience. What is a miracle? It is simply the vision of the Divine behind nature. It will come in different forms according to the eyes that see, but the soul will know that its perception is authentic.

I could not leave Kashmir, nor was there any need. On the contrary, I saw that there was work for me here among the people she had loved, and my first aim was to fit myself for that and for the writing I now felt was to be my career in life. After much thought, I bought the little Kedarnath and made it my home, very greatly to the satisfaction of little Kahdra and all the friendly people to whom I owed so much.

Vanna's cabin I made my sleeping-room, and it is the simple truth that the first night I slept in the place that was a Temple of Peace in my thoughts I had a dream of wordless bliss, and starting awake for sheer joy, I saw her face in the night, human and dear, looking upon me with that poignant sweetness which would seem to be the utmost revelation of love and pity.

And as I stretched my hands, another, face dawned solemnly from the shadow beside her, with grave brows bent on mine— one I had known and seen in the ruins at Bijbehara. Outside, and very near, I could hear the silver weaving of the Flute that in India is the symbol of the call of the Divine. A dream; but it taught me to live.

______________

A novelette from an author who many pulp fiction researchers have tried to identify, without success

4: The Cardboard Clue

Walter Ripperger

No dates available; active 1930-1942.

Australian Women's Weekly 29 August 1942

(Mystery Stories No 13, 1938)

YOUNG John Nairne, with an air of helplessness, looked about the little office. The floor, the table, the shabby roll-top desk at the back of him were all strewn with papers, papers he himself had scattered about in an effort to find something— a legacy his father had left him.

This wasn't his own office; it was his father's. John Nairne hadn't been in business, wouldn't know how to go about conducting a business.

His life had been spent in English schools and then afterwards there had been those three years in Paris in the Latin Quarter, where he had studied painting until an urgent summons from hts father had led him to take the first steamer for New York, arriving Just two days too late. His father had died two days before John Nairne's steamer docked.

Old Duncan Nairne had been found late one night, slumped over his desk, by the cleaner. In front of him lay an unfinished note addressed to John Nairne, his son.

His death had been brought on by heart failure and had come not unanticipated by old Duncan Nairne, as his note indicated clearly enough.

"My boy,

"You and I haven't seen much of each other, haven't seen any-thing of each other for sixteen years In fact, and I want you to know that this separation was not due to any lack of affection for , you on my part, but because of circumstances over which I had nocontrol.

"You were a fine, upstanding lad when I last saw you, the sort of a son of whom any father could be proud, and I've done my best in my own mad way, without counting the cost, to provide a future for you. True, this business which I started here wasn't a success. I'm now hopelessly bankrupt. But never-theless I am able to leave you a sizable fortune, more than enough to render you financially independ-ent for the rest of your life and enable you to pursue the career of an artist unhampered by the some-times hopeless struggle of trying to earn a living.

"Just how I acquired this fortune needn't concern you. If by chance you should discover its source, don't let your conscience trouble you. England owes me and others a lot. That world-mad Europe! Those years in the trenches! The nights of horror, of nameless terror!

"Can any amount or money make that up to me? Can they ever pay me or erase the knowledge from my mind that your mother died alone, without me at her side, while I was crawling over the top in France, fighting a war to end wars? A war to end wars— what nonsense!

"Forgive me for rambling on in this way. I haven't long to live. It's my heart-I hope the old pump will last until you get here, so that I can tear up this note and tell you the things you must know myself. Perhaps I can make you understand the thing that Devil Darrell and the rest of us did, make you see it in its true light and explain to you why your legacy consists of a piece of cardboard, a piece of cardboard in an envelope in my desk, a piece of cardboard with..."

It was days before John Nairne could bring himself to go through his father's papers and search for that envelope. What a strange note his father had left behind. '

"Don't let your conscience trouble you," old Duncan Nairne had written. And who was Devil Darrell?

John Nairne kicked the papers . at his feet idly about. Bills, bills ' and more bills! There seemed to be nothing else but bills. What a struggle it must have been for his father to educate him. to give him those years in Paris. How he must have been harassed and hounded by creditors. And yet somewhere there was a fortune, a fortune of which he hadn't even partially availed him-self, but was leaving to his son

JOHN NAIRNE'S fine, narrow features grew more troubled as he contemplated the matter. A brooding look came into his dark eyes. In a distrait way he studied for a while a card that lay on the table before him, some sort of an advertisement that his father had received from a man named I. Marmaduke Drake, who termed himself Agent.

From the announcement it appeared that if you were in any difficulty whatsoever, you had only to apply to I. Marmaduke Drake and confide your troubles to him and your troubles would be straightened out in no time. Silly nonsense!

John Nairne pushed the card contemptuously to one side, picked up a heavy paper-cutter from the table and swung about in the swivel chair so that he was facing the roll-top desk. He had emptied that desk completely with the exception of the centre drawer. That drawer was locked and he didn't know where the kej was.

He inserted the thin edge of the paper-cutter between the drawer and the top of the desk, pressed down and found that it was a simple matter to spring the lock of this battered article of furniture and pull out the drawer. It was empty except for one thing— a yellow envelope bearing on the face of it the legend in his father's handwriting:

"To my son John."

His heart beat faster as he picked lt up and stared at it. This was It, the thing he had been looking for, the document which would make clear to him how he would obtain his inheritance! After a long time he tore the envelope open, reached inside and extracted its contents. The envelope contained only one thing, a piece of cardboard!

It was some six inches wide and eight inches long. There were slots cut horizontally in the cardboard, slots that were irregularly spaced, about two inches long and a quarter of an inch wide.

John Nairne stared at the thing with wide, unbelieving eyes. What did it mean? What use was it? The cardboard was absolutely blank on both sides, contained not a word of explanation.

In a dazed way he kept turning the thing over and over and began wondering if it held some message written in invisible ink, a message that could be brought to light by a chemical reagent. He had heard of such things. In some inexplicable way his mind reverted to the card on the table, the card from I. Marmaduke Drake, Agent, and he wondered what that gentleman would make of this situation.

A lot, no doubt— in exchange for a substantial fee. Substantial fees reminded him of his own financial position. The trip over had used up practically all of his quarterly allowance. He had about three dollars In his pocket, and that was all. An examination of his father's bank-book had disclosed the fact that the latter had a balance of exactly one dollar and sixty-two cents. A pleasant state of affairs.

Mechanically, almost without thinking, he folded up the card-board and stuffed it into his inside pocket.

It was then that he heard the sound of footsteps in the little outer office, saw the communicating door open in a hesitant manner and a little man standing on the threshold.

He was a sparse little figure with a narrow face, pale, watery eyes, and thin lips. There was an ugly scar that ran diagonally from the corner of his right eye toward his ear. Wisps of greying hair showed below his aged bowler.

"Did you wish to see someone?" John Nairne asked.

The little man came farther into the room. He nodded his head, then shot quick glances in every direction, to the emptied desk, to the table, to the floor littered with crumpled papers.

"My name is Seeby," he said after a time in a thin, colorless voice. "Ben Seeby. I'm in the old furniture business, a sort of a junk-man—" He stopped and looked questioningly at John Nairne, as if trying to determine what sort of an impression he was making.

"Go on," said John Nairne.

"I saw in the papers," Seeby said slowly, "some days ago, a notice of Mr. Nairne's death. I make it my business to watch for that sort of thing," he explained apologetically, "and it occurred to me that maybe his office equipment might be for sale."

"I suppose it is," John Nairne said doubtfully. His eyes travelled about the shabby room. Perhaps he could get twenty or thirty dollars for this junk. "What's it worth to you?"

Ben Seeby looked away. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. After a long time he said:

"If I bought it, I'd want it all— everything."

"You can have it all."

The little man moistened his lips. "Even the papers," he said; "the letters on the floor— everything—" He paused and his eyes came back to John Nairne, and he saw a puzzled look on the latter's face. "You see," he explained hastily, "sometimes by going through the papers I find things that are of use to me— the name of a concern with whom I might do business, for instance."

To John Nairne that seemed reasonable enough. There wasn't anything personal about those papers— just bills, and nothing to indicate whether they had been paid or not.

"You're welcome to 'em," John Nairne said.

Once more Ben Seeby's eyes drifted away from the other.

"I suppose," he went on, more slowly than before, "nothing's been taken out of this place. Everything— everything is still here?"

John Nairne was about to assure him that it was, when an odd thought came to him.

"Why are you so anxious about that?" he demanded. "What difference can it make to you whether or not some of my father's personal papers are missing?"

Ben Seeby jerked his head around. There was a startled look in his pale eyes.

"Your father?— are you— are you Mr. Nairne's son?"

"Yes. What's so strange about that? You didn't answer my question. What difference does it make to you whether a few of my father's papers are missing?"

Seeby blinked his eyes, but he was at a loss for only a minute.

"I like to get a complete picture of the business," he said, "I couldn't do that if anything was missing. I can't exactly explain. It's a sort of a— a sort of a trade secret with me. Of course, there are some things I wouldn't mind your taking away. If you'll just tell me what you want or anything that you've already taken

John Nairne's eyes narrowed.

"How much would you pay for this layout?"

"I might go as high— as high as a hundred dollars."

John Nairne felt himself stiffen. Even with all his inexperience he was certain that no second-hand furniture dealer would pay more than twenty-five or thirty dollars for his father's shabby equipment; there wasn't even a typewriter.

"All right," he said; "I'll take it. It's all there, every scrap of paper, everything my father owned... except one thing... something that couldn't possibly interest you or anybody else."

The little man looked down on the floor.

"What's that?" he asked in a tone scarcely audible.

"Just a piece of cardboard," John Nairne said, "a piece of cardboard with little slots cut in it."

HE made his voice indifferent, but he kept his eyes glued on Ben Seeby. He saw the little man start, saw his hands twitch and a dull flush spread over his features. Yet when he spoke his voice was as careless, as disinterested as young Nairne's had been.

"I guess I wouldn't want that," Ben Seeby said, "that wouldn't be any use to me." He reached into his pocket, took out a small roll of bills and began peeling off fives and tens. "Still," he said, "you might let me have it; at least for a few days. If I find it has no significance, I'll send it back to you. There's just a possibility that it might represent the key to something, if properly understood. It's conceivable, for instance, that it might represent the key to the safe or— "

"There isn't any safe," John Nairne said. He was conscious of a curious pounding at his temples, a feeling that he was on the verge of discovering something, and he was surprised at the hardness of his own voice as he went on. "Seeby, you're a liar. You didn't come here to buy this junk, this trash on the floor. You came here because you know something. You came here for only one purpose, and that was to get that piece of cardboard."

The color left Ben Seeby's face. He shifted from one foot to the other. After a long time he said: "That's right."

John Nairne leaned forward. His mind was fixed on one thing, and on one thing only. The hint the little man had given him that that piece of cardboard in his pocket might represent the key to something. That was it, of course. But the key to what? How was it to be used? For a moment he was afraid to speak for fear that his voice might tremble, but in the end he managed in an even tone:

"Tell me the story."

"I've got as much right to that cardboard," Ben Seeby burst out, with unexpected passion, "as your father had. If he were alive, he'd tell you so himself. It's just chance that he had it instead of me."

"What's it for?"

But Seeby ignored the question.

"Your father and I were friends," he went on. "This scar," he said, pointing to his right eye, "I got it helping him— and some others. I didn't come here with the idea of cheating you out of your share. I didn't know you were his son." His voice grew wheedling. "Of course, I knew he had a son, but I thought you were abroad studying somewhere, and I would have seen to it that in the end you would have gotten what was coming to you. With me everything is fair and square. I'm not like the Major or the Indian. You can trust me—"

"What's the cardboard for?" John Nairne demanded again in a tense tone.

"Devil Darrell will be out soon," said Ben Seeby, with a far-off look in his eyes. "You can trust Devil Darrell, even though he held out on us all these years— but not the Major, not the Indian. If they get their hands on it first, if Devil Darrell is fool enough to communicate with them, and they hold the key—" The little man broke off abruptly.

John Nairne was conscious of a growing sense of bewilderment. And in the midst of his confused thoughts it seemed to him that through the half-open door he heard a faint sound in the outer office. Then he decided that he was mistaken. It was nothing but a trick of the imagination. He bent his eyes more intently on Ben Seeby and said:

"First tell me what the cardboard is for. Then you can go into the details."

"You'll play fair and square with me, won't you?" Ben Seeby whined. "You'll have to. Devil Darrell won't stand for anything else: There's enough for all of us, though we won't have to let the Major or the Indian in on it. if you don't want to-they'd doublecross us in a minute. Maybe their share ought to go to Devil Darrell. He's entitled to it... he's the only one who paid... while the rest of us got off scot free..."

"Confound it, man, answer my question!" John Nairne's nerves were quivering.

Ben Seeby came closer.

"The cardboard—" he said in a hushed voice... and got no further.

Afterwards John Nairne wasn't sure, but he thought he saw some-thing that came flying across the room, through the door that Ben Seeby had left open, something that looked like a streak of light as it sailed through the semi-darkness. He saw Ben Seeby straighten up, heard his startled cry, saw him reel in a crazy fashion, then topple to the floor.

John Nairne was around the table in an instant and on his knees be-side the fallen figure,

"What's the matter? What's happened?"

Ben Seeby's eyes were wide. Inarticulate sounds came from his throat as though he were trying desperately to say something. Then suddenly the light died out of his eyes, leaving them blank. One last ghastly gurgling sound came from him, and then— John Nairne knew it— he was dead.

How long he knelt there beside the body of Ben Seeby John Nairne didn't know. He had a feeling that his limbs were paralysed, that he was incapable of moving, that his brain was numb and unable to cope with the situation. Gradually it came to him that whereas Seeby was lying on his back he wasn't quite on his back, something was holding him up on one side some six inches from the floor.

Mechanically, scarcely realising what he was doing, he seized Ben Seeby by the arm and shoulder and turned him over on to his face.

A knife was sticking out of Seeby's back, a peculiar sort of a knife, a Malay kris, John Nairne thought, and it was then that he realised that he had actually seen that thing come flying through the air, and it dawned on him, too, that whoever had thrown it might still be out there lurking in the outer office pre-paring to strike again, this time at him.

John Nairne, his sensitive face grey and drawn, leapt to his feet and faced the door. He could see nothing from where he was, save shadows in the half-light. The whole place seemed ominously silent.

He hesitated for a minute, then stepped swiftly into the other room. He looked sharply about. The little room was empty. He sprang to the outer door, yanked it open and looked out into the hall. There was no one in sight.

SHAKING his head as though to clear his befogged brain, he went back in-side to where Ben Seeby lay and stared down at the dead man. He supposed he ought to call the police, yet he was afraid to. Suppose the police didn't believe the story of a knife being thrown through the open door, suppose they accused him, John Nairne, of the murder— what would happen then?

Here he was without funds, with-out a friend, not a soul to whom he could turn. It wouldn't be the first time that an innocent man had been convicted. And what good would it do him to say that he had never seen Ben Seeby before in his life, to tell the story of Ben Seeby's coming here?

The whole thing would sound absurd, fantastic, and wouldn't be be-lieved. And yet if he didn't notify the police, it would be even worse. The body would be found. He, no doubt, would be traced.

The elevator man or the starter would be in a position to state that he had been in the building in his father's office, that he had come out of there eventually. What he ought to do first of all was get a lawyer, but he had no money to pay a lawyer; and even if he had had any he wouldn't have known just whom to get.

It was then that he remembered that card on his father's desk, the card from I. Marmaduke Drake,

Agent, the man who made a business of taking care of other people's troubles. The latter's office was on Pine Street, only a few blocks away.

John Nairne remembered having passed Pine Street as he came out of the subway. Perhaps his father had done business with I. Marmaduke Drake, and Drake might be ready to help him, or at least to advise him.

He considered for a minute longer, and decided that it was worth a try. He picked up his hat and coat from a chair, put them on, stepped out into the outer office and closed the door behind him. He was about to make his way out when he saw the office door slowly open.

Instinctively John Nairne sprang back, certain that it must be the killer of Ben Seeby come back, but he was wrong. He reached up and pulled at the string overhead that lit the single drop light, and be-held a girl with the fairest hair he had ever seen and the bluest eyes. She was young and slender and came towards him with an air of complete composure.

"I should like to see Mr. Nairne," she said.

"I am Mr. Nairne," John Nairne said. He felt his throat dry, his speech coming with difficulty.

"Mr. Duncan Nairne?" There was inquiry in her voice, as though she were quite certain that he was not the man.

"I AM John Nairne," he said. "Duncan Nairne is— was my father. He died a few days ago."

"Oh!" Her tone was full of sympathy. "I'm sorry."

"Perhaps there's something I can do," he ventured. It was foolish to detain her. There was a dead man in the next room; what he ought to do was get her out of here as quickly as possible and go and see this Marmaduke Drake.

There was doubt in her eyes.

"I don't know," she said. "My name is Alice Thorne. I have a message for your father and some others. I don't know what it means myself, but I suppose it would have had some significance to your father. Perhaps you'll understand it."

"What sort of a message? Whom ls it from?"

For a moment John Nairne forgot Ben Seeby, dead in the other room.

"It's a message from my father," she answered simply. "My father is in England, you know. I haven't seen him for years and years. The message was given to me by a friend of his who just came over." She stopped and frowned.

"What's the message?"

She gave him an apologetic little smile.

"I'm sorry, it's sort of silly of me, but I didn't like the man who brought me the message. He wasn't a very nice man. There was some-thing shifty about him and he walked in a funny way, as though— well, as though he had been in prison. He made me feel uncomfortable; he frightened me... I'm sorry, I shouldn't bother you with these things—"

"That's all right," John Nairne said; he kept his voice free from excitement. "What was the message?"

"Three months more."

John Nairne gaped at her.

"Three months more," he repeated idiotically.

She nodded.

"That's all there was to it," she said. "That's what I was to tell your father— and the others."

"What others?" he asked tone-lessly.

"A Major Blackminster and a Mr. Seeby, Ben Seeby. I haven't been able to find them," she said. "Your father was in the telephone book, but they're not. You don't happen to know where I could find them?'

John Nairne studied her with distrusting eyes. Was she telling him the truth? Was she as innocent as she appeared to be, or was she mixed up in this complicated, weird mystery in which he found himself involved?

"I don't know Where to find your Major Blackminster," John Nairne said slowly. He paused, struck with a sudden idea. There was a way by which he might discover if she were telling him the truth— a cruel way, but it would probably prove effective.

"I can take you to Ben Seeby," he said slowly. He opened the door into the other office, turned on the light, and, watching her closely, he pointed to the dead man on the floor. "There's Ben Seeby."

Alice Thorne stared down with wide, horror-stricken eyes. A frightened cry escaped her, then she pulled her eyes away and looked at John Nairne.

"What— what does it mean?"

John Nairne shrugged. If she knew anything, she hadn't betrayed herself-not yet.

"You know as much about it as I do— or perhaps more."

With a callousness of which he would have thought himself incap-able an hour ago, he stooped down and turned the dead man over.

"Know him?" he asked.

She gave Seeby a glance and shook her head.

"No," she said. "With one exception, I don't know any of my father's friends. I wouldn't know my own father if I saw him. I don't remember what he looks like. I haven't seen him since I was three. In all those years he's been working for the government, some dangerous secret work that he can't tell me about, that keeps him away from me. But that will be all over soon, and then he is coming to get me."

She looked again at the dead man, then back at John Nairne. "You didn't kill him. You don't look like the sort of man who would kill anybody... at least you wouldn't stab him in the back."

THE distrust went out of John Nairne's eyes. She was more decent to him than he had been to her and she was telling the truth. She knew nothing about this, and yet somehow she was involved, probably innocently like himself.

"I'm sorry I subjected you to this," he apologised. "I wasn't quite sure... the whole thing is so weird... No, I didn't kill him." Then he told her about his finding the cardboard, of Seeby coming to him and trying to get it away from him.

"Besides Blackminster and Seeby," he went on, "there's somebody else in this, a crook, I imagine, a gaol-bird, from what Ben Seeby told me, a gaolbird called Devil Darrell—"

He stopped, struck by the sudden change that came over the girl. She swayed a little. Her face became dead white. Her eyes blazed with cold anger. She seemed to be struggling for words.

"How dare you?" she managed at last. "How dare you say a thing like that?"

He gazed at her dumbfounded.

"What's Devil Darrell to you?" he asked dully.

She came closer to him. He had the curious impression that she was on the point of lashing out at him with her little clenched hands. But she didn't. Instead she said through compressed lips:

"Devil Darrell is my father."

Utterly bewildered, confused, John Nairne tried to say something and couldn't think of anything to say, and long before he could gather his scattered wits he found himself alone with the dead man.

For a moment he stood there wondering, then it came to him that he was in grave danger. In her fury she was capable of anything, would very likely hasten to the nearest policeman, tell him of the murdered man in the room. She might even accuse him, John Nairne, of having committed the murder.

John Nairne grew panicky. He rushed out to where he had left his hat in the outer office, snatched it up and dashed out into the hall, stopping only long enough to spring the latch on the door so that it couldn't be opened without a key.

He didn't wait for the elevator, Instead he took the steps two at a time.

Out in the street he headed south until he came to Pine Street, then east until he arrived at the dingy little building in which L Marma-duke Drake had his office. He had to have somebody to stand by him, somebody to advise him, even though it was a stranger. If only I. Marmaduke Drake turned out to be a friend of his father's and would be willing to help him.

John Nairne discovered Marmaduke Drake's office was much like his father's, with a tiny little outer room where a girl sat at a typewriter desk, a very pretty girl with a trim figure and wavy, copper-colored hair.

She disappeared through a door, and while he waited John Nairne could hear through the flimsy partition the sound of music. She reappeared in less than a minute and, holding the door, invited John Nairne to go in.

I. Marmaduke Drake's private office wasn't much larger than the one occupied by his secretary. It was scantily furnished with two rickety wooden armchairs, a bat-tered desk, and a swivel chair that seemed too small for the man who occupied it.

I. Marmaduke Drake was well over six feet. He was young, with attractive features, broad-shouldered, and slim-waisted. His hair was dark and thick. He was leaning far back in his chair with his feet on the corner of his desk. There was a small guitar in his lap which he was strumming with an air of Intense concentration.

For some inexplicable reason this big lazy-looking individual inspired John Nairne with confidence, this despite the fact that I. Marmaduke Drake paid not the slightest attention to him, being entirely occupied with a rather inexpert rendition of "Santa Lucia."

"My name ls John Nairne."

"How are you?" said I. Marmaduke Drake, without looking up. "Have a chair."

"I'm in rather a fix," John Nairne said, "in trouble. Did you happen to know my father, Duncan Nairne?"

"No, I didn't," said I. Marmaduke Drake, steadily picking away at his guitar.

"I thought maybe you had known him." There was a note of disappointment in John Nairne's voice. "I don't suppose, then, you'd help me?"

I. Marmaduke Drake finished his tune on a sour but triumphant note and slowly put down the guitar, leaning it against the wall on the floor.

"Why wouldn't I help you?" he said. "I don't have to know a man's ancestors to help him out of a difficulty."

"I haven't any money," John Nairne said desperately.

"That's bad," said I. Marmaduke Drake. "Still, maybe you'll be able to pay me sometime. What's the trouble?"

"It's urgent—"

"Trouble is never urgent," I. Marmaduke Drake said placidly. "There's no use looking for it, because you can always find it, and there's no use trying to run away from it, because it always catches up with you, so you might just as well be peaceful till it arrives, and then we'll meet it."

"It's already caught up with me," John Nairne said, his voice now harsh. "There's a man been murdered in my office. He's lying there dead with a knife in his back. He may be discovered any minute. Then the police will be looking for me."

"It happens every day," said I. Marmaduke Drake calmly. "Did you kill him?"

"No," said John Nairne. "But I was alone with him in the room when he was killed. There was no one else in the office."

A strange thing happened. I. Marmaduke Drake straightened up in his chair. His right eyelid came down, seemed to come down with a bang like the knife on a guillotine. It made his strong face look weird. But I. Marmaduke Drake was in no way disconcerted. He slipped his fingers into his vest pocket and extracted a monocle. Very deftly he caught the edge of the eyelid and propped it up into place by means of the single glass.

"I hope that didn't startle you," he said, grinning. "It happens every now and then; a defective muscle or nerve. It generally happens when I'm surprised, and you can't blame me for being surprised. You say this man was alone in the office with you and you didn't kill him, and yet he was stabbed in the back. He couldn't have done that himself, and even if he could have that would be suicide, not murder. Let's have the whole thing from the beginning."

John Nairne told him, told him everything, from the finding of his father's note, right up to the very end where the girl who had called herself Alice Thorne had declared that Devil Darrell was her father.

When he had finished he looked expectantly at I. Marmaduke Drake, but the latter said nothing; instead he bent down and picked up his guitar.

"You having been raised abroad," he said after a time, "perhaps don't know this one," whereupon he startled John Nairne by striking a few experimental chords and then bursting with more zest than skill into "Pop Goes The Weasel."

John Nairne stood up. There was a bitter expression on his face.

"I'm sorry I troubled you," he said, his voice strident and loud so as to be heard above the guitar.

"Sit down," I. Marmaduke Drake shouted, strumming away with more vigor. "Music helps me to think."

John Nairne sat down. There was something compelling about I. Marmaduke Drake.

EVENTUALLY Drake put down his guitar.

"Let's see that piece of card-board," he said.

"But what about Seeby, what about the man that's dead in my office? And what about the police?"

"No use worrying about Seeby, he's dead. And it's up to the police to find him, though maybe if they're too slow about it I'll give them a hint. Let's see that cardboard. If I'm going to get you out of this jam, it's going to be through that."

John Nairne looked unconvinced, but, nevertheless, he took the card-board from his pocket and passed it to Marmaduke Drake.

The latter glanced at it only briefly and a look of disappointment came into his face.

"I thought there might be more to it than that," he said a little regretfully.

"How are we going to find out what it's for?"

"I know what lt's for," I. Marmaduke Drake said as he stuck it into his own pocket, "and I can tell you something else. There must be real money involved here. I've got a hunch I can find out just how much." He paused a moment. His face took on a more solemn expression. "I only hope," he went on a little lugubriously, "that it's the kind of money you and I would want to touch."

John Nairne stared at him. "You mean—"

"Never mind that or anything else just now. You've got to get out of here. I'm going to hide you in my place. That's about the last spot that the police would look for you, and they'll be on your trail in no time. This is just the sort of a case that my friend Sergeant Gruber eats up. If we don't do something right away, he'll have you in a cell before you can say Marmaduke Drake.

"Here you are." He scribbled something on a piece of paper and passed it to John Nairne, "that's where I live. Give that to the land-lady and she'll let you in. But before you go let me have the key to your office— I plan to hang out there most of the time until something breaks."

John Nairne took the slip of paper and rose. He looked steadily at I. Marmaduke Drake.

"I am wondering," he said slowly, "if I can trust you."

I. Marmaduke Drake nodded weightily.

"That's a point," he said, "that should be established." He picked up the metal screw-driver that served him as a letter-opener and banged lustily on the radiator beside his desk. This brought his secretary, Mary Gaylor, into the room.

"Miss Gaylor," said I. Marmaduke Drake gravely, "this is a new client of ours. Mr. John Nairne. He wants to know if I can be trusted. Please tell him."

The girl looked momentarily puzzled, then a little impatient. When she spoke there was a tang in her voice.

"Mr. Drake." she said to John Nairne, "can be trusted absolutely. He can be trusted to do every fool thing imaginable in your behalf, even to the point of risking his neck, and one of these days he's going to be sent to gaol for some of the things he does— if he isn't killed before then."

Towards the end her voice trembled with suppressed emotion; then without another word and an angry toss of her head she stalked out.

I. Marmaduke Drake grinned quizzically at his visitor.

"There you are," he said, "although she seems to be a little bit sore about something." His voice took on an earnest confidential note. "Tell me something, Nairne: do you understand women?"

John Nairne shook his head.

"That girl," he said, "Alice Thorne, I played her a dirty trick. I wouldn't like her... to get into any trouble."

Marmaduke Drake grinned: "All right," he said.

The minute that John Nairne had gone, I. Marmaduke Drake went into Mary Gaylor's room.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "You're sore about something." He eyed her thoughtfully.

Mary Gaylor wouldn't look at him. She compressed her lips. Couldn't he see what was the matter with her? Was he blind?

She longed for the old days when she had been his secretary and he had been nothing but a private detective, a comparatively safe occupation compared with the things he was doing nowadays. She had told him so often enough with all the vehemence of her passionate nature. That, if nothing else, should have made clear to him the way she felt towards him, and he— he wasn't even aware of her existence, save as an office appliance, someone who could be useful when he needed her.

"What's wrong?" he demanded again. "Let's—"

He broke off abruptly, pricked up his ears. Outside in the hall he thought he heard a scuffling noise.

He sprang to the door and tore it open to see two figures, one prone on its back and the second figure bending over the first.

I. Marmaduke Drake's appearance caused the second figure, a man in a queer headdress, to look up, then leap to his feet and dash down the hall, past the elevators, towards the far end where the stairs were.

I. Marmaduke Drake started after him, stopped and looked down. The figure on the floor was John Nairne! His fingers were at his throat, his mouth was open, his face almost black. I. Marmaduke Drake hesitated. He wanted to get that man in the queer headdress, but this was more urgent. Something was wrong with John Nairne. Quickly he knelt down and felt at the other's throat. There was a silken cord about it, a cord that was embedded deep in the flesh. John Nairne was unconscious. He had ceased struggling.

I. Marmaduke Drake took a jack-knife from his pocket and managed to work the blade under the cord and sever it. John Nairne was a tall man, well knit, but I. Marmaduke Drake picked him up and carried him inside as though he were a baby. Here he laid him on the floor and began to work over him.

He worked feverishly, frantically, and presently John Nairne opened his eyes and color began slowly to come back to his features. It was minutes before he was able, with I. Marmaduke Drake's help, to get to his feet. The latter helped him inside to his own room and put him in a chair. John Nairne tried to speak, and found it difficult.

"Take your time," I. Marmaduke Drake said, "there's no hurry." All the boyish good nature had gone out of his face. It was indescribably hard and angry. He went and from the bottom drawer of his rickety desk took a bottle of brandy and poured some of it into a glass. "Here," he said, "drink this; it'll make you feel better."

John Nairne gulped it down. After a long time he said in a ruminative sort of way:

"BEING dead isnt so bad, but I didn't stay dead, thanks to you. I've lived a soft life, a sheltered sort of a life, content not to mix it up much with my fellow  men. All I wanted was to learn how to paint, to devote my life to that, but it's different now." His voice went suddenly grim. "I'm going to get this crowd. I don't know how. You'll have to tell me how. But I tn not afraid-not afraid of anything. A man who has been dead once isn't afraid to die again." He paused, then added irrelevantly: "But the girl isn't in it— I know that."

I. Marmaduke Drake nodded. He understood perfectly.

"What happened?" he demanded.

"I don't quite know. I was standing there waiting for the elevator when suddenly I felt something about my throat, a thing that tightened and strangled me. before I had a chance to cry for help. I tried to tear it away, tried to turn around, put up a fight, and couldn't. The next thing I knew I was on my back losing consciousness, still trying to tear that thing from my throat. Before I passed out it seemed to me someone was bending over me. I glimpsed a face, fierce, relentless eyes, the face of a man in a turban. It was— it was the Indian, I suppose."

"No doubt about it," said I. Marmaduke Drake. His face was still hard. "That strangling trick is peculiar to the Indian thugs. There used to be a religious sect practising what's called thuggee, secret religious murders, but the sect degenerated into nothing but a band of cut-throats and highway robbers—" For a time he stared into space, a bleak look in his eyes.

Then he saw the strain in the younger man's face, and tried to think of something reassuring to say. He forced a grin into his own face and in a tone that was filled with humorous braggadocio, he said:

"I won't stand for their killing any of my clients. I've got too few of them as it is."

ON SECOND AVENUE a few blocks south of Forty-second Street in a fetid little building Moe Kydid carried on, in conjunction with his cousin Jacob, his tailoring busings. It wasn't much of a business. Moe Kydid and Cousin Jacob did nothing but a little repairing and some cleaning and pressing of suits and overcoats left there by sundry characters who for the most part came and went in a curious, furtive way.

Moe and Jacob seldom spoke. They seemed singularly at peace with the world and content with their earthly lot, though anyone who saw the dingy little shop and was capable of estimating the meagre business found it difficult to understand why this sbould be so.

Moe Kydid might have been fifty or he might have been seventy or even older. He was a small, hollow-chested man with a yellow face, a mass of countless wrinkles. He had small, near-sighted eyes that squinted as he worked. Just now he was manipulating an enormous pair of shears cutting away a torn lining, ultimately to be replaced by Cousin Jacob, who was the more skilful, when it came to repairing, of the two.

Cousin Jacob with a more robust build, a younger, less-lined face, was busy threading a needle. He moistened the thread with his lips, then looked up. In a sort of a dead voice he said:

"How much longer?"

He hadn't spoken for an hour, and his present question had no relation whatsoever to anything he had said that day, yet Moe Kydid understood.

"A year," Moe said, "maybe two, unless this thing of Blackminster's should amount to something. My brother Anselm he is a fool— he and his fine houses and his automobiles. Some day in trouble he vill get us." Moe's voice was placid like the voice of one resigned to the inevitable.

After that there was a long silence, ultimately broken by the tinkle of the bell over the door.

A tall, stern, dark-visaged individual came in. He was a man who had obviously been in the army. His broad shoulders were thrown back, his stomach was pulled in, and he stood with his heels together, as erect and stiff as a bayonet. His face was square and hard; his dark eyes determined and forbidding. He looked at Moe, then made a motion with his head towards the door at the back and, without walting to see if he were being followed, went there and opened it.

MOE KYDID rose slowly to his feet. He put the great shears down with a clattering noise and followed the tall man inside, shutting the door carefully behind him.

The room here was larger than the shop. It was shabbily but comfortably furnished. There were a sofa and two huge armchairs with heavy upholstery, worn threadbare, grouped around a coal stove that glowed dully.

Moe Kydid sat down in an arm-chair in which he was all but lost, while the tall man took the end of the sofa that was nearest. For a time neither said anything, Moe watching his visitor through his squinty eyes while the other was occupied with a huge black cigar. At last Moe Kydid said:

"Vell, Major— vhat you got?"

Major Blackminster took a few puffs at his cigar and watched the smoke curl upwards moodily.

"There is one more," he said, "we don't have to worry about." His words came in a clipped, precise fashion. "First old Duncan Nairne went, and now Ben Seeby has gone to join him."

Moe Kydid kicked one of his spindly legs to and fro in a thoughtful way. After seconds he said:

"So Ben Seeby he should be dead... how did it happen?" A queer light came into his slitted eyes.

"Why worry about it?" Major Blackminster said unwillingly. "All you've got to remember is that there's one less with whom we have to divide."

"Divide vhat? I don't see anything. Already ve have spent plenty money to finance you, Major, but all ve get is promises, plenty promises— but no gold. It happens nothing."

Blackminster scowled.

"I made all the arrangements with your brother, Anselm, in London. He knows exactly what to expect, the difficulties of the situation, and you and he are going to get well paid for your trouble."

"Vhy not? Vithout us vhat could you do? Can you buy bread with bars of gold? Can you buy milk? Vhat could you do without Anslem and me and Jacob vith your gold? To gaol that's vhere you vould go," Moe Kydid spoke without feeling, completely dispassionate, and then he added irrelevantly: "My brother Anselm a fool he is."

The Major's eyes held faintly disguised contempt.

"That all depends on how you look at it. At least, he gets something for his money, has a jolly good time of it, but you— what do you get out of living like this, mending old clothes—"

A wisp of a smile came to Moe Kydid's face.

"Some day Scotland Yard it says to itself: 'This Anselm lives in a fine house, very strange people go to visit such a fine gentleman. Ve must look into this.' And my brother Anselm vill get into trouble and to gaol he vill go vhere he can play, pinochle vith your friend Devil Darrell, who is going to make us all so rich—"

Major Blackminster opened his lips to speak, but Moe Kydid went on with persistent patience:

"Now vith me and Jacob it's different. Who vould bother poor Moe Kydid or come to the little shop except maybe the customers, the right kind of customers, you understand, and nobody vould pay no attention to them." He paused a moment and chuckled with a queer sort of malice. "The customers they bring the suits, the overcoats. Sometimes rings and diamonds is in the pockets, sometimes gold vatches. And the customers vhen they call for their suits, the rings and vatches they is gone, sure, but they find money in the pockets, good money, Moe Kydid's good money. Nobody they say anything and nobody they should have to ask any questions."

"Rather a scheme," the major said in a tone of frank admiration. There was also some relief in his voice. This was a highly ingenious scheme for transferring and disposing of stolen goods. He felt more reassured about Moe Kydid's capabilities all of a sudden and now understood why Mr. Anselm Kydid, whose aid he had secured long ago with the utmost difficulty and who had the reputation among those "in the know" as the most prominent "fence" in London, had sent him to see his brother Moe here in New York.

"Maybe I should have my tongue cut out for telling you," Moe Kydid went on in his flat way, "but I don't have to worry, Major. You couldn't tell nobody, and even if to the police you vent to-morrow, they vouldn't find nothing, you understand. Besides I figure vith a man like you business could happen any day. Maybe to-morrow you could come in with a pearl necklace in the inside pocket of your overcoat.''

Major Blackminster, his countenance angrily fierce, straightened up in his seat.

"I'm not a thief," he barked, "at least—"

"Ai, ai." Moe said good-naturedly. "And now poor Mr. Seeby he is dead. Vell, how did it happen?"

The major looked up sharply. He had detected under that mild tone a note of menace that was somehow disquieting.

"I sent Pundahb to the old man's office to see if he could get hold of the code. He found Seeby there talking to young Nairne," he explained truculently, "telling him that he was going to ditch us; not you, he didn't know about you, of course, but me and the Indian Pundahb— and ready to explain to Nairne the way the code worked. Pundahb is quick. He didn't waste any time. He let Seeby have it and it served him jolly well right."

Moe Kydid closed his eyes.

"Like my brother, Anselm," he murmured, "your servant he is a fool. Through the streets he goes with a towel for a hat, then he kills. Anybody could find him— except me— Pundahb never comes to see Moe Kydid any more."

"Why should he?" the major asked sharply. "Pundahb is positive no one saw him go in or come out. He didn't hang around there. He rather cleverly waited in the street, then followed young Nairne until he found him in a spot where he could search him— and he didn't find the code on him."

Moe Kydid opened his eyes a little. "Maybe this young Mr. Nairne he didn't have no objections to being searched, yes, or maybe he is dead, too, now?" His tone was more thoughtful, more remote. It was as though he were saying one thing and thinking of another.

The major was conscious of that, and for some reason it made him uneasy and irritable.

"No, he's not dead," he snapped. "Pundahb didn't tighten the cord enough. Anyway, he didn't find the code— but we'll get it. Either that, or we'll find some other way of communicating with Devil Darrell."

"I don't think so," Moe declared, "not for a long time."

"What are you talking about?" Major Blackminster snarled. "Devil Darrell will be out in another couple of months. He got years off for good behaviour. And he won't doublecross us, he's not that sort. I don't blame him for not telling us where it was while he was in gaol. We might have ditched him. Besides that, maybe he couldn't communicate with us. The chances are he didn't have his copy of the code with him, had it hidden along with the gold."

Once more Moe Kydid shook his head.

"Don't keep shaking your head like that," Blackminster roared. "I know what I'm talking about."

"Yes," the other said, "but you don't know vhat I know. I got a cable from my brother Anselm this morning. Your friend, he couldn't vait. A veek ago he tried to escape. So he don't get no time off for good behaviour. He's got to stay in prison."

Blackminster sprang to his feet. "The confounded fool!" he roared. "Why couldn't he wait! Only a few months more and he's got to go and spoil it all! I hope he stays there the rest of his life. I hope he rots there—"

"That vouldn't get us our money— or our gold."

The major began to pace the floor with long, impatient strides.

"What am I going to do?" he rasped. "How am I going to carry on— and take care of Pundahb too— for four years more? I've had a hard enough time getting along as it is with the pittances you and your brother have doled out to me."

Moe Kydid leaned his face in his hands and looked down at the floor.

"If it vas me," he said, "I vould have done something long ago. This Devil Darrell has a daughter, if I understand—"

"Well?"

"If maybe he should hear that his girl she vas in trouble, something you understand that only money— gold— could fix—" He paused for a moment, then added, "If maybe he understood it that if he vouldn't tell, something vould happen to the girl—"

Major Blackminster's eyes drifted from Moe's face to the little man's thin hands. He saw his right-hand thumb and forefinger close and unclose, and he shuddered despite himself.

I. MARMADUKE DRAKE spent most of the next two days in the little office that had belonged to John Nairne's father. He had had a little difficulty about it with John Nairne, who was in a singularly reckless mood. John Nairne didn't give a hoot in what danger he stood. He wanted to take a vigorous hand in the situation himself.

It was only when Marmaduke Drake pointed out to him that he would most likely be arrested and lodged in a cell and that he would be far more helpless there than where he was, cooped up in Drake's room, that he gave in.

To pacify him further Marmaduke Drake explained to him the purpose of that piece of cardboard that his father had left to him. "Music helps me to think," declared Marmaduke Drake, and promised him that the minute he saw any use for it he would let him know and also that he would do his best with the police, make it possible for John Nairne to go about unmolested, at least for the time being.

The first day nothing happened. No one came to the old man's office, not even the police, who had taken Ben Seeby's body away the night before as a result of a telephone call from I. Marmaduke Drake to Sergeant Gruber. The sergeant had been violent on the telephone, wanted to know just how Drake had heard about that murder. When the conversation got too difficult, Drake had hung up on him.

The sergeant made four calls at Drake's office the next day, insisting on seeing him, but Mary Gaylor, at his instructions, didn't tell him that her employer was in Nairne's office, sitting there gloomily, bored to extinction, wait-ing for something to occur that might give him a lead. On the morning of the second day he had a visitor, a tall man with a military bearing and a square, hard face, who appeared surprised to see I. Marmaduke Drake there.

"I'm looking for Mr. Nairne," the tall man said.

"He's not here," I. Marmaduke replied in his drawling, leisurely fashion. "He's away for a few days and I'm looking after his affairs. Is there anything I can do?"

Major Blackminster shook his head.

"I'll drop in again," he said. "Who shall I say called?"

"Brown is my name— Ned Brown," the major said without the flicker of an eyelash. He started for the door, but I. Marmaduke Drake's next words stopped him.

"You haven't by chance a message from Devil Darrell, have you? I know Mr. Nairne is expecting a message."

Major Blackminster turned on his heels with slow precision and faced the other.

"Really, old fellow," he said, "that's an odd question and an odd name— Devil Darrell; never heard of him." The major's face was wooden. "By the way, what's your name?"

"I. Marmaduke Drake. I'm a sort of an agent; an inquiry agent I suppose you'd call me in England. From the way you talk I judge you're English." I. Marmaduke Drake half-turned in his chair and gazed out of the window. "Maybe you know Ben Seeby?" he said, without looking at his visitor. "Poor Ben has been murdered right here in this office."

The major was by nature a violent individual, apt to betray his feelings, but there were occasions when he was completely master of himself and this was one of them. At the mention of I. Marmaduke Drake's name he was instantly on his guard. It was in front of Marmaduke Drake's door that Nairne had been attacked and searched.

"I say, you do ask the most extraordinary questions, old man," he declared affably. "Just tell Mr. Nairne that Ned Brown called to see him."

With that he stalked out, followed by the disconsolate eyes of I. Marmaduke Drake.

Late in the afternoon there was a second visitor, a young and very charming girl. Even before she gave her name he was confident as to her identity, the girl who had said her name was Alice Thorne and yet who claimed to be Devil Darrell's daughter. She, too, wanted to see Mr. Nairne. She had a note that she wanted to show him— from her father.

I. Marmaduke Drake felt his pulses quicken. He was certain now that he was on the brink of making a discovery, but this time he'd be more cautious; he wouldn't mention Devil Darrell or Ben Seeby or anyone else. He simply told the girl that Mr. Nairne was out of town, and that he would be glad to send the note on to him.

She shook her head.

"I think it would be better," she said, "if I gave it to him personally. I'd like to see what he thinks of it. The whole thing is very odd," she finished vaguely.

Marmaduke Drake now wished that he hadn't said that young Nairne was out of town.

"He might be back any time," he said after a while. "If you'll let me know where he can reach you, I'll be glad to give him your message."

She seemed to think that that would be all right and explained that she was secretary to someone in the shipping business, and not only gave him the address of where she worked, but her home address, a boarding-house in East Sixtieth Street, as well. Then smiling her thanks she left.

For a time I. Marmaduke Drake sat there, staring frowningly straight ahead. He had a feeling of helplessness, of incompetence. He was getting nowhere and it irritated him. Then he came to a sudden resolution. He put on his coat, picked up his hat, locked the outer door, and left the office.

Out in the street he hailed a taxi and told the man to drive him to Centre Street. At police headquarters he had no difficulty in finding Sergeant Gruber.

Ordinarily, the sergeant's round face with its guileless blue eyes wore a good-natured, tolerant expression, but just now he was both angry and sullen.

"Where on earth have you been?" he barked the instant he caught sight of Drake. "And what do you mean by it? One of these days you're going to go too far. Who do you think you are, anyway, calling up the police and tell-ing them there's a murder and then disappearing? What do you mean by hanging up on me when I want to ask you some questions? You're old enough to know better You ought to know that there's suer, a thing as obstructing justice— I ought to lock you up, that's what I ought to do."

"If you want to know where I've been," Marmaduke Drake said lazily, ignoring the sergeant's tirade "I've been working for you, trying to find some dope that could helpl you solve this case."

"I DONT want that kind of help," Gruber snapped savagely. "You just let me handle this my own way."

"You felt differently the last couple of times," Marmaduke Drake grinned.

The sergeant had the grace to blush and his tone was a trifle more conciliatory.

"All right, all right," re grumbled. "Rub it in. Just the same, one of these days—" He left that unfinished. "What I want to know is," he demanded with re-newed savagery, "where you're hiding this fellow John Nairne. I suppose he's one of your— your clients."

"He is," I. Marmaduke Drake said agreeably.

"I ain't making any deals."

"You have before. Listen, Gruber, I've always played fair with you. I mean to do it again. I don't want any credit for myself, no newspaper publicity. If we solve this case it's all yours. And there's only one way to solve it: that's to let young Nairne go about his business as if nothing had happened. If you pick him up now and throw him into a cell, you'll get no place. He had nothing to do with this murder, you can take my word for it."

"So that's what you call making a deal," Gruber growled. "I'm to take this all on your say so. This bird was the only one in the office when Seeby was stabbed. I got pretty good evidence on that. And I'm supposed to let him wander around loose and do as he pleases and maybe get away in the end— just because you say so. That's a fine deal, that is."

I. Marmaduke Drake heaved s convincing sigh and started away.

"All right," he said, " if that's the way you feel. I was going to give you a good lead in exchange—"

He hadn't gone more than six steps when the sergeant brought him to a halt

"Hey, wait a minute. What are you driving at? If this ls one of your tricks—"

I. Marmaduke Drake stopped. He eyed the sergeant quizzically.

"Is it a deal?"

"First—"

"If I give you my word that I'll turn my man over to you whenever you want him-?"

Gruber scowled, then nodded.

"All right," Marmaduke Drake said. "Cable Scotland Yard and ask them to look up their records about a man named Devil Darrell, tell them you want all the dope on him, then let me know what they say."

The sergeant had his notebook out and was scribbling.

"Say, what kind of a lead do you call that? Who's Devil Darrell?  What's Scotland Yard—"

"You're going to be famous, Gruber. They'll even hear of you over there. So long."

I. Marmaduke Drake waved a big hand airily and sauntered out.

THE FOLLOWING morning I. Marmaduke Drake went straight to his own office, while John Nairne went to his father's. John Nairne had strict instructions to communicate instantly with Marmaduke Drake if anything developed, no matter how insignificant it appeared.

When he arrived I. Marmaduke Drake found Sergeant Gruber waiting for him, impatiently pacing the floor of Mary Gaylor's little room.

"Say—" the sergeant began.

Marmaduke waved him to silence. He turned to Mary Gaylor.

"I need somebody," he said, "somebody to do a little watching— and a little following."

Mary Gaylor sighed as she thought of that group of nondescript individuals to whom I. Marmaduke Drake was wont grandiloquently to refer as his staff.

"Whom do you want?" she asked, resignedly.

"Well, who is there?" he said impatiently. "Never mind the sergeant, he doesn't care— speak up, I'm in a hurry."

"Certainly, Mr. Drake," she said in a slightly offended tone. "How would 'Butch' Tanner do? He's probably still living in that magnificent one-room suite in the flop house on the Bowery, waiting for you to buy his meals as usual."

I. Marmaduke Drake shook his head.

"Then there's Mr. Agousta," Mary Gaylor went on with her nose in the air, "the tattoo artist. I believe he was released from the workhouse some time ago."

"I HAVE it," said I. Marmaduke Drake with enthusiasm. "Tony— Tony the bootblack! He's just the boy for the job. Put your hat and coat on and get him, get him right away. You know where to find him. He hangs out in that building on Wall Street near Water."

Mary Gaylor made a little grimace, but she fetched her hat and coat.

"So that's how you work." Sergeant Gruber said when they were alone. "You've got a lot of dead-beats that do the dirty work for you." There was a hint of admiration in the sergeant's tone.

Marmaduke Drake led the way into his own room and looked long-ingly for a moment at the guitar he had been obliged to neglect for two days, but decided that the sergeant wouldn't care for music just then.

"Did you hear from Scotland Yard?"

"Yeah. I heard." Gruber said, "I heard plenty, though it's got nothing to do with this murder we're investigating."

"What did they say?"

"Devil Darrell is in prison— his real name is Mark Darrell— he's in Delmoor Prison, in the hospital just now. They don't think he is going to last much longer. He's got T. B. He'd have been out in a couple of months; on account of his record they were going to reduce his twenty-year stretch by four years for good behaviour and on account of what he did during the war— the French gave him the Croix de Guerre for bravery. Why a guy like that should go in for bank robbery is beyond me. It was during the war he got the nickname 'Devil.' It seems he was afraid of nothing. Believe me, when those boys from Scotland Yard give you a report they make it complete."

"Twenty years for bank robbery seems a pretty tough sentence."

"The watchman got killed," the sergeant explained succinctly. "It was manslaughter."

I. Marmaduke Drake's eyes were gleaming.

"What did they get away with?" he demanded.

"They?" the sergeant asked. "How did you know there was anybody else in this besides Devil Darrell?" He waited, but Marmaduke Drake only shook his head, so he went on. "They got about a million dollars' worth of gold— bullion— that belonged to the government, and it was stored in a little bank in the West Country— Kemberley's Bank to be exact, gold that was being held there for transhipment to the Bank of England."

"And it was never recovered?"

"Say, who's telling this?" the sergeant asked indignantly. "There was five of them in this job. Nobody knows who the other four were. Devil Darrell wouldn't talk."

"Four others!" I. Marmaduke Drake murmured to himself. "Blackminster, Seeby, Nairne, and maybe the Indian."

"Stop mumbling," Gruber said testily, "and listen. It's all very interesting, but it doesn't mean a thing, and I've got to get out of here. The way the C.I.D. men over there figured it out was that there were two cars; one of them was hidden in the bushes and one standing in the road.

"The watchman wasn't killed outright. They left him lying there while they cleaned out the vaults. He crawled away and gave the alarm and a couple of constables and what not came on the double quick.

"They didn't know there was five of them, so when they saw four men leap into this car that was on the road they went after that and overlooked the fifth— Devil Darrell— who was hid in the bushes along with the second car that held the loot."

"A decoy— the first car— to draw off pursuit."

"Right. It was a powerful car and it got away. It was only afterwards that they found out from the watchman, just before he died, that there had been five, so they went to work some more. Scotland Yard took a hand.

"And they picked up about everybody that couldn't give a decent account of themselves the night of the robbery and one of the boys they caught in their net was this Devil Darrell, found him in a little town not far from where the Kemberley Bank is, but that's all they found, no gold, and they couldn't get anything out of him. I suppose he buried it some place.

"That's all there is. If you ever had a notion in that thick head of yours," the sergeant concluded in an aggrieved tone, "that Devil Darrell killed Seeby, forget it. He's still in Delmoor."

"But he did escape."

"Yeah— he got away a couple of weeks ago— but they got him back in three days. The guy must'a been nuts to do a thing like that and lose all his good time off when he only had a couple of more months to go."

"You said he was dying," I. Marmaduke Drake ,said thoughtfully. "Maybe he didn't think he'd live long enough."

"Long enough for what?"

"Long enough to send a message," Marmaduke Drake explained laconically.

"You can always smuggle a message out of a prison."

"Not the kind that he wanted to send. He wanted to be sure that nobody could understand the message except the man for whom it was intended, a code message. And when they locked him up sixteen years ago, it's a pretty sure bet he didn't take the code with him to prison— he would have been searched."

Sergeant Gruber eyed the other darkly.

"You seem to know a lot of things, and the more I listen to you, the more I'm convinced that this John Nairne is mixed up in this. I promised you that I wouldn't pick him up for the time being, but I'm keeping an eye on him just the same. And I'm warning you not to stick your head out too far. If there's a million dollars' worth of gold in this, you might be tempted. There isn't anything much you wouldn't do for money, is there?"

"No, there isn't," said I. Marmaduke Drake unsmilingly.

"What about this lead you were going to give me? Who killed Seeby?"

"Look for an Indian."

"If you're giving me the run around," Sergeant Gruber declared ominously; "if you're kidding—"

"I'm not," said Marmaduke Drake shortly.

He bent down and picked up his guitar, and Sergeant Gruber, who had heard him play before, shuddered and fled.

After Marmaduke Drake had played "Santa Lucia" approximately six times with varied success, Mary Gaylor returned. She had in tow a snub-nosed, dark-eyed, grimy little urchin, who carried slung over his shoulder on a strap a shoe-shine box, and looked up with something akin to adoration at I. Mar-maduke Drake.

"Tony," said the latter. "I've got a job for you." He paused while he scribbled down the address of old Duncan Nairne's office. "You go up there and hang around the hall in front of that office, sort of make believe that you're looking for customers. Maybe you'll see a big man go in, a man with a kind of square face and tough eyes, a man who walks very straight like a soldier. If you see him, I want you to follow him when he comes out. I'd like to know where he goes, where he lives."

"Sure, Mr. Drake," Tony said with shining eyes.

"In case you don't see him," I. Marmaduke Drake went on, "there might be somebody else going in; another tall man with a brown face, a face like coffee. He might be wearing a turban."

"What's that?" asked Tony, obviously intrigued.

"It's a kind of hat," said I. Marmaduke Drake, "that they wear in India. You've worked in barber shops, Tony. Sometimes when a barber gives a man a shampoo he winds a hot towel around the customer's head."

"Oh, sure, sure," said Tony with an air of enlightenment.

"All right, scoot, and here's a retainer."

Tony didn't know what a retainer was, but he knew what half a dollar was, and his dirty little hand closed eagerly over the coin that I. Marma-duke Drake held out to him. Then he slipped hastily out of the room.

I. Marmaduke Drake went back to his guitar; he had plenty of time to practise; it wasn't until late in the afternoon that Alice Thorne came.

She took a piece of paper from her purse and passed it to Marmaduke Drake.

"I've just come from Mr. Nairne's Office," she explained. "I showed him this note from my father. There really wasn't any use in doing that, because I think I was supposed to take it to Mr. Duncan Nairne. My father apparently doesn't know that poor Mr. Nairne is dead." She stopped, then went on:

"I don't understand it. It's such a funny, pathetic little note. Why doesn't my father write instead of printing his words? Do you— do you suppose it means something special, that it would have signified something to old Mr. Nairne if he were alive? My father is in the Secret Service, you know— Mr. Thorne told me so— and perhaps he can't communicate with anybody in the ordinary way; it might be dangerous."

I, Marmaduke Drake wasn't looking at the note she had given him, instead he was studying her. There was a wistful charm about her anxiety. Something told him that she was really Devil Darrell's daughter, and that she was in total ignorance of what had happened to her father. But then—"

"You told Mr. Nairne that you were Devil Darrell's daughter," I, Marmaduke Drake said gently. "If that is so, why do you call yourself Alice Thorne— who is Mr. Thorne?"

Her color deepened.

"Until two years ago," she said, "I always thought Mr. Thorne was my father. I was brought up by the Thornes. Mr. Thorne was a great friend of my father's, was in the war with him. It was all explained to me when I was eighteen, just before I left England and came over here.

"You see, my father's work was dangerous, and he had so many enemies that he was afraid that they might harm me if they couldn't get at him, so at my father's request the Thornes brought me up as their child and later, two years ago, my father became more worried, thought someone might discover the secret, so he sent a message to Mr. Thorne and I came here.

"It was then that Mr. Thorne told me about my father and how brave he had been, why everyone called him Devil Darrell because he wasn't afraid of anything, how he would come to me one of these days, and that I must always love him. It must have been hard for Father to be separated from me, you can see that from his note."

Marmaduke Drake could see it all, the simple conspiracy devised by Thorne and Darrell to keep the truth from the girl.

But why had they told her her father's real name? Why hadn't they told her his name was Smith or Jones?

I MARMADUKE DRAKE looked down at the note in his hand. It was, as she had said, crudely printed in pencil. The words were spaced widely apart. Marmaduke Drake knew the reason for that. He read it carefully. On the face of it it was a simple, innocuous message.

Alice, My Daughter,

Take this to Nairne at once so that he'll be convinced that I'm perfectly well. I'm really dying to see you dear and will do everything I can to try and get to you be-fore it's too late; to get you to understand how I've been unable to map out my own destiny; why I yielded to circumstances; you must have wondered before now if in the end I would ever take the trouble to come to you. My dear I care for you more than anything in the world. I think of you constantly and my one thought is your happiness my girl.

Your Father.

From out of his desk I. Marmaduke Drake took the cardboard that John Nairne had left with him. "Excuse me a minute," he said. He went into Mary Gaylor's room, shutting the door behind him. He placed the note down on Mary's desk and the cardboard stencil on top of the note.

Hr had trouble fitting it over the note so that the slots would come in the right places. The paper was larger than the cardboard, but he got it shortly. By lining up the lower right-hand corner of the note with the lower right-hand corner of the cardboard he found the hidden message. He took a pencil and ran it around the edges of the slots, then lifted up the stencil. Probably the first thing that Devil Darrell had done the minute he had escaped was to send this message:

I'm dying. Will try to get map to you before end. Take care of my girl.

All the pathos, all the horror of Devil Darrell's life and the love for his daughter, as well as his final desperate effort to provide for her, were in those sixteen words. Marmaduke Drake could visualise him getting the note off, then travelling to the West Country— where he had hidden the gold— for the purpose of making a map with appropriate landmarks, so that Duncan Nairne couldn't fail to find it.

He must have had the code hidden in one place and the gold in another, or he would have made the map then and there and sent it along with the note. And then came stark tragedy.

Devil Darrell was recaptured, probably for the reason that he went back to the scene of his crime, was recaptured before he could make the map!

I. Marmaduke Drake stood there considering. He couldn't tell the girl about this, it would break her heart. Just how he could keep it from her indefinitely he didn't know. He wanted time to think. He wished now he hadn't marked those words in pencil. She might want the note back.

He could just as well have read it through the slots without mark-ing it. He stood there for a minute longer, conscious of Mary Gaylor's wide, blue eyes resting on him. Then he came to a decision. He stuck the note and the stencil into his pocket and went back into his own room.

"I've taken the liberty," he said to Alice Thorne, "of sending that note on to an expert. It occurred to me that it might contain some hidden meaning and that that was the reason your father wanted you to take it to Mr. Nairne, who could have explained it to you if he had been alive. You don't mind, do you?"

"No, I don't mind," she said. "You're probably right. That would fit in with what Mr. Thorne told me about my father being in the Secret Service, and why the note was printed instead of being written. Will you let me know?"

"Of course." He held out his hand and smiled.

"Do you-did Mr. Nairne tell you about what happened in his office the other day?"

I. Marmaduke Drake nodded.

"I hope," she went on hesitantly, while the color mounted once more to her cheeks, "he won't get into any trouble over that— Mr. Nairne, I mean. I hope he himself isn't in any danger. I've been terribly worried over the whole thing. I got there right after it happened. Mr. Seeby, the man who was killed, was one of the men—"

"Yes, I know. Young Nairne told me all about it," I. Marmaduke Drake said. "As for young Nairne, I'll do my best to see that he doesn't get into any trouble." Marmaduke Drake smiled again. "You and he ought to see something of each other," he added. "I imagine your father and old Duncan Nairne were the best of friends."

TWO DAYS later Major Blackminster strode into Moe Kydid's little shop on Second Avenue. He found the shop itself empty. Cousin Jacob wasn't there. But the door of the back room was open, and here he discovered Moe Kydid en-sconced in his enormous armchair beside the coal stove, looking smaller, thinner, and older than usual. He was holding his huge shears in his lap, making snipping sounds as he squinted thoughtfully into space. The major sank down on the sofa.

"I haven't been able to find her," he said abstractedly.

Moe Kydid raised his head and looked at the major.

"Maybe you vouldn't vant to," he declared thinly.

"What you you mean by that?" The major frowned.

Moe Kydid nodded several times in a mechancial fashion.

"Maybe you don't try so hard to find her," he observed.

Blackminster jerked his head up angrily.

"It's like looking for a needle in a haystack. Rather a job, you know, finding a person in a city of this size when you don't know her address."

Moe Kydid leaned forward in his chair.

"Vhat. should you be afraid of?" he asked. "Your friend Devil Darrell, he's in gaol."

"I'm not afraid of anything— or anybody," the major blustered. "Just the same. Devil Darrell got out once and he might get out again, and if we did anything to his daughter and he got out—"

He stopped. There was a certain apprehension in his face.

"Funny," Moe said, "a strong, big man you are, Major, but you're afraid, afraid of a man in gaol, and me, you understand, little Moe Kydid, he's not afraid." His eyes shone yellow-green. He made a playful stabbing motion towards the major with his shears.

Major Blackminster looked with loathing at Moe.

"I don't like the whole business," he protested. "Devil Darrell is one of us. He's a chum of mine. We fought in the war together. What you're planning to do to him, to his daughter, isn't cricket."

"Cricket, it doesn't interest me," Moe Kydid said evenly. "You got funny feelings sometimes. Major. Ben Seeby, he fought in the var vith you. too. but when he dies you should vorry; that doesn't mean anything; but if something it should happen to Devil Darrell's daughter so that ve should get our money, right away you got a conscience. You and your friends, you steal a million dollars, but Vhen little Moe Kydid says maybe you should bring in a little jewellery once in a vhile, you say you're no thief."

The major turned his head away to hide the rage in his eyes.

"That was different," he barked. "That gold didn't belong to anyone in particular. It was the Government's gold, England's gold, and England had let us down. We fought for her In the war, went through hell for her. and what hap-pened when we got home? Did anybody help us? Was there anybody ready to give us a job to pay for the hell we'd gone through? No, we starved; nobody cared!"

"SURE, sure," Moe Kydid said. The venom went out of his eyes, grew veiled. "But I don't understand it vhy you shouldn't like it if something happens to the girl."

"She's Devil Darrell's daughter."

"Ai, ai, vhat fine feelings—"

The sound of the bell from the outer door interrupted Moe Kydid. He rose and shuffled out. Through the half-open door the major could see a uniformed messenger and when Moe Kydid came back he had an envelope in his hand. He inserted his thin finger under the flap, opened it and took out what was obviously a cable. He read it slowly, several times over, it seemed to the major, then, without comment, lifted the stove lid and dropped the message on to the glowing coals.

"What is it?" Blackminster demanded sharply.

"Vhat is it?" Moe Kydid mimicked him fiercely. "How do ve know your friend von't cheat us? He's de only one who knows vhere de gold is. He could take it and instead of vorking with Anselm, my brother, he could vork vid someone else. It's funny de vay he acts—"

"What are you talking about?" The major eyed the other, his eyes dark with suspicion. "Did your brother get a message to Devil Darrell," he asked suddenly, "that his daughter was in trouble, that we were holding her?"

"Sure, sure," Moe Kydid answered impatiently. "He got it to him right after they caught him vhen, like the schlemiel he is, he tried to run away."

The major's eyes snapped.

"That was before you told me," he said, "long before you told me you were going to do that."

"Vell, do I have to tell you everything?"

The major's nerves were frayed to the breaking point. Everything had gone wrong during the last few weeks. First old Duncan Nairne had died, his only means of communicating with Devil Darrell, and the code was gone; then Seeby had tried to betray them; then Darrell had tried to escape and had been recaptured, thus lengthening the period of his incarceration by years; and now-and somehow this seemed the most serious calamity of allMoe Kydld had suddenly taken over the entire affair.

Blackminster had a feeling that he had been pushed aside, was no longer in control of the situation, that it wasn't a question of his and Devil Darrell's dividing the loot and paying Moe and his brother Anselm a reasonable commission for their services, but that he would be lucky in the end if he and Devil Darrell got anything at all.

"Vell?" Moe Kydid broke in on his thoughts.

"Well what?" the major snarled. "If you mean what about finding the girl, why don't you find her yourself if you're so smart?"

"Like all soldiers, a simple mind you got, Major," Moe Kydid said. "Look at it this vay. Vhat's to hinder Devil Darrell from taking the gold and finding somebody like Anselm who vould give him cash for it or some good securities maybe and sending them on to his daughter? Nobody could take it away from her, you understand. There vouldn't be no evidence that it was from the gold. And then vhere vould ve be? You got to figure on those things, Major. Don't it look funny to you that he should try to run avay vhen he's only got to vait a couple of months?"

"And supposing he does?" the major asked. "Even supposing that now when he can't get out he discloses the hiding-place to somebody else whom he can trust and makes a deal with whoever it is to whack up with his girl, what good will it do us to hold the girl? Even if we made her turn the money over to us, she'd get after us the minute we'd let her go."

"Ai, ai," Moe Kydid shook his head; then unexpectedly asked, "Vhat happened to that man of yours? Vhere is he?"

"Never mind Pundahb," the major said; "just answer my question."

"You're a funny fellow," Moe Kydid said musingly. "Vhat's the difference If it's a girl or a man? She could make a vill, couldn't she, or something, leaving all that good money to us, or maybe Devil Darrell vould give the money to us, you understand, if he knew something vas going to happen to her, like I told you already."

The major gave an unpleasant laugh.

"You're not as bright as you think you are. Moe. She could always make another will afterwards, invalidating the first."

"Sure, sure," Moe Kydid said complacently, "if she had time." He ran a thumb gently along a blade of his shears.

The major lost some of his color. "We've got to find her first," he mumbled after a long time.

"Jacob is out looking for her now," Moe said. "I think maybe Jacob vill find her."

I. MARMADUKE DRAKE, in his leisurely way, drifted into John Nairne's office. There was nothing about him to indicate the savage irritation he felt. Days had gone by and nothing had happened, confining him to an inactivity which he couldn't stand.

He had enlisted the services of his "staff"— "Butch" Tanner, Mr. Agousta, Mrs. Lannigen, and various other characters whom he occa-sionally subsidised with small sums and had instructed them all to be on the look-out for a man in a turban, and they in turn had passed the word on to all their friends and relatives.

On the whole, it made quite a sizable army, distributed over every quarter of the city, that was looking for the Indian. Yet no one had located lum. Nor had Tony, the bootblack, who was on guard in the hall that led to Nairne's office, and who stared at John Nairne without a sign of recognition as the latter passed him on his way in, had anything to report. The whole thing aggravated I. Marmaduke Drake almost beyond endurance.

"Anything turn up?" he asked John Nairne.

John Nairne shook his head.

"Nothing," he said morosely, "nothing special that is. Somebody came in this morning looking for Alice Thorne or rather Alice Darrell."

"Who was it?" Marmaduke Drake asked quickly.

"I don't know. I didn't ask his name. He represented some solicitor in London. He didn't say much, except that he had some informa-tion for her that would interest her, so I gave him her address."

I. Marmaduke Drake glared with exasperation.

"I keep you sitting here day after day just so that you'd let me know the minute something like that happened and a man comes in— to you of all people— to find Alice Thorne. Didn't that make you suspicious right away? Why should a stranger wander in here looking for her? How did he know you knew her? And all you do is just hand out her address. You don't even try to find out his name; you don't try to have him followed I told you Tony was hanging around out there in the hall. Why in heaven's name should anyone come to you looking for her?"

John Nairne flushed.

"He explained all that." he said a little stiffly. "According to the information they had in London my father was a friend of her father's, and in trying to trace her they thought there was a chance that he would know where she was. I don't see anything suspicious about it. Be-sides, we can probably find out from Miss Thorne easily enough who my visitor was and what he wanted."

I. Marmaduke Drake restrained himself with difficulty.

"That brings me to one of the reasons I came here," he said a little uncomfortably. "I want you to go and see Alice Thorne. There's something that I think she ought to know, something that's not very pleasant for her to find out; something I think that perhaps she'd rather hear from you than from anyone else."

"What is it?"

"You're not going to like it very much yourself," I. Marmaduke Drake said, "but before you pass judgment on your father and the others, consider the circumstances. They had just got back from the war. Lots of men who came back weren't quite themselves, did things they wouldn't have done if they'd been... well, if they'd been quite normal."

John Nairne, every muscle in his body taut, his eyes far back in his head, said: "Go ahead, tell me."

"Some sixteen years ago five men stole a million dollars in bullion. One of them, Devil Darrell, got caught and is in prison. Before they got him he had a chance to hide the gold. It's never been found and it won't be found till Devil Darrell chooses to disclose its hiding-place."

"Who were the others?" John Nairne rasped.

"Seeby, a Major Blackminster, an Indian..."

John Nairne, his face grey and drawn, finished the sentence for him.

"My father."

I. Marmaduke Drake nodded.

John Nairne looked with vacant eyes into space.

"The girl," he said after a long time, "she doesn't know about this. You can take my word for it. She's just as innocent in this as I am. She thinks her father is in the Secret Service."

"You like her, don't you?" I. Marmaduke Drake said. "And I'm pretty sure she likes you, and it's going to make it easier for you to tell her than for me."

"Why does she have to know? He's going to get out some time and she may never have to know." He broke off abruptly. His eyes lit up. "I've got it," he said. "He sent her a message through my father not long ago— 'Three months more.' That's what he must have meant, that he'd be out in three months."

"That's when he would have been out," I. Marmaduke Drake said, "if he hadn't tried to escape. They caught him again and it'll be years more now. What's more she's never going to see him. Devil Darrell is dying."

John Nairne rose.

"You think I'm a fool, Drake. I know it, and you'll think me more of a one when I tell you this. I'm in love with Alice Thorne. That doesn't make sense, does it, to be in love with a girl you've seen twice, each time for only a few moments? I'm in love with her and I can't tell her the thing you're asking me to. It would break her heart."

"She's got to know," I. Marmaduke Drake said sternly. "Don't forget her father is dying. She may want to go and see him before the end. We haven't any right to withhold that from her."

"How do you know he's dying?" "Because it was in that note that she brought down to you. The note contained a secret message. Here—" He took Devil Darrell's message from his pocket and placed it on the desk. With his long forefinger he pointed at the words that were outlined in pencil. "That's where the slots were in the card-board you gave me. That's the message.

"We owe it to Devil Darrell, too. Devil Darrell was quite a man, Nairne. He and your father were friends. Your father was the only one he trusted; that's why he was the only one who had the code. And Devil Darrell loves his girl, and we've got to give him his chance to see her before he dies, even though he may not want us to."

John Nairne made his mouth into a thin line. For many seconds they faced each other in tense silence, till at last John Nairne said: .

"All right, you win."

"Good man," said Marmaduke Drake. He added:

"Take her out to dinner— or something. Here's some money."

ALICE THORNE, toying with the stem of her cocktail glass, looked with warm, friendly eyes at John Nairne.

"It was nice of you to do this," she said. "I haven't many friends, even though I've been here two years; no men friends at all— that I like. I really hate eating alone."

John Nairne tried to smile and found it difficult.

"You're not eating," she said: "it's good. I don't know when I've en-joyed a meal so much. Maybe it's— it's the company."

"I'm not very gay," he said miserably, "but I won't be like this all the time. There's something on my mind. The next time we go out together I'll be different. You'll understand."

"Is there going to be a next time?" she asked gaily, trying to lift him.

"I hope so."

She put down her fork and looked at him with troubled eyes.

"What is it?" she asked a little breathlessly. "You're in some difficulty. Tell me. You must tell me. You'll feel better if you tell somebody else, even if it's somebody like me, who can't help much. But I'll try."

John Nairne looked about the room. There weren't many guests and none were near them. He reached his hand across the table, palm upwards, and unhesitatingly she placed hers in his.

"There's something I have to tell you, Alice," he said, "but before I tell you, there's something else I want you to know. This is only the third time I've seen you and yet I feel as if I've known you a long time, as though we had always been destined to know each other. I think you're the loveliest person I've ever met.

"All I want to do is to shield you, to protect you, keep anything un-pleasant or that would hurt away from you, and I can't"— his voice broke— "and I can't do it." His grip on her hand tightened, as though he were afraid she might take hers away. "But I love you, love you more than anything in the world. You believe that, don't you? You must believe it."

"Yes, I believe it, John." Her voice was level. "What else is there you want to tell me?"

John Nairne felt his throat go dry. "I don't want to tell you," he man-aged at last, "but I have to, and yet... I can't..."

A startled, frightened look came into her eyes.

"Is it— is it something about you— about me?"

He shook his head.

"Is it about my father? Has something happened to him?"

He let go her hand and gripped the edge of the table. The knuckles showed white; his face was grey.

"Tell me," she breathed; "tell me." Her tone was tense but insistent.

"It's about your father," he whispered, not recognising his own voice, "and about mme. I've thought about it a lot, Alice, and I don't blame my father and you mustn't blame yours. Remember they were in the war together. They went through hell. Your father's war record was all that they said it was. He was wonderful. But when it was over their sense of values was destroyed."

He stopped. She was staring at him wide-eyed. A small hand was across her lips, as though to choke oft a cry. He felt he couldn't go on, he couldn't— but he did. An inspiration had come to him. He'd lie, he'd lie himself blue in the face, even though she'd despise him for the rest of her days.

"It was all my father's fault," he said, "my father's and Seeby's and a couple of others. It was their idea. They planned to rob a bank of a million dollars' worth of gold. They were out of jobs, desperate and bitter towards the country for which they had fought, for which they had suffered, a country that was ready to forget them the instant the war was over. There were four of them and they asked your father to make a fifth. He wouldn't do it; he tried to keep them from doing it, but they were determined.

"He asked them how they were going to proceed, and when they told him he realised instantly that they couldn't succeed, that there wasn't one of them had the brains or the daring to carry it out, that what they needed was somebody like himself.... He joined them, Alice, not out of greed, not because he wanted the gold, but just out of loyalty to his old comrades in arms.

"It's really wonderful when you come to think of it, Alice," John Nairne rushed on, "nobody could blame him for choosing to stand by the men who had fought with him. That meant more to him than the laws of a society that could un-feelingly put men through such a hell as they had been through. You've got to admire loyàlty like that, Alice. You've got to— well, you've got to take your hat off to a man like Devil Darrell," he blundered on.

Alice Thome's face was white. Two tears trickled down her cheeks. In a ghostlike whisper she said:

"I love my father. I love him the way he was in the war. What happened to him?"

John Nairne swallowed hard. He ran a hand across his damp fore-head. He couldn't stand much more of this. He'd tell her the whole awful business at one fell swoop and get it over with. He couldn't soften the blow any more than he had. In a tone that was scarcely audible, he saiad:

"That's the horrible part of it, the ironic injustice of it all. Your father, who only went into this thing for the sake of the others, to help his friends, was the only one who was caught; he was sent to prison, while the others got away." He heard her moan, but he steeled himself to go on. "He's a sick man, Alice, he's dying, that's why I had to tell you. You've got to go to him before it's too late. He loves you. It was in that note he sent you, the note he thought would reach my father. There was a message concealed in that. Drake discovered it. It reads: 'I'm dying. Take care of my girl.' "

Deliberately, John Nairne concealed the part about the map.

"You see, he's thinking about you right up to the end and he knew that he could trust my father to look out for you, just as he trusted Thorne to help him cover up the real facts. He hopes you'll never find out and maybe I shouldn't have told you, but somehow or other it didn't seem right. I can't tell you how hard it is for me; anyway, it doesn't matter about me, it's only you."

Alice Thorne dropped her head on to the table and buried it in her arms. She was crying softly.

Minutes went by before she raised her head and looked at John Nairne through tear-dimmed eyes. In a voice that was wonderfully steady, considering what she had just been through, she said:

"Thank you."

"Why thank me?" John Nairne said in a strained voice.

"Thank you for telling me, for being so considerate, and thank you most of all for lying. You're not a very good liar, John Nairne, and it must have cost you a lot to put all the blame on your father and exonerate mine; only you see, I can guess how it was, how they were all in it equally. Somehow, too. you've made me see how it could have happened. You've been very kind..."

"It's just— it's just, that I love you."

It sounded totally inadequate, terribly clumsy to him as he said it, but not so to her. A wan little smile came to her lips.

"I know," she said, "I know... and it's the only thing that makes it bearable."

She rose.

John Nairne flung a few notes on the table, more than enough to cover the bill, picked up his hat and coat from the bench beside him and led her outside.

The night was misty. Wet snow-flakes were falling softly.

John Nairne signalled to a cruising cab.

"I'll see you home," he said.

Tliey rode for blocks and she never spoke and neither did John Nairne. But when they were almost at her house she reached out her hand groping for him and found both of John Nairne's hands waiting for her.

The cab slid to a stop. John Nairne helped her out. A man was standing in front of her house; his collar was turned up, his derby was pushed down to his ears. As they started up the stoop, the man said:

"COULD you tell me, please, if Miss Darrell lives here?"

John Nairne had a sudden feeling of alertness, a premonition of something he couldn't explain to himself; also he thought that the voice sounded familiar. He started to say something, but before he could get it out Alice broke in.

"I am Miss Darrell. What did you want to see me about?"

"Me, I don't vant to see you," the man said. "There's somebody else, somebody your father sent, who vants to talk to you. I've got a cab vaiting. I can take you to him."

And now John Nairne knew who the stranger was. It was the man who had come to his office to get Alice Thorne's address.

"If somebody has a message for Miss Darrell," John Nairne said, "why can't he come here?"

Moe Kydid's cousin Jacob was a man of few words, but they were always to the point.

"Because he's sick he couldn't come here," he said promptly. "He's got to see Miss Darrell right way, othervise  you understand, it might be too late."

Alice Thorne hesitated only a second.

"Where is your cab?" she said excitedly.

"Just a minute," John Nairne said. "Who is this man?"

"I don't know," Cousin Jacob said, "but you remember me, Mr. Nairne, don't you? I vas to your office looking for Miss Darrell."

"Yes, I remember you. And perhaps we'd better postpone this visit to your friend till morning. It's pretty late to-night."

"Vell, it's up to you: only maybe then it's too late. I don't know vhy you should vorry, it's only a poor little man who shouldn't hurt nobody in a little tailor shop on Second Avenue."

"I've got to go," Alice said. "If he's got a message from my father—"

"All right," John Nairne said, "but I'm going, too."

Cousin Jacob brushed some snow-flakes from the lapels of his coat.

"Vhy not?" he said.

AT THAT late hour I. Marmaduke Drake still sat in John Nairne's office. There was a worried expression on his face. He was wondering whether what he had in mind could possibly be accomplished or do any good. Presently, he heard the outer door thrown open with more than ordinary violence, then the door of the room in which he sat, and Sergeant Graber came in.

"What's the idea of getting me down here at this hour?" the sergeant growled.

"I thought we'd better do it from here than from headquarters," I. Marmaduke Drake said lazily.

"Do what?"

"Do something that I suppose has never been done before, call up a prison in England and ask to talk to one of the inmates. I want to talk, or rather I want you to talk, to the warden of Delmoor Prison and persuade him to let me speak to Devil Darrell."

Sergeant Gruber stared at him open-mouthed.

"Are you nuts?" he bellowed.

"I've got to talk to him," I. Marmaduke Drake persisted unper-turbed. "That's why I got you here. You can tell the warden that it's official, that you're from head-quarters and that it's important; tell him there might be a chan'ce of recovering the gold that was stolen, tell him anything, only fix it so that I can talk with Devil Darrell."

"Where do you think that's gonna get you? What is this, anyhow? I don't give a hoot about Devil Darrell. I'm only interested in finding the guy who killed Seeby."

"That'll come later," Marmaduke Drake said. He pushed the phone towards the sergeant. "Just now I'm interested in seeing that nothing happens to young Nairne or perhaps to Devil Darrell's daughter, and my guess is that neither one of them is safe until it's definitely established that the gold has been returned."

Sergeant Gruber stared at the other as though he considered him slightly demented.

"If I play along long enough with you," he growled, "I'll find myself back pounding a beat in Canarsie."

"Call him up," said I. Marmaduke Drake. "It's going to help you. If anything goes wrong, I'll take all the blame at headquarters. I'll say it was I who called and used your name."

Sergeant Gruber growled something unintelligible. He hesitated for a time, then he picked up the receiver and put in the call.

"While we're waiting," he said, "here's a bit of news for you, a bit of news that'll put an end to one of your pipe dreams anyway. We found the Indian."

I. Marmaduke Drake straightened up in his chair. His right eyelid came down as though with a bang. He hastily fished out his monocle and propped it up into place.

"You have?"

"Yeah, we have," Gruber said caustically, "found him in the East River. Down at the morgue they say he's been dead for more than two weeks, long before Seeby was killed. Laugh that one off."

For once I. Marmaduke Drake had no adequate reply.

"Gruber," he said finally, with an unaccustomed note of humbleness in his voice, "this thing is driving me crazy. For once I don't know what I'm doing. I could have bet a million dollars that it was the Indian

The telephone rang sharply.

Sergeant Gruber snatched up the receiver. There was a half-minute delay while the operator told him that England was ready, then the sergeant found himself connected with the warden.

In a tone that was a mixture of pomposity and apology, the sergeant explained who he was and why he was calling. One of his men, he said, wanted to talk to a prisoner named Mark Darrell— Devil Darrell; it was of vital importance, not only in connection with a murder that had been committed in the United States, but might also result in the recovery of the bullion stolen from Kemberley's Bank more than sixteen years ago.

He hoped the warden would forgive him for calling at this unearthly hour, but every minute was of vital importance. Then he stopped talking and listened. He listened for a long time, so long in fact that I. Marmaduke Drake was under the impression that they were sending for Devil Darrell at the other end and that that accounted for the sergeant's lengthy silence.

He was totally unprepared for what happened next. Sergeant Gruber said:

"Thank you very much, Warden. Sorry to have bothered you. Any time you want anything from us, don't hesitate," and then the sergeant hung up.

"What did you hang up forwouldn't he put Darrell on?" I. Marmaduke Drake said in an aggrieved tone.

"Any time you got any other bright idea," Gruber said dis-gustedly, "let me know. No, he wouldn't let me talk to Devil Darrell."

"Those confounded Englishmen-" Marmaduke Drake began.

"The reason he wouldn't let you or me or anyone else talk to Devil Darrell," the sergeant interrupted, "is that Devil Darrell isn't there. Devil Darrell escaped the day after they recaptured him."

MARMADUKE DRAKE'S monocle popped out of his eye, but he managed to catch it.

"That's more than two weeks ago."

"Yes, so what?" Graber said sarcastically. "They've been keeping it quiet, so quiet that not even Scotland Yard tipped me off when they gave me that report. They figured they might pick up Devil Darrell's trail and that he might lead them to the other four guys who were in the robbery."

"But if he's been out more than two weeks, why haven't we heard from him? Why—"

"What did you expect him to do— drop you a line?"

"Not me," said I. Marmaduke Drake, in a bewildered way, "but—but—somebody."

"You're wonderful," said the sergeant, his face a picture of disgust. "I'm sick of playing marbles with you. To-morrow I'm going to take your young friend, Mr. John Nairne, down to headquarters. With a few boys working over him I guess we'll sweat the truth out of him."

With that the sergeant clamped his hat down on his head and strode out of the room.

For minutes I. Marmaduke Drake sat there lost in thought, a reverie from which he was roused by the telephone ringing once more. He picked up the receiver in a listless way and heard Mary Gaylor's voice on the other end.

"I thought I'd tell you," she said, "that Tony was in here to report that he didn't find your man with the turban, but he followed somebody else. I guess he wanted to earn another half dollar. He followed some man who had called on Mr. Nairne to a tailor shop on Second Avenue."

Mary Gaylor spoke quickly, anxiously. She was perfectly certain that what she had to say wasn't of the slightest importance. Her real reason for calling was to make sure that nothing had happened to I. Marmaduke Drake. He was never on a case when she wasn't convinced that it would be his last and that he would come to an untimely end.

On the back of an envelope I. Marmaduke Drake mechanically scribbled the address of the tailor shop which she gave him. In response to her, "Are you all right?" he said with unintentional gruffness: "Why wouldn't I be all right? It's nonsense for you to be hanging around the office at this hour of the night. Go on home." Then he hung up.

FOR THREE DAYS I. Marmaduke Drake alternated between a dismal depression and unbridled rage. John Nairne had disappeared, and Alice Thorne, to whose house Marmaduke Drake had gone in the hope that she might be able to give him some information concerning Nairne, had also apparently vanished from the face of the earth.

To add to his difficulties, Sergeant Gruber was literally frothing at the mouth. The sergeant insisted that Marmaduke Drake had spirited John Nairne away to keep him out of the law's clutches and in vain Marma-duke Drake protested. The sergeant wouldn't believe him, threatened to arrest him for obstructing justice and all sorts of dire consequences.

From morning to night Marmaduke Drake wrung gloomy notes from his guitar without getting an inspiration. His incessant playing almost drove his secretary, Mary Gaylor, to distraction, and she was grateful for the hour or two each day that he spent at John Nairne's office in the vain hope that something might turn up there. What irritated him most of all was the fact that he appeared unable to concentrate properly on the problem.

Whenever he tried to think it out, tried to find some thread which he could follow and which would lead him somewhere, Devil Darrell kept crowding into his mind, occupying it to the exclusion of all else. Devil Darrell had been at large for more than two weeks and yet no word had come from him. He hadn't sent that map he had promised to send, he hadn't written his daughter or old Duncan Nairne.

I. Marmaduke Drake looked at his watch. It was half-past four. He rapped on the radiator with the screw-driver, and Mary Gaylor came in.

"I'm going home," he said; "you might as well go, too."

"Tony's coming back," she said. "He was in this afternoon while you were at Mr. Nairne's office. I suppose he thinks you'll pay him something for trailing that man to the tailor shop."

"Tailor shop? What tailor shop?" Then suddenly comprehension dawned on Marmaduke Drake's face.

What an idiot he had been to have forgotten that! Tony had trailed the man who had gone to John Nairne's office to get Alice Thorne's address. There must be something in that. He fumbled in his pocket for the envelope on which he had written the address.

There it was, Moe Kydid, and the address was on Second Avenue,

Just below Forty-second Street.

I. Marmaduke Drake seized his hat and coat.

"When Tony comes," he said, "keep him here for a while. I'm going up to that tailor shop now and I might want to send for Tony to pick out the man he tailed."

With that he rushed out.

He thought, of taking a taxi-cab, but decided that the subway was quicker.

He got out at Forty-second Street and made his way, long strides, over to Second Avenue, followed by the indignant glances of the pedestrians whom he jostled in a heedless way. Across the street from Moe Kydid's tailor shop he came to a halt. Darkness was beginning to set in. There were no lights in the little building that housed Moe Kydid's shop, save one on the ground floor, where the shop was located.

Marmaduke Drake stood there watching. He saw no one go in or come out, no sign of activity of any sort. Perhaps it was this that made him feel that there was some sinis-ter quality about that little house. He waited another few minutes, then walked across. He seized the door-knob, opened it, heard it strike and set tinkling the bell overhead.

There were two men in the dimly-lighted shop, one a small, hollowchested little man with a yellow, wrinkled face, who seemed very old, and a second individual, younger, and of heavier build.

Marmaduke Drake turned to the smaller and older of the two, who was sitting on a small stool with his spindly legs pulled up and his heels poked to the rung of his chair, working on a pair of trousers.

"I'm looking for Moe Kydid," Marmaduke Drake said.

The little man glanced at him with half-closed, unreadable eyes.

"Moe Kydid is me," he said.

"I've got a message," said Marmaduke Drake, "for Mark Darrell's daughter."

Moe Kydid's face remained inscrutable, save for an inquiring look he directed at Cousin Jacob, who was busy ironing the sleeve of a much-worn overcoat. Cousin Jacob shook his head without looking up.

"Ve don't know anybody like that," Moe Kydid said. "Maybe you come to the wrong place, mister. Maybe she lives next door."

"MAYBE you know a Mr. Nairne?" I. Marmaduke Drake asked stolidly.

Moe Kydid looked at Cousin Jacob. Cousin Jacob shook his head.

"No, ve don't know no Mr. Nairne."

"How about Ben Seeby?"

For the third time, as though it were a ritual, Moe Kydid looked at Cousin Jacob and Jacob again shook his head.

I. Marmaduke Drake frowned. He was up against a stone wall. Perhaps Tony had made a mistake and the man he followed wasn't one of these two at all. They might really be as ignorant as they appeared. They certainly looked like a harmless pair.

He was on the point of saying something to the effect that he was sorry he had bothered them and taking his departure, when the door that led into the back room opened and a man came into the shop, a man whom I. Marmaduke Drake recognised instantly as the man who had come to him in Nairne's office, the man who had given his name as Ned Brown.

Apparently, Ned Brown wasn't immediately aware of the fact that there was a stranger in the shop; perhaps the fact that he was angry, fiercely sullen, made him burst out before he realised it.

"I can't do a thing with her—" He stopped as he caught sight of Marmaduke Drake.

I. Marmaduke Drake's mouth hardened. His eyes grew bleak.

"An old friend," he said softly,

"Mr. Ned Brown."

Major Blackminster scowled at him. Recognition was mutual.

"What are you doing here?" he rasped.

"Nothing," said I. Marmaduke Drake, "nothing just yet— but I'm thinking of having a look round."

Cousin Jacob brought his iron down sharply on the overcoat and ran it to and fro with unwonted energy, but he said nothing. Moe Kydid made a little hissing sound between his lips, but he kept his squinty eyes on the frayed trousers he was attempting to mend. There was a baffled expression on the major's face for a second, then the scowl came back.

"Get out," he bellowed, "and stay out."

I. Marmaduke Drake looked about for a chair, but there wasn't any, so he leaned against the door frame. His eye took in Ned Brown's build, his straight military bearing, considered his manner of speech, the speech of a man accustomed to giving orders, and had a sudden inspiration.

"They found the Indian, Major— the police found him in the river."

For a fraction of a second the major's schooled self-control deserted him. His eyes flickered. He let out an oath, then he recovered himself.

"I REMEMBER now," he barked, "you're the chap that talks in riddles."

"Yes," said I. Marmaduke Drake carelessly, "and I've come looking for answers."

Cousin Jacob turned the coat on his board and brought his iron down heavily on the second sleeve. Moe Kydid with his head bent to his work kept shaking it from side to side. He picked up the long shears that lay on the table next to him, cut the thread with which he had been sewing, then rose. Without a word he shuffled over to where I. Marmaduke Drake stood and his hand reached toward the door.

At first I. Marmaduke Drake thought that the little man wanted to open the- door and ask him to go, but then he realised that his intentions were the very opposite. He was reaching for the key, planning to turn it.

It flashed through I. Marmaduke Drake's mind that in a physical encounter he was a match for the three of them. He could slap Moe Kydid down before the latter was aware of what was happening to him and he wouldn't have much trouble with his partner; the only formidable one of the trio was Ned Brown, whom Marmaduke Drake felt confident was Major Blackminster, but the major, despite his vigorous physique, was no longer young and Marmaduke Drake felt confident that he could handle him along with the others. He would rather have enjoyed being locked up with this trio, save for one thing, they might be armed.

Moe Kydid's left hand closed on the key unhurriedly.

Marmaduke Drake let out a low laugh. It really amused him as he thought of what this puny little individual was attempting to do. His right hand shot out and closed about Moe Kydid's thin wrist with the thumb pressing down hard. He was looking into Moe Kydid's slitted eyes, a taunting look in his own.

He should have watched Moe Kydid more carefully, should have realised he was dealing with someone whose eyes would never betray him. He should have watched Moe Kydid's right hand, the one that held the shears. The blades were spread, they were flanking Marmaduke Drake's outstretched wrist.

Mere chance saved I. Marmaduke Drake. He glanced down at Moe Kydid's hand, to see if he had loosened his hold on the key, and so saw the shears, saw them just as the blades were about to snap.

Marmaduke Drake acted more by instinct than by reason. If he had let go of Moe Kydid's hand and attempted to draw back his own hand, those long, heavy blades would unquestionably have severed his fingers. Instead of drawing back he pushed his hand forward. The blades closed on his thick forearm protected by the sleeve of his coat. They made gashes in the cloth without penetrating to the flesh. I. Marmaduke Drake's left hand covered Moe Kydid's face with spread fingers. He gave the little man a savage shove that sent him spinning, reeling crazily, the shears clattering to the floor at Marmaduke Drake's feet.

Cousin Jacob came round from behind his ironing-board. He came on unhurriedly, stolidly, as though bent on performing an everyday task, the heavy iron in his hand.

Major Blackminster advanced a few steps. There was an ugly, blueblack automatic in his hand.

I. Marmaduke Drake, every muscle in his body taut, braced him-self to leap. He'd have to chance at least one shot from the gun.

Moe Kydid had stopped reeling. He was standing there taking in the scene with half-closed eyes.

"Vait," Moe Kydid said.

Cousin Jacob stopped in his tracks. The major frowned and looked at Moe Kydid.

"Maybe the gentleman vould like to come in the back room," Moe Kydid said, "vhere ve could talk things over better?"

I. Marmaduke Drake laughed— not a pleasant laugh. Little Moe Kydid was the brains of the outfit. He didn't want any rumpus, any shooting, in his store. It might bring on the neighbors or a passing policeman. He wanted Marmaduke Drake to come into the back room where he could be taken care of leisurely, without undue ruction.

MARMADUKE DRAKE had a notion that if he opened the door and walked out nothing would happen to him, that Moe Kydid wouldn't let the major shoot, but Marmaduke Drake couldn't leave. He hadn't forgotten the major's first words when he had come in: "I can't do a thing with her—" He couldn't leave without finding out to whom those words referred. Was it Alice Thorne?

"Maybe everything can be straightened out, you understand," Moe Kydid said in a tone that was full of promise.

"We'll straighten it out right here," said I. Marmaduke Drake tersely. He stooped down and picked up Moe Kydid's shears. He glanced briefly at the blades, then his eyes narrowed. The blades were stained with some reddish-brown substance that had dried and came off easily. I. Marmaduke Drake, his face more grim, turned to Moe Kydid. "Blood?" he asked.

"Ai, ai, vhy should it be blood?" I. Marmaduke Drake's hand went for the door-knob.

The major's pistol came up, pointing at the third button of Marmaduke Drake's vest.

"Don't think I won't shoot," the major said. "Nothing's going to happen to us if we kill you. You broke into this place, and we've got a right to shoot you. Take your hand away from that knob."

I. Marmaduke Drake's hand dropped.

"Put down that iron, Jake," the major went on, "and tie him up."

Obediently Cousin Jacob put down the iron and fetched somp strips of cloth; he advanced on Marmaduke Drake.

With hands outstretched the latter went to meet him. They ought to have known him better than that, that he wouldn't be so docile. Before the major realised what had happened, I. Marmaduke Drake had manoeuvred himself around so that Jacob was between him and the major.

"Get out of the way, you fool," the major roared, even as I. Marmaduke Drake lashed out with a fist that landed flush on Cousin Jacob's chin.

The latter toppled backwards, would have bumped into the major if the major hadn't leapt to one side, but that instant's distraction gave Marmaduke Drake his chance. He leapt over the fallen Jacob and his huge hand had the major's wrist and was forcing it upwards, so that the gun was pointing towards the ceiling before the major could brace himself to take aim and fire.

The major lashed out with his free hand. Marmaduke Drake ducked the blow, gave the major's wrist a savage twist, and the gunslipped to the floor.

A growl of exultation came from deep down in Marmaduke Drake's throat. He was going to do a little cleaning up here now, and he'd start with the major. His fist went back, the blow started, but never landed. Moe Kydid had come up from behind. He had swung Cousin Jacob's iron. Had Moe Kydid been taller and stronger he would have killed Marmaduke Drake then and there.

As it was, the iron was too heavy for him, and he miscalculated his reach. The iron travelled in a semi-circle upwards. It struck Marmaduke Drake on the shoulder instead of on the back of the head as it was intended to. A sharp pain shot from his shoulder to his finger-tips. He staggered, his right arm useless at his side.

The major sprang for his gun and faced I. Marmaduke Drake, his face distorted, malign, his mouth twisted into an ugly line. There was for a second a horrible stillness in that dingy shop. Then it was broken in a startling way... the bell that hung over the door tinkled!

The door opened slowly. An extraordinarily tall man stood there with a head like a skeleton's, blue-grey skin drawn taut over gaunt cheek-bones.

Instinctively, of one accord, they faced him, while his dark, burning eyes travelled from one to the other.

There was something weird about him; something unearthly, something unhuman about his movements, as though they were directed by a force beyond himself. And now he turned his back on them; very carefully he closed the door, locked it, and slipped the key into his pocket; and then faced them again, fixing his great smouldering eyes on the major. He advanced a few steps, and in a queer, hollow voice he said:

"Don't you remember me, Blackie?"

Major Blackminster sucked in his breath. His eyes dilated as he stared at the newcomer.

"Devil Darrell!"

"Yes, Blackie. Where is my girl?" His words came slowly in a labored way.

Before Blackminster could answer, a fit of coughing seized Devil Darrell, a spasm that racked his tall, sparse frame from head to foot.

He looked around, his burning eyes moving in a dazed way. They rested only briefly on Moe Kydid, standing there taking it all in, motionless, they passed over Cousin Jacob struggling to his feet and came to rest on Marmaduke Drake.

"You Marmaduke Drake?"

I. Marmaduke Drake nodded.

"I got your message," Devil Darrell said, and turned back to Major Blackminster.

"Where's my girl?"

Major Blackminster avoided his glance.

"I— I don't know, but I'll find her for you. You can count on me. You know that."

"Where is she? Take me to her." Devil Darrell's voice came like the voice of a man speaking out of a deep cavern, yet there was something shattering about it, the tone of a man who would not be denied.

The major remained silent. He was looking at Moe Kydid. The latter was walking to and fro, his hands clasped behind his back, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind as he considered the in-tricacy of the situation that confronted him. He had considered every possibility for months, had thought of everything, but not this.

And the matter was further complicated by the presence of this huge, loose-jointed individual to whom Devil Darrell had referred as Marmaduke Drake. What was he doing in this, anyway? It was impossible to discuss the matter in front of him, but it was equally impossible to let him go. He'd have the police here in no time. And yet what could they do with him?

Instinct told Moe Kydid that Devil Darrell wouldn't stand for a cold-blooded murder, and certainly nothing must be done to offend Devil Darrell, a man who held the key to a million dollars. Moe Kydid came to a halt in front of Devil Darrell. With characteristic promptitude he had come to a decision.

"You shouldn't vorry about your daughter, Mr. Darrell," he said ingratiatingly. "I'll see that she should be all right. Maybe vhile you vas in prison you heard about by brother Anselm. Ve got influence, ve can fix everything. The major here he can tell it to you. Also he can tell you that ve have been taking care of him, vaiting for you to come out. It's a difficult business, but a nice profit there vill be in it for all of us."

One of his slitted eyes closed entirely and he motioned slightly with his head towards Marmaduke Drake, trying to make clear the reason for his ambiguous speech.

"He's referring to that million dollars' worth of bullion," I. Marmaduke Drake said dryly.

DEVIL DARRELL, who had listened to Moe Kydid as though he hadn't heard a single word, paid no attention to Marmaduke Drake's comment. He turned back to the major, and with devastating insistence said again:

"Where's Alice? I want to see my girl."

"What makes you think I know where she is?" Blackminster said, with angry petulance. Far less agile-minded than Moe Kydid, he saw no way of coping with the situation.

"Word got to me at Delmoor right after they brought me back," he paused for breath, then struggled on, "that she had been kidnapped and was being held for ransom, that you had to know where the gold was to find money for her release. We don't hear much in prison, but we hear enough to know that kidnappings are frequent here in the United States.

"I wasn't surprised at the kidnapping, but I was surprised that anybody should take Alice. They don't kidnap people who haven't any money... or whose relatives haven't any money... nobody knew there was any money in her case... except Duncan Nairne and Seeby and the Indian... and you."

Devil Darrell paused again. It seemed as though each sentence sapped him of his strength.

Moe Kydid ran his tongue across his lips. He wasn't looking at Devil Darrell at all. He was watching Marmaduke Drake.

"I could trust Duncan," Devil Darrell went on, "and Ben Seeby wouldn't have the courage; the Indian wouldn't know how to go about it. There was only you, Blackie, and when they sent word to me that you were trying to get her free, I knew... I knew that you were trying to get me to tell you where it was hidden. They couldn't keep me in prison after that. I got out the next day..."

"You shouldn't vorry about it for a minute, Mr. Darrell," Moe Kydid said soothingly.

Devil Darrell watched him walk past over to where Marmaduke Drake stood with no more interest than if he had been a fly.

"Mr. Drake." Moe Kydid said, "me, I don't hold grudges. Ve forget that little argument ve had. Maybe ve vas a little hasty. Like everybody, I betcha you could use some nice money, and I'm making you a partner right now. You know there's plenty for everybody. I heard you say it just now. A million dollars. You should get your share, too."

I. Marmaduke Drake said nothing. Something was going to happen and he was waiting.

Moe Kydid turned back to Devil Darrell.

"Now the first thing ve got to do is to get the money. Me and Mr. Darrell ve fix that in no time. He'll tell me and I'll send a cable to Anselm, my brother. A fool he is about some things, but about others he's smart. He gets us the cash right away."

For the first time something that Moe Kydid had said seemed to register with Devil Darrell.

"There isn't going to be any money for any of you... or for me. The gold is going back... back to the bank from which we stole it."

"You can't double-cross me like that," the major protested, with a roar, an insane glitter in his eyes, "not after all these years."

"What years?" Devil Darrell said. "Who paid for that gold with years? I did." And suddenly more strength came to his voice. "I paid for it, and I say it's going back." He seemed taller, more powerful, while his hot eyes burned challengingly into Blackminster's. Then with that deadly insistence he repeated: "And now where's my girl?"

Major Blackminster glowered back at Devil Darrell. His lips were drawn back from his teeth, the light of madness shone in his eyes, and yet there was fear in them, too. He was afraid of Devil Darrell...

"Listen, Devil, I've waited sixteen years. We were all in this together, all ran the same chances, it was just hard luck that you got caught. The others are all dead; there's just you and me. We can live the rest of our lives comfortably—"

"My life is over," Devil Darrell said. "Do I have to ask you again

"Tell me where the gold is and you can have the girl." The major's tone was almost shrill now.

Devil Darrell advanced two steps. The major's gun came out and covered him.

Moe Kydid sat on a stool, brooding, toying with his shears.

I. Marmaduke Drake took half a dozen quick steps and stood by Devil Darrell's side. A wave of sympathy for this big, dying man swept over him. He could visualise what he must have gone through, with what indomitable courage he had escaped a second time the minute he heard that his daughter was in danger.

It gave Marmaduke Drake a queer feeling of exhilaration to help him fight his battle. He spoke up sharply now.

"You can put that thing away, Major, it won't do you any good. My guess is that the girl's here in this house and I'm going through it to find her."

A strange, animal-like noise came from Blackminster's throat.

"Try it," he snarled. He kept his gun waving between Devil Darrell and Marmaduke Drake.

For an instant Devil Darrell looked at Marmaduke Drake. A fleeting softness came into his eyes. His mouth twisted itself into a crooked line that might be taken for a wan smile, then he pushed Marmaduke Drake aside and walked steadily towards Major Blackminster.

"I've been over the top, Blackie... a hundred times, and I was never afraid... and I'm not afraid now."

"Keep back, you fool, or I'll let you have it." The major's voice rose to a shriek. There was terror in his eyes. Then his gun barked... once... twice.

Devil Darrell staggered, but he kept right on. His long, lean hands closed about Blackminster's throat and he slammed the major against the wall so hard that his gun dropped from his hand.

I. Marmaduke Drake looked swiftly about. Jacob was standing there like a statue watching with unseeing eyes. Moe Kydid had risen. He was walking on tiptoe towards Devil Darrell, holding his shears like a dagger.

In the course of his years I. Marmaduke Drake had struck many a man, but he had never hit anyone so hard as he hit Moe Kydid now. The little man slumped to the floor unconscious. Then with a feeling of uncontrollable rage Marmaduke Drake turned and made for Cousin Jacob.

Marmaduke Drake reached him with a bound, and once more his fist went crashing. Then he went to where Devil Darrell stood, still gripping the major's throat, crushing the life out of him slowly.

HERE Marmaduke hesitated. He ought to go to the major's aid, no matter how much he deserved what he was getting, but before he could make up his mind his help wasn't needed Devil Darrell let go, and put his hands to his breast, where a great blotch of red was spreading across his shirt. Marmaduke Drake caught him as he was about to fall and lowered him gently to the floor. He snatched a pile of old clothes from the table, made a pillow of them for Devil Darrell's head.

"I'll be right back," he said.

Outside people were pounding against the door. The noise of the shots had attracted a curious, anxious group. I. Marmaduke Drake paid no attention to them. He dashed into the back room, looked around, and found a door. The door gave on to a narrow flight of stairs. He took them two at a time, light-ing matches as he went.

There were two rooms on the next floor. In the second he found Alice and John Nairne. They were both tied hand and foot and gagged. It was the work of seconds to free Alice.

"Downstairs, quick," he said, "your father's there! It's a matter of minutes, seconds, maybe."

She didn't wait to ask any questions.

More leisurely he freed John Nairne. Young Nairne's right arm was bandaged above the elbow.

"The little tailor, he stabbed me," John Nairne said by way of explanation.

I. Marmaduke Drake nodded.

"Come on down," he said. Explanations could wait. He wanted to see if there was anything he could do for Devil Darrell.

They found Alice kneeling beside her father, holding his head in her arms. There was an expression of peace on Devil Darrell's face.

I. Marmaduke Drake started to walk away. He had a feeling that there was something sacrilegious about standing there and looking at these two. But Devil Darrell beckoned weakly to him. He was trying to say something. Marmaduke Drake knelt down beside them.

"Thanks," Devil Darrell said. "I don't— don't understand how you got in this this— but thanks." He paused for a breath and made one more terrific effort. "The map— it's in— my pocket— the gold has to go back— I trust you— there's a reward."

I. Marmaduke Drake thought it was the end, but it wasn't quite.

Devil Darrell fumbled with his hand towards his outside pocket. He got it in, and when he. extracted it he brought forth a scrap of paper that he let flutter to the floor, and something else— the Croix de Guerre. For a second his dimming eyes rested on it, then he held it out to his daughter and spoke his last words.

"For you."

"IF YOU don't want me to run you in, you'll tell me a straight story," Sergeant Gruber said, "and for heaven's sake put down that infernal music-box."

Obligingly, I. Marmaduke Drake put down his guitar.

"I told you most of it already," he said.

"How come that this Devil Darrell," Gruber wanted to know, "went straight to that tailor shop?"

"That was a bit of luck," I. Marmaduke Drake conceded. "You see, when I discovered that he had escaped and had been at large for two weeks, I couldn't understand why he hadn't tried to communicate with old Nairne or at least with his daughter. He had done that the first time the minute he was free, so it occurred to me that he might be coming over here, stowing away on a boat or something like that.

"If he did, the first place he would go to would be either Duncan Nairne, because he could find him in the telephone book, or to see his daughter. He probably had her address from the Thornes, who had brought her up. I figured that if he went to his daughter she'd put him in touch with me, but then she disappeared and I had only one chance left.

"I wrote a note in his own code. He'd realise instantly by the crazy kind of a note it was that it was in code, and I pasted it on Nairne's office door in case he turned up there and I wasn't around. The significant words in that note told him to get in touch with me immediately.

"That's just what happened. Luckily he had his copy of the code with him— you found it on him, didn't you? He went there last night, saw the note, then came right down here. Mary Gaylor was still here, and told him that I'd gone up to that tailor shop."

"If I had half the dumb luck that you have—" Gruber mumbled. "I suppose there's a fat reward for turning up the gold?"

"There is," said Marmaduke Drake, "and it's going as a wedding present to Mr. and Mrs. John Nairne. I figure the Thornes will help me put that over so those two kids won't know that it's even indirectly connected with what their fathers did."

"Humph," said the sergeant.

"I can't prove," said I. Marmaduke Drake, "that the major killed Seeby, but I guess it is fairly obvious. Probably the Indian tried to blackmail him and he killed the Indian first and he then went around masquerading in his costume whenever there was any dirty work to be done."

"That's all guesswork," said Gruber.

"No, it isn't," said I. Marmaduke Drake. "I found the turban and some grease-paint in the major's quarters when I stopped off there early this morning. I was afraid that if I didn't dig up something like that you'd still be bull-headed enough to think that John Nairne had anything to do with Seeby's murder."

A look of triumph came into Sergeant Gruber's face.

"I knew all the time that he hadn't," he declared gleefully. "A man can't muss around an office without leaving a lot of fingerprints behind, and there wasn't a finger-print in those two rooms that matched the ones on the dagger. I just figured that if I scared you enough, you'd turn up something. It might interest you, too, to know that Moe Kydid and his cousin didn't waste any time; they turned state's evidence last night and what they say checks with you." He waved an airy hand and sauntered out of the office.

Mary Gaylor came in. She was holding up Marmaduke Drake's over-coat, pointing at the slits in the sleeves of his coat.

"How did this happen?"

"Moths," said I. Marmaduke Drake, reaching for his guitar. "What are you forever worrying about me for?"

Mary Gaylor turned away so that he mightn't see the hurt look in her eyes. She stood there for a moment, her shapely shoulders quivering, then with a toss of her head she said :

"You'll never be much of a detective; you haven't any eyes."

____________________

5: The Going Out of Alessandro Pozzone

Richard Dowling

1846-1898

Belgravia, August 1878

GRANTHORNE AVENUE is a short turning off the Dulwich Road. On each side of the Avenue are a dozen houses or so; the houses arc detached, and let for forty-five pounds a year. Each house has in front a pretty little piece of garden, and at the back a considerable piece of ground. At the end of the ground, to the rear, is a small green gate, opening upon a narrow private lane. This lane is for the exclusive use of the houses in Granthorne Avenue, there being no other buildings close to the lane on either side. At one end of Granthorne Avenue runs the Dulwich Road; at the other rises a black plahk fence six feet high, cutting off the road from fields beyond, where in summer-time well-conditioned cows lie in the rich long grass. The ground at the backs of the houses is not cut up into beds, but each house owns a nice smooth grass-plot large enough for a modest croquet party, and skirted on both sides by a gravel path, at the bottom of the right-hand one of which stands the small green door into the lane.

It was the bepnning of June. The month had come in with all the violence of March and all the inconsistency of April; the fourth ot the month had been a remarkably inclement day. It blew a gale from the south, accompanied by occasional brilliant sunshine and deluging showers. As night drew on, the wind abated, but the rain was still heavy and frequent.

At ten o'clock the wind sprung up again, and blew steadily from the west, wailing and soughing through the trees at the back of Granthorne Avenue. At eleven o'clock a terrific shower fell. Most of the lights in Granthorne Avenue were now on the upper floors: thc people were going to bed. The sound of the rain was positively alarming, and many persons came to their bedroom windows, drew up the blinds and curtains, and looked out. The rain beat into the fronts of the houses on the left-hand side of the Avenue.

All the basements and the ground-floor windows were dark on the right-hand side of the Avenue. On the left-hand side a light burned in the hall of No. 17, and upon the Venetian blinds of the drawing-room on the ground floor of No. 7 shone a bright cheerful light, and from behind it came the sound of music, a piano and a man's voice, a high tenor flat voice; the tune and song were 'Robin Adair'.

The shower lasted no longer than ten minutes. The wind and the music outlasted the shower, and at a quarter past eleven the bedroom windows were deserted, and Granthorne Avenue was going to bed.

At a quarter to twelve, Mr Frederick Morley and Mr Charles Bell stepped out of a first-class smoking compartment of a train from town at the Herne Hill Station, and walked arm-in-arm to the end of Granthorne Avenue. While they stood a moment at the end of the Avenue, Mr Bell said,

'I go in the back way when I am late.' Heavy drops began to fall. 'Another shower. What weather for June! Let's get in quickly or we shall be wet through. Good-night.'

'I go in the front way,' said Mr Morley, adding, 'Good-night,' as he hastened up the Avenue in the rain, now once more falling in torrents, and beating noisily on the windows of the left-hand side of the way.

From the corner of the Avenue to its first house, extended about fifty yards of blank wall, enclosing the garden at the back of the house on the main road. When Mr Morley reached the door of No. 8, which was his house, he glittered all over with wet in the light of a lamp just opposite his door. In No. 7, at the other side, the light shone through the blind. Mr Morley fumbled in his pockets, muttered something to himself, then half aloud, 'Confound it, I've left my latch key behind me. I shall have to knock them up.' He rang and knocked, and drawing himself within the shelter of the porch patiently awaited the result.

Through the beating of the rain and the soughing of the wind in the trees, he heard the music from the cheerfully lighted drawing- room of No. 7 opposite. Partly to beguile the time and partly that those in the house might recognize his voice and be not alarmed, he caught up the tune from No. 7 and commenced humming 'Robin Adair'. For two or three minutes Mr Morley waited, but heard no stir within. Then he dropped his humming, knocked and rang again, and resumed 'Robin Adair' in a louder tone, keeping time with the instrument over the way.

He heard the bell in the servant's room ring. 'Now it's all right,' he muttered; 'but Matilda is so very nice in her notions, and so very slow in her movements, that she'll keep me here a good five minutes yet.'

After two or three minutes he grew a little impatient, and, to cool his haste, set up a whistling accompaniment to the music from No. 7, remarking, before he started, 'By Jove, our foreign friend opposite does stick to poor Robin!'

He had been in all about five minutes at his door, when suddenly he threw up his head and listened with a look of alarm on his face, as it glittered with rain in the lamplight.

He listened intently. 'No, no. That was no low of a cow in her sleep. It was a human sound, a human groan.' There again! There it was again! Confound the rain and the piano. Something wrong at the back of the opposite row of houses. It must have been a loud groan to carry so far. Confound that foreigner and his wretched piano and his everlasting 'Robin Adair'! Could anything have happened to Bell?

Without any more hesitation Mr Morley set off at a run down Granthorne Avenue, into the Dulwich Road, and turned up the lane at the back of the houses.

Here he shortened his stick in his hand, shook it to see that it and his arm were trustworthy, and advanced more slowly.

He reached the backs of the houses. All was very quiet and very dark. He passed one, two, three doors, and here was four, No. 7, and that interminable 'Robin Adair' wheezing through the window and the rain! But nothing noteworthy or suspicious.

Five, six, seven, eight, nine. This ought to be the back of No. 17, Bell's house. Yes, no doubt. Bell's door ajar! And, O God! what is this? A dead or stunned man across the threshold, as though he had fallen the moment he entered!

'Help here! Lights, I say! Help! Murder!'

For a moment all was silent save the rain and the wind, and the instrument now faintly heard by Morley. Soon after his cry the tune ceased, the back door of No. 7 opened, a man stepped out and asked in a foreign accent, 'What noise is this? Who called? There is no one hurt, I hope!'

Morley heard the voice and called out, 'Yes, come here, sir, and help me. I fear he is dead.'

'Where are you?'

'At Mr Bell's back gate. Came and knock his people up. For heaven's sake come. I won't leave hirn lest the villains come back. I can feel the blood. Feel, it is warm and― salt.'

By this time the foreigner was by the side of Mr Morley. 'Blood,' said the foreigner, 'hot and salt. Leave me to mind him. I do not know his people. You go tell them of this sadness. No fear of anyone coming back. It seems to be his head that is hurt. Poor man, hot and salt. So it is. You are right, sir. Go at once, I will stay. Go with speed.'

In a short time Mr Bell's household, consisting of a son and daughter and maid-servant, were aroused, the wounded man was carried into the house by Mr Morley, Sig. Cordella, the foreigner, and Mr John Bell, son of the victim. A little later came surgeons and the police. The doctors gave little hope; the junior of the two sat up all night; and in the morning, at six o'clock, Mr Charles Bell passed away without having had one moment of consciousness.

Next day, that is on June 6, the inquest was opened, and the facts disclosed were briefly these:

Mr Morley, the last person known to have seen the deceased before he had received the fatal blow, swore that he had known the late Mr Bell about five years. Had became acquainted with him in a railway carriage, soon after deceased came to live at Granthorne Avenue. They both went into town by the same train every morning. So they had grown to be quite intimate. Rarely came out with deceased in the evening or at night. Witness usually got home about 7 p.m., and, he understood, deceased not until nine or ten usually; and often not until midnight: the deceased had told him this. On only two or three previous occasions had he and deceased come home together so late as on the night of the 4th. His memory was quite clear on every event connected with that night. Witness then described his parting from the murdered man at the end of the Avenue, the wind and rain, the delay at his own door; how free from all suspicion of danger to his friend he was, for, while waiting for his door to be opened, he caught up the tune his neighbour Sig. Cordella was playing, and was whistling it, when his attention was attracted by the groan. How he ran round to be back lane, found the injured man, knew Sig. Cordella was up and called for help. How the Signore came and supported the injured man until further help arrived, and they carried the dying man into the house.

Next came Sig. Roberto Cordella, of No. 7, a native of Italy, who swore that towards midnight on the 4th, he being then enjoying some music, heard a cry from the back of the houses, and going out found matters as described by the former witness. Sig. Cordella had lived only a few months, about five, in Granthorne Avenue, during which time he had had no intercourse of any kind with deceased. Witness was a retired music master. Did not remember ever seeing deceased. This was partly explained by the fact that, as a rule, Mr Bell came home late of nights, and, as the last witness swore, usually went in the back way, as on the night of the murder. The witness said he had been greatly shocked and shaken by the melancholy occurrence. Being a foreigner he knew little of such legal proceedings as the present; and in conclusion he asked the coroner if he were now free to retire. The coroner told him he might go down; and, although there was no great likelihood of his being required further, still he had better remain within hearing; there was no knowing but they miggt have to recall him. Sig. Cordella bowed and stepped down.

The medical evidence was simplicity itself. Deceased had died from injuries to the back of the skull. Two blows had been inflicted. One apparently as the deceased was entering the garden gate; the other as he lay on the ground. The former had smashed in the poll, and would have been quite sufficient to cause death. The second had battered in the right temple and cheek-bone, leaving on the wet earth the impression of the left side of the face. The injuries from which the man died were, no doubt, inflicted by the stone produced by the police. [The stone was a piece of flag eighteen inches long, six inches wide, and three inches deep.] On the stone human hair, human blood, and particles of flesh corresponding with wants in the head of deceased were to be seen. All the organs in deceased's body were healthy, and he had been a powerful man notwithstanding that he must have been past sixty years of age.

The evidence of the police followed: The stone produced by them was one of many similar in the lane. They had found nothing else of any consequence. There were upon the clothes of Mr Morley and Sig. Cordella such blood-stains as would be accounted for by the succour they had given the deceased. No suspicious people or person had been seen lurking about the place. Supposing the assassin had run from the back door of No. 17 to the Dulwich Road end of the lane, starting at the same moment as Mr Morley from his house, Mr Morley would surely have seen him, as the Road was quite straight, well lighted, and at this point afforded no shelter or means of concealment.

Mr Morley: 'I saw no one.'

It was true that from the back of No. 17 to the board fence at the field end of the lane was a less distance than from the same point to the Road, and that the murderer would have had time to reach that fence, scale it, and drop into the field at the other side before Mr Morley could have come round the other end of the lane.

Up to this point the whole inquiry had gone on without exciting any exceptional interest, and the majority of people present seemed to have made up their minds that the criminal, having given the fatal blows, had run down the lane, scaled the fence, and escaped through the fields. The further evidence of the police produced a profound sensation, bordering upon dismay; and those closely connected with the case began to regard one another half in suspicion, half in fear. The officer continued:

But it was quite certain that neither on the night of the murder nor the day before it had anyone crossed the fence; the reasons for thinking so were conclusive. On 3 June ten cart-loads of fine building sand had been backed against that wooden fence on the field side, and on the morning of the 5th no trace whatever of footsteps or disturbance could be found in this sand. The walls of the lane were of smooth brick and high, thirteen feet, for wall-fruit, and no man could possibly reach their summit without a ladder; and not only was no ladder found, but not the smallest fresh scratch upon the walls, the surface of which was soft from moisture and would show the scratch of even a thumb-nail. On the field side, the sand, intended for a wall to be built in place of the wooden fence, overlapped the end of the lane many feet. Through interstices between the planking of this black plank fence some sand had percolated into the lane and lay in a fine smooth mat, four feet wide from the planking. From this sand the rain falling at the time of the murder might obliterate, or at least deaden, footmarks; but the sand in the lane was examined with lamps in less than an hour after the fatal blow was struck, and ivhen the rain had been falling only about ten minutes after the blow, and yet no footmarks had been found. The sand at the other side of the lane was sheltered by two large chestnuts and showed perfect shovel marks of the day before, but no trace of footsteps whatever. No arrests had been made yet.

The son of the deceased was next called. He had not much to tell; such as it was the substance is as follows:

His father had passed his sixty-third year. Had been at one time an outdoor officer of Customs; last stationed at Avonford. About fifteen years ago he had been obliged to leave the Customs owing to a severe rheumatic affection contracted while on duty. At that time and for many years afterwards, witness, who was now seven-and-thirty years of age, was in Australia and did not know details. After retiring from the Customs, deceased came from Avonford to London, and set up a grocery business in Baroda Street, Oxford Street. The business had been prosperous; and some years ago deceased had taken his present house, where deceased, being a widower, lived with his daughter and a maid-servant until now. Witness upon coming home on leave last year joined his father's household and had lived at No. 17 ever since. Evidently the disquieting discovery of the police caused the coroner to proceed with much more care and deliberation than he had employed in the earlier stage of the inquiry, and he examined the son with great fullness and most minutely. In answer to further interrogation the son went on:

On the morning of the 4th, Mr Bell left home for town at the usual hour, half-past eight. He ate a hearty breakfast and seemed in excel- lent spirits. The last words witness heard his father utter were said just as deceased was leaving: 'Don't wait up. I shall be late tonight. Leave the dining-room door open.' The last sentence referred to the door from the dining-room into the back garden. This door opened on a little exterior landing which communicated by means of a flight of steps rvith the garden. By 'Leave the dining-room door open,' deceased meant on the latch or spring lock, for which deceased had a key. It was deceased's habit when he returned late to come in by the door, bolt it, eat a little supper, have a glass of grog and a smoke before going to bed. On the night in question, witness went to bed as usual at a little after eleven, feli asleep, and was soon roused by Mr Morley knocking at the kitchen door and calling for help. Witness got up, put on some clothes hastily, and came down. That was all he could say of the whole affair. The police had found his father's purse and watch upon the person of the injured man. Didn't think his father had a personal enemy in the world. As far as witness knew not a soul but he himself would benefit by his father's untimely death. His sister would be a loser by it.

The maid-servant and the daughter of deceased were briefly examined as to the events on the night of the murder and dismissed; and, it being then evening, the inquiry was adjourned for a week to give the police an opportunity of investigating the case further. Before rising, the coroner made an order for thc interment of the body.

Next day John Bell was busy about the funeral. Many of the friends and acquaintances of the deceased made visits of condolence and all the neighbourhood was full of horror at the awful deed, regret for the pleasant inoffensive man who had been done to death, and sympathy for the son and daughter.

It was midnight before John Bell found himself alone. He was a tall, powerful man, with red-brown beard, brown eyes, a bronzed face, and brown strong hands. When at rest in ordinary times his face had a stern expression. You could see he was not a man to be trifled with. In movement he was slow, ponderous. No matter what he did it seemed as though he had fully considered it before commencing to move; once action begun, there was such an evidence of the means to the end that few would think of trying to stand between him and his object. As he sat in the hideous stiffness of his new black clothes, a cruel smile played upon his features alternately with a look of profound and passionless thought. He sat by the open dining-room door through which Mr Morley, Sig. Cordella, and himself had carried the dying man on the night of the 4th. This night there was neither wind nor rain. The houses all round were still, and Nature slept like a weary child, without a cry or a sigh.

The police had carefully examined Mr Bell's house in the hope of getting a clue to the murderer. They had asked to see Mr Bell's private papers, and these had been shown to them. They had read some of the documents, and, having made notes, felt no further need of the papers, and gave them back to Mr John Bell. These letters, diaries, memoranda, etc., were now lying in a confused heap on the dining-room table. For an hour John Bell had been sitting at the open window in a profound reverie. He now aroused himself, turned up the gas fully (it had been half turned down), drew a chair close to the table, and commenced turning over the papers, now reading one through, now merely glancing at another. At last he came to one which seemed to interest and excite him greatly.

It was a lengthy document in his father's writing, and was battered a good deal and showed signs of wear and tear and age. He did not wait to finish reading it, but got up hastily, left the room, went into the hall, pulled out the drawer in the hall table, took from the drawer a small slip of paper on which were written a few words, came back to the room, held the slip of paper and the document he had been reading, one in each hand, under the gaslight, and compared one line of the old document with the slip; then let both fall from his hands, shivered, covered his face with his hands, and sank down into a chair.

He remained for half an hour absolutely motionless, save for the regular rising and falling of his broad back. At the end of that time he rose, finished the reading of the sheets of old paper, folded them up, put them in his breast pocket, and placed the small slip which he had taken from the drawer in his watch pocket. When this was done he put his hand under his coat-tails for a moment, as if to tighten the back strap of his waistcoat, did not tighten the strap, went and got his hat, descended the steps from the dining-room into the garden, opened the garden gate, and went out into the lane.

It was then about half-past one in the morning.

The place was still as death; the trees stood up silently in the darkness; the dark violet vault of heaven hung spread with myriads of pale stars overhead. John Bell looked warily up and down the lane. 'It is very dark and very late,' he thought, as he closed the garden door behind him, 'but it will be darker and later before the dawn.'

He turned towards the Dulwich Road, and walked very slowly down the lane. He reached the end of the lane, turned to his left, and again to his left. He was now in the Avenue, and taking the left-hand footway he commenced ascending the Avenue. He passed by the blank wall and the houses 1, 3, and 5. These were all dark. In the drawing-room window of No. 7 there was a light. Not a ray in any other house in the Avenue. John Bell drew back the bolt on the garden gate, entered the garden, went up the steps, and knocked very softly. In a few seconds the door was unchained, unlocked, and unbolted, and Sig. Cordella, recognizing him at once, cried, 'Ah, Mr Bell, is it you? There is nothing more wrong, I hope?'

'There is nothing new wrong,' answered the visitor; adding, 'I know this is a most extraordinary time for making a call on a com- parative stranger, but seeing your light burning, and being greatly troubled and disturbed in my mind, I ventured to knock.'

'Come in,' said the foreigner, 'come in. I always sit up late. Come in and rest with me for some time.' He led the way into the drawing-room.

The room was furnished in good taste. The colours were all cool and grey, rather French than Italian. There were no pictures on the pearl-grey walls. The drapery and upholstery were of a delicate shade of deep fawn; the carpet a dull amber. Against one wall stood a cottage piano, on which lay a guitar. In a corner was a violin case, and upon a table opposite the door a large musical box and a silver flute. A couch was drawn halfway across the window, and at the foot of the couch stood a small inlaid table. Scattered about were a few ordinary drawing chairs, and at the table one easy-chair. Upon the inlaid table were placed cigars, a tobacco jar, a cigarette book, an ashtray, and a box of matches. Although the room was a small one, three gas jets were at their full height, and John Bell was compelled to shade his eyes for a moment.

'You will sit down?' said the Italian, waving his hand to the chair by the table and sinking softly on the couch himself.

Bell hesitated a moment, looked slowly round the room, and then said, 'I will.'

The Italian rolled up a cigarette, lighted it, and threw himself into the arm of the couch. He was a low-sized man of about five-and-forty years of age, bald, dark-skinned, black-bearded, black-eyed, with black heavy eyebrows― not at all a pleasant face. Although there was always a faint smile on the features, it seemed a smile the motive for which had passed away, and that the smile itself ought to have passed away too. It was the fag end of a stale smile, and the face would have been much improved if it had been swept off altogether. Notwithstanding this unpleasant smile the Italian's face was handsome, eminently handsome.

John Bell was evidently a little perplexed, for he paused awhile before even attempting to offer an explanation or apology for his late visit. At last he spoke:

'As you may fancy, Mr Cordella, nothing but a matter of great importance could induce me to intrude upon you at this time of night.'

'Pray, no apology. I know how troubled you must be in your mind. I syrnpathize with you; I sympathize with you out of my heart, indeed, Mr Bell. In your trouble you no doubt could find no sleep, so you come out for a walk, for fresh air, and you see my light, a neighbour's light, and you come in. Make nothing of it. I always sit up till late― these times till daylight. Will you smoke?'

'I will smoke, thank you. But, Mr Cordella, it was not accident brought me here tonight; I came on purpose. I came on most important business. I owe you thanks for your great kindness on that awful night― I have come now to make but a poor return. I am sorry to say that I find it absolutely necessary to ask you some questions which, though they may seem impertinent at the outset, are of vital consequence to me. You will answer me without taking offence for what must seem an unpardonable and outrageously ill-timed intrusion and an unwarrantable inquisitiveness.'

'Indeed you may ask, and indeed I will answer,' said the Italian, waving his hand softly through the smoke of his cigarette.

'Remember before I begin that I will ask you no question which is not of importance, and that I have excellent cause to risk seeming impertinent ip order to get the information I require.'

Speaking through a veil of smoke the Italian answered: 'I have told you, Mr John Bell, that I will answer you. What is it that I have to conceal?'

'Nothing, no doubt, about yourself, but I am not come to speak about yourself. I want to ask you some questions about another. First and foremost, you and I are in this room; who else is in this house?'

The Italian took his cigarette slowly from his lips with his left hand, emerged from the smoke, and leaned towards John Bell until his left elbow rested on the couch. Then thrusting his right hand softly between his waistcoat and shirt at the breast he looked up into John Bell's face with an expression of playful surprise.

'Why?'

John Bell took his cigar from his mouth and moved only his eyes towards the other. For a moment the two men regarded one another as though neither had the faintest clue to what was in the mind of the other, and each was very desirous to get some insight into the thought of the other before proceeding further. Said Bell, 'That is not a very clear answer to my question, is it?'

'No; but you come to me telling me you are curious to know some things. You come at two o'clock in the morning; that is strange. Then you ask me a strange question; that, too, is strange. You make me feel, like yourself, curious. You must not feel angry with me if I feel curious, and ask you why do you want to know who else is in this house?'

'You are quite right,' said John Bell. 'I was most unreasonable in expecting that I, who am almost a complete stranger to you, had any right to question you about your household without giving ample reason. I'll give you the reason now, and repeat the question when I have done so.'

'It is so kind of you,' said the Italian, drawing his hand out from under his waistcoat, and gently resuming his old pose in the arm of the couch. As he lay back he touched his chest, and said with an apologetic smile, 'I have the heart disease, and any shock or thing gives me, ah! such great pain. When you asked me that strange question I thought I should die. You will pardon me; your father's sad fate has quite unnerved me for a moment. Ah! you will pardon me! I feared― well, l feared you wished to know whether― cannot you understand?' He closed his eyes and drew back his lips frorn his teeth, and inhaled painfully through his set teeth.

'I am very sorry that you suffer from heart disease, and I am very sorry I have caused you pain. I can now see my question in another light, and that it was equal to an enquiry into your means of defence. I am sorry I was so abrupt. I hope you will forgive me and hear me out, Mr Cordella?'

The Italian opened his eyes with an expression of pain and effort, answering very gently, 'Do not make any further apologies, Mr Bell; please go on. I am quite able and most willing to listen.' He closed his eyes again and gradually grew paler.

John Bell shook himself back into his chair.

'It will take some time,' he said, 'and I shall have to go back to the 4th of June. My father left home as usual at half-past eight. You may remember on that day in the forenoon a particular letter was dropped in the box of No. 7, my father's house. That letter was not for anyone we knew, being addressed to' (here John Bell took the slip of paper out of his watch-pocket and read from it) "Sig. Alessandro Pozzone, 17 Granthorne Avenue, Dulwich, Londra."

'Knowing that you were an Italian, and being ignorant of your name, and seeing how easily the mistake between 7 and 17 might arise, and finding the post-mark of "Torino" on the envelope, I wrote a line to "The Owner of No 7," enclosing the foreign letter and asking you if it were for you.'

'You were must thoughtful.'

'To my note I signed my name. You returned a verbal message, saying that the foreign letter was not for you; that you knew nothing whatever of the person, Alessandro Pozzone, to whom it was ad dressed; and that you yourself would return it to the postman when next he called. You gave your message verbally, accompanied by your card. This was about noon. By your card and from your evidence at the inquest I learned that your name is Roberto Cordella. You will, I hope, pardon my great minuteness, but all this is really of prime importance.'

The Italian was rolling up another cigarette; he paused, opened his half-closed eyes, and signified by a gracious gesture that he was paying attention and held himself completely at the disposal of the other. 'At twelve o'clock that night my father was murdered.'

'Yes,' through a dense cloud of tobacco smoke.

'About an hour ago I came on a document which I will now take the liberty of reading to you. It is in my father's handwriting and relates to an event in his own experience― I fear I'd better stop. Your heart seems to trouble you again.'

'It is nothing; pressing it thus relieves it. Please go on.'

John Bell drew the paper out of his breast coat pocket and began to read. When the foreigner saw the document he nestled still more cosily into the arm of the couch, rolled up another cigarette and, when it was closed, replaced his hand over his heart.

'This paper,' began Bell, 'is apparently the rough draft of a report, to whom furnished it does not say. It is dated Avonford, 18 September 1865:

Sir,– At the earliest moment my health will allow I hasten to furnish you with a report of the events connected with the loss of the customs boat, Swift and two men on the 14th ult.

On the afternoon of the 13th ult., the Italian barque San Giovanni Batista being then cleared out and hauled out into the tide-way ready for sea, I received information that the customs officer in charge was in some way or other to be tampered with, the seals on the ship's stores broken, and the twenty-six thousand cigars under seal run ashore as soon as it was dark. I immediately ordered four men― namely, James Archer, John Brown, William Flynn, and John Plucknett – into the Swift and pulled down to the San Giovanni, myself steering; and she being then about a mile to the westward of Dockyard point with her anchor hove short ready to trip before she tended on the first of the ebb.

It was dark before we made her out; the night was clear with a new moon but not much light. The wind was then pretty much up and down the mast, but any little air there was being off the land. All the barque's sails were hanging loose. As soon as we got within half a mile or so we heard the windlass going. I stood up to watch her. I saw her head come up with a jerk and then I saw her veer when the anchor hung free. They began setting the sails, and the wind freshening a little the canvas commenced to fill, and she began to forge ahead. But I knew we could overhaul her, hand over hand, and we were overhauling her, for we were pulling two feet to her one.

We were coming up on her starboard quarter, and I saw a boat (not one of her own, they were all painted white, and this one was black and British built) by the starboard main-chains. 'The cigars are in that boat,' I thought, and I said to the men, 'Give way, men, give way with a will.'

My men gave way with a will, and I kept the Swift heading for the starboard mizen chains of the barque. There was fair steerage way on the barque now.

When we were about three cables' length astern I hailed the barque. She did not answer. A man came and looked over the taffarel and I heard an order given on deck. Upon the order being given the barque ported her helm until her head looked two points to port, then there was another order and the barque steadied her helm and kept on. This brought us right astern of the barque. The sails were now beginning to draw better every stroke we pulled, and as I did not like to lose any time I kept head on to her stern, although I did not a bit like her manouvre.

As soon as we were about a cable's length off I hailed again. Still no answer. When we were half a cable's length I sang out once more. Said we were revenue officers and told them to come round and let us board.'

'What do you want the ship to stop for?' asked the man at the tafferel whom I now knew quite well and who was not one of the crew of the San Giovanni Batista. 'Whose boat is that alongside?'

'The Vice-Consul's.'

'Send the customs' officer in charge aft.'

'He's gone ashore in the pilot's boat.'

'It's not time for either pilot or the customs' officer to go ashore yet. Who's taking the vessel out?'

'The channel pilot.'

'Come round, I say, I must board. I must see the captain and I must see the Vice-Consul's boat go ashore before I leave the ship.' We were now only a couple of boats length from the stern post, dead astern. I did not like to yaw the boat to get round to the rnizen chains, as it was easier to keep in the back water of the wake, and beside the barque had got more legs under her by this time, and I could do little more than keep up to her. Foot by foot we drew up on the barque until at last we were right under the stern. I sang out again:

'If you won't come about heave us a line.'

'Ay, ay!' cried the man on the taffarel. For a moment I saw him rise up, standing on the taffarel; he leaned forward with a heavy three-tackle block in his hand― I saw the moonlight through the block― and then dropped the block into the Swift. It came aboard on the foremost bow thwart, broke it in two, and stove out the bottom of the boat. Before we could do anything the boat was full of water and turned bottom up. As long as we could we shouted. The barque kept her course until we could not even see her, and there was no other vessel in sight. James Archer, John Plucknett, and I clung on the bottom of the boat until morning, when the fishing boat Toby of Avonford saw us and took us off. After the boat filled and turned over I never saw either John Brown or William Flynn alive. I saw the body of William Flynn when it was washed ashore next morning.

JOHN BELL stopped reading, folded up the paper and replaced it in his breast pocket. As he did so he glanced at the recumbent Italian. The attitude of the latter was unchanged. Still the right hand thrust between the waistcoat and the breast of the shirt in the region of the heart; still the luxurious pose in the soft arm of the chair; still the everlasting cigarette and the cloud of ascending blue smoke.

The foreigner now spoke in a voice of one who suffered not a little, and caught his breath uneasily. 'I have not the least dislike to tell you the answer to the question which I did not answer a while ago. There is at present none in this house but you, I, and the old woman, my servant and housekeeper. I am a bachelor, and there is no relative or friend or guest of mine under this roof now. Having answered you so far, and, as far as you have shown, answered you without knowing how the painful history you have read may be connected with your question, will you permit me to say that it is very late, and that I am far from well. I am most ill.'

'I am exceedingly sorry you should feel so poorly. I will not intrude much longer if you will permit me to explain.'

The Italian smiled languidly, signified that the other might proceed, and closed his eyes with an expression of great pain and exhaushon.

'I shall soon be done. The man who murdered the two men in the boat that night was interpreter to the Vice-Consul at Avonford. He was never found to answer for that crime. My father knew that this man was to endeavour to run the cigars. Next day the Vice-Consul's boat with the cigars untouched was found in a bight of the Avon bay. But the Vice-Consul's interpreter, the murderer, was never found. The barque, bound to Callao, never arrived in any port; it is believed she foundered in mid-ocean.

'Now this Vice-Consul's clerk or interpreter, knew my father well by name and appearance, often had business intercourse with my father. On the night of the 4th of this month my father was murdered by this self-same Vice-Consul's clerk. As sure as I live here he murdered my poor father, Mr Cordella.'

'Why are you so sure of that? and what can I do for you in this sad case?' demanded the foreigner, in a tone so languid and so faint that John Bell was compelled to draw near and bend low in order to hear.

'In the forenoon of the 4th that letter came to No. 17, misaddressed, intended to be left for Alessandro Pozzone at No. 7. You, Mr Cordella, forwarded my note to Pozzone with his own one; he recognized the name Bell, found out who my father was, lay in wait for my father and killed him before my poor father could get home and recognize the name of the man who fifteen years ago failed to do for him― for that Vice-Consul's clerk who let fall the block was Alessandro Pozzone.'

'I am completely prostrated by the news you tell me,' whispered the reclining man. 'Get me a little wine from the chiffonier. Since this matter is so dreadful I will now admit that I know Pozzone well. He represented to me his dangers were political, and I was sworn to divulge nothing about him.'

John Bell put an arm under the other man; from the fingers of the foreigner dropped the end of the half-smoked cigarette.

Bell held the wine to the recumbent man's lips. He drank a little and then whispered, 'Put down the wine. I can swallow no more. I am better― I am better, thank you; I shall be all right soon.' His right hand fell out of his breast, and lay upon the floor. 'Go on,' he whispered, 'I am most anxious to hear what you want me to do.'

'Tell me where Pozzone is.'

'I can and I will. It is only right you should know, and at once. I will place him in your grasp in less than an hour. Ah! Ah, my breath once more― I am suffocating! Put your two strong arms round me and raise me.'

John Bell did as he was requested. 'Wait a second,' said the Italian, resting his two arms on the shoulders of the other.

'I can speak once more,' whispered the Italian. 'Your ear now. So. Now I will tell you where Pozzone is― In your arms! Now I will tell you where his knife is― In your heart!'

The Englishman drew himself up with a powerful effort, shook himself clear of his assailant, slipped his hand beneath his waistcoat as though to loose its strap, drew out the hand―

Bang!

But Pozzone had seen his action, and, suspecting it, dashed the hand aside. The ball struck the musical box, and with a loud crash smashed off the brake-end, the barrel began to revolve, and the teeth to vibrate― 'Robin Adair'!

A superstitious fear seemed to seize upon Pozzone, and he whispered through his white lips, 'I played that air on the piano, and then I set the box to it and went out―'

Bang!

This time Pozzone staggered to his feet and steadied himself for an instant. He raised his hand to his forehead. His hand grew suddenly red.

'Warm and salt,' he cried; 'I set the box to "Robin Adair" and― went out. Curse it! What's this? Ah you'll never lift that revolver again, John Bell. Bell! Bell! "Robin Adair". I set the― there's "Robin Adair" again! Am I never to hear anything else here or in― I set it to "Robin Adair" and went out― I am going out again! Am I to be always going out to the tune of "Robin Adair," here and in― hell?'

___________________

6: A Circumstantial Puzzle

Robert Edward Francillon

1841-1919

From Romance of the Law, 1881

THE ALMOST insuperable difficulty of telling a story with even a grain of truth in it is this— or, I should rather say, the two insuperable difficulties are these— firstly, there is never the faintest dramatic point about really true stories; secondly, if they are worth telling at all, they are almost always incredible.

And the truer they are, the more pointless and the more incredible they are. The story I am going to tell is neither dramatic nor probable. And yet it seems to me worth telling— independently of its inherent curiosity— as an instance of those extraordinary freaks of psychology which now and again throw out of gear altogether the everyday experience of practical men, among whom I have some claim to be reckoned. It has also a yet more important bearing upon the manner of making delicate investigations which, if I remember to do so, I may perhaps take occasion to point out before I have done. As when I sent you my last contribution to your museum of professional curiosities, I will merge my own proper personality in that of my informant, the solicitor who played so leading and, for a time, so uncomfortable a part in the affair. For all purposes it is more convenient to translate "he" into "I" when one is telling another man's story. Indeed, it is almost essential to the process of telling the tale as it was told to me.

I, then, early one forenoon, received a visit from my very best client, Mr. John Buller. Mr. John Buller was a gentleman who, still hardly past the prime of life, had made a considerable fortune as a builder and contractor. Altogether there must have been something out of the common about him, for he had become the wealthy man he certainly was seemingly in defiance of all established precedents and rules. He was not what is commonly— and often very mistakenly— called a "good man of business"; he always had more irons in the fire than he could possibly attend to personally, or even superintend generally, and he placed such implicit trust in all who served him or dealt with him as to amount to credulity. Nevertheless, I am by no means sure myself of its being really singular that his many irons should have taken excellent care of themselves and that he very rarely indeed, at least to my knowledge, found himself seriously deceived. I need hardly say that, like all men of such a temper, to be found out in deceiving him in the smallest trifle was to lose his confidence irrevocably and forever, so that not only were moderately honourable men put upon their honour to an unusual degree in their relations towards one who trusted them so completely, but the dishonourable were by experience taught to fear injuring one from whom everything was to be gained but pardon. He certainly was not one of those who hold that in business a man should have no enemies and no friends. All men were his friends until, as sometimes would happen, they became his enemies. And yet one might know him for years without suspecting that he had any sort of temper at all. Doubtless it was the consciousness on his own part of having one, and the suspicion that it might be a weakness or a failing, that made him seem needlessly hard and reserved.

On the whole, I incline to ascribe his success in life less to courage and overconfidence than to a yet more unbusiness-like habit of always doing his work a little better than his contract required. I would pay ten percent higher rent any day to live in a house that I knew to have been built by John Buller. I should know that everything about that house was better than it seemed. And that is the chief reason why I set out by speaking of him as a gentleman. For he had risen from the lower rounds of the ladder and, so far as he might be called a diamond, was decidedly an unpolished one.

He was, I believe, a seriously religious man; he was an unquestionably generous and charitable one; not highly educated, but with plenty of intelligence and openness of mind. I should add that he had never been marred— was without known relations— and lived alone in thoroughly respectable comfort, without pretence of any kind. The nature of his business, by no means confined to the limits of the northern town where we both lived, took him about a great deal and no doubt largely helped him to do without much society at home. For that matter, he was, socially speaking, above one-half the place and below the other; so, though universally respected, he must on the whole have lived almost too much alone. But in this matter, as in all things, habit is everything, and so busy a man had little time to feel dull.

"Mr. Standish," he began, in the broad north-country speech, which I shall make no pretence of reproducing, "something mortal queer had happened, that I can't make head or tail o'. It's not the money's-worth, though fifty pound is fifty pound; but— Look here!"

"Your cheque for fifty pounds, cashed by the Redport branch of the County Bank, and returned to you in the regular course. Well, what's wrong?"

"Do you see anything queer about that cheque, Mr. Standish— anything out of the way?"

"No. It's drawn to yourself on order by yourself, endorsed by you, and nothing wrong about date or anything else that I can see."

"And if you'd been a clerk at Redport, you'd have cashed that over the counter without any bones?"

"Of course I should, as I suppose from this you have an account there."

"And that's just what was done, then. And all the same, that cheque was no more filled up, nor signed, nor backed by me than it was by you."

"You mean to say it's forged? By Jove, that's a serious thing! Do you mean to say that some rascal has been clever enough to fill up and sign a whole cheque in your handwriting, even down to the least turn of the smallest stroke of the pen? I'd have sworn to this being your own handwriting before a jury."

"Ay, Mr. Standish, and so would I, if I didn't know. But I do know, and that's no more my cheque than it's yours. And I'm hanged if I know what to do."

"You've seen the bank manager here? What does he say?"

"No, I haven't; I haven't seen a soul. And what's more, I don't mean to, unless I'm driven. And it's to get out of being driven I'm come to you. This cheque isn't the first of 'em, Mr. Standish— no, nor the second, nor yet the third. There's four cheques of fifty pounds apiece, and I've not drawn one!"

"And you haven't found it out till now?"

"I've found out nothing, Mr. Standish. Mark that— not one word. Nothing's found out till it's proved. I want to know what I can do."

That premature question was the only sign of precipitancy or impatience I had ever seen in John Buller. I began to see that he was disturbed by something beyond the loss, to himself or the bank, of two hundred pounds, or by the always detestable necessity of being mixed up in what looked like a criminal matter. So I made no answer, which is always the best way of getting quickly at the bottom of a story.

"I'm putting up the new row of villas on the esplanade at Redport," said he. "It's a biggish job in a small way, and it's very much on my own account. And what with the hands, and one thing and another, there's a goodish lot of cash floating about from week to week— going out, anyhow, though, of course, none to speak of coming in. So, to save a lot of bother, I've had for some time an account with the branch at Redport. You don't know the place, I believe?"

"I've never been over there yet, but I must run over someday when I can get a holiday. Well?"

"It's been mainly through me that the place has got on well enough to make it worth the Bank's while to have a branch there. And if I was to draw for five times what's to my credit, I don't suppose they'd make any bother, looking to my credit at the main branch here. So this game might go on any time before I heard I'd overdrawn. As far as I'm concerned, a cheque on the branch at Redport's much the same as one on the bank here."

"Well?"

"You see, though that job's middling big, I've got too many bigger on hand to bother in person with Redport. It's two months since I've been near the place, and may be it'll be another month before I can get over there again. So I've got a clerk of the works in an office in one of the villas, and he comes over to me here every Friday to report and take any new orders, and I give him cheques on the Redport branch for what's wanted— he brings me his accounts and vouchers, of course, and I settle that way whatever has to be paid running. And some of the cheques I receive I send over by him to be paid in there."

"Excuse me," said I, "but doesn't this seem rather a loose and rough way of doing things? In the first place, I don't see why you should make any payments through the Redport branch at all, and certainly I don't see how all this concerns these forgeries."

"I'll tell you why I do it, and how it concerns these forgeries, too. I want to keep as much cash knocking about in Redport as I can, and to keep as little from going out— that's the way to push a new place on. And, for the same reason, I don't want those branch clerks to find they've got too little to do. My clerk comes to me at four o'clock every Friday afternoon. First of all, I give him a cheque for the men's week's wages. Then we go through the accounts and for any that I want to settle off-hand I either draw separate cheques in favour of the different parties or else I give him another lump cheque for him to cash and pay out in gold. In fact, there's all sorts of things to be paid in all sorts of ways. If the account seems running low, it's easier for me to pay in a few cheques than to bother the bank here. Anyhow, it saves me a bushel of bother and doesn't oblige me to give more than an hour a week to Redport— and even an hour's too much at times."

"Just tell me precisely everything that happens, please. We're rather vague, where we are. He comes to you at four every Friday and you give him all these cheques— whatever he asks for— and then he goes back at once to Redport by rail?"

John Buller glanced at me sharply. By those words "whatever he asks for" I had trodden upon what is always the most sensitive of an over-trustful man's corns: I had hinted at the want of worldly prudence which such a man, far more than any other, hates to be suspected of lacking.

"I'm not quite a born fool," said he. "We go through the accounts, and he stays for supper and a bed. By breakfast-time next morning I've found a half-hour to examine the accounts and to write the cheques. I give him the whole lot in a leather case and he goes back to Redport. And it's his duty, before he goes to the office to go to the Redport Bank and pay in and draw out whatever's required."

I did not see how this made matters any better from a prudential point of view, but I did not venture again upon what I felt to be rather dangerous ground.

"Then all your transactions with the branch bank at Redport," I asked, "are confined to ten o'clock on Saturday morning? This cheque is stamped as cashed on the 15th, which would be a Saturday. Of course we shall learn from your passbook, or from the cheques themselves, if that was so with the others. If so, the false cheques must either have been presented together with the others, or by somebody who knew your system. Also, it is clear they were drawn, judging from this, by somebody who had exceptional means of knowing your handwriting and of practising it at leisure— and, if I may say so, how little likely you were, with such a system of business as yours, to detect fraud very soon. Also, by somebody to whom your cheque-book was accessible, in one way or another. Are these cheques taken from your cheque-book, or can the thief have got hold of some other?"

I could see that John Buller began to look strangely troubled.

"From mine!" said he, in a curiously defiant tone."And the counterfoils? Cut out, I suppose? That's the usual way."

"No; every man Jack filled up in a way that would take the very devil in. And yet, Mr. Standish, those cheques are no more my drawing than they're yours. I keep a private account of every cheque I draw, and it stands to reason that when four cheques that you know you didn't draw are alone missing out of an account of fifty that you know you did draw, then you can't be mistaken. That's as clear as day."

"All right, Mr. Buller; it is as clear as day. And though criminal business is very much out of my line, we'll have that forger beyond the seas in, comparatively speaking, the twinkling of an eye. What's the fellow's name?"

"His name? And how the deuce, sir, should I know his name?"

"Not know the name of your own clerk of the works at Redport? By Jove, Mr. Buller, I shall begin to think you a queer sort of a businessman!"

"We're at crooked answers, Mr. Standish, it seems to me," he said, wiping his forehead hard, though the weather was unusually cold. "My clerk at Redport is Adam Brown."

"Then it's lucky Mr. Adam Brown didn't live when forgers were hanged," said I. "You won't be able to recover from the bank, I'm afraid; such forgeries as those defy even extraordinary care to detect them. A bank clerk is expected to be a great deal, but nobody expects him to be a conjurer. But—"

To my amazement, John Buller sprang up in a towering rage. "And you— You dare to hint that— That— That poor lad who's as honest as the day would steal one farthing from me— A young man I'd trust with untold gold— The orphan of the best woman that ever touched God's earth! I won't hear it, sir! I didn't come to you to hear slander against her son, that I've looked after for her sake and who'd no more touch a farthing rush-light that belonged to me than you would yourself, sir! If there's one man who's as guiltless as the babe unborn, it's Adam Brown!"

"I honour your confidence in your employees, sir," said I. "Trust makes trustworthy nine times out of ten. But look here. Here is a man whom you trust implicitly on your own showing. There is your cheque-book for one night every week under the same roof with him, the place where you keep it probably known to him. That man knows your writing and how you fill up your cheques and your counterfoils. That man transacts all your business with the bank at Redport. That man, it seems, may account to you or not account to you just in what form he will. Nobody else in your employ seems open to suspicion; no stranger could act in such a way without instant detection. Think what any jury would say to such a state of things. We've as yet got no direct proof, but with such circumstantial evidence to start with, direct proof is absolutely sure to come. Why, he might hope to carry on such a game as that safely for many years; at any rate, till he had restored what he had taken, as all those young rascals always "mean" to do someday when some impossible horse wins some impossible derby. And, I'm afraid, previous good character in such cases always goes against a man. It doubles the guilt of his downfall and is, indeed, the very means and cause of his being able to fall. Adam Brown is the man."

John Buller's anger passed suddenly, as if ashamed of itself, and there was no mistaking the profound grief and distress of the tone in which he answered me.

"You'll excuse me," said he. "It was because I saw all this just as well as you do that I came here, hoping you, as a practical and unprejudiced man, would help me to see t'other side of things. And I was disappointed you didn't, and that was what made me fly. Don't you go to mistake me for being any softer than my neighbours. If you can prove to me the man who's been tampering with my cheque-book is Adam Brown, I'll treat him like a viper, Mr. Standish— that I will! I'd sooner cut my own throat than throw a crust to my own son, if I had one, if I couldn't trust him as my own right hand. And, if you'll believe it, sir, Adam Brown has been more to me than if he was my own son. For he's the orphan boy of the only woman I ever wanted to marry, or ever shall. I don't suspect him for one moment— not I. But for that very reason I want you to show me how to put him above the suspicion of any outside man, such as you. Take my word for it, it's not Adam Brown. If it was, I'd have done his business for him pretty quick without bothering myself to come to you. But make as if I thought it was— you prove the innocence of an innocent lad and, by Jingo, you'll take off my mind the biggest load of bricks that ever was on."

The speech was inconsistent enough. But one thing was plain from it— John Buller was determined to disbelieve the clear evidence of his own reason. He had not come to me to find out a thief, but to get me to prove to his own satisfaction that the thief was an innocent man and, at the same time, to acquit him in his own eyes of intentional self-deception. He knew how he would have to act if he found his trust deceived, and the severity which he thought his duty in such cases frightened him, lest he should feel compelled to exercise it towards Adam Brown. I could not help smiling at the openness of the workings of his mind, or being touched by them, too. I had never suspected my substantial client of having been the victim of a romance since I had first gone down from London to Carcester.

"Then," I asked again, a little hypocritically, "you are convinced in your own mind, from your previous knowledge of his character, that Adam Brown is not the man?"

"I'm just as certain he's not as that I stand here. And, more for his sake than my own, I mean to know who is the man."

"Have you spoken about it to Adam Brown?"

"Not I. I'd as soon speak to you, Mr. Standish, on the supposition that it might have been you."

"Very good. If Adam Brown—"

"If, sir?"

"Since Adam Brown is innocent, we can very soon put him beyond the reach of any sort of suspicion, and without bringing the people at the bank into the affair— at least, not in any way that would make them think anything was seriously wrong in any particular direction. In the first place, arrange with them, both here and at Redport, not to cash any cheque of yours not bearing a certain private mark (which you will keep secret from all your employees) without forthwith advertising you of the person by whom it was presented. This will have the effect of narrowing matters very considerably. What had better be done further I think we will wait and see."

"You quite understand, Mr. Standish, that whatever you do will find out who was the real man— not young Adam Brown? I— I doubt if I quite like to do that about the private mark after all. It seems a bit mean-like to my mind."

"It's the best way of clearing Adam Brown if— Since he's innocent, it seems to me," said I.

"You think that? Well, you're right, I suppose. And, by Jingo, as he is innocent, why should I be afraid? If he wasn't— If I wasn't as sure of it as I'm alive— But it can't be! I'd sooner doubt my own right hand! I will. I'll settle about the private mark this very day."

Of course I had not the faintest doubt in my own mind about the identity of this ingenious and systematic forger with Mr. Adam Brown. I had already given my reasons to John Buller and they are so perfectly obvious, under all the circumstances, that I need not repeat them here. I could quite understand why John Buller, since he had a more than common interest in his clerk of the works at Redport, should be very anxious to be convinced that his belief in the latter's innocence was not inconsistent with the common sense proper to a shrewd man of the word, whose pride in never being "done" is always the greater in proportion as it is unjustified. Men who are really sharp and shrewd know too well that they are always and inevitably being "done" to bother their heads about their share in a universal doom.

I knew Adam Brown pretty well by sight, and a little by reputation. He was a good-looking, pleasant young fellow, certainly too young for his over-responsible place in John Buller's service, but well up to his work and very popular with the young men of his own class in Carcester. His father had been an unsuccessful commission agent and, as I had today learned for the first time, the successful rival in love of John Buller. I must leave it to others wholly to understand why the beaten suitor, whom nobody suspected of having a grain of sentiment in his composition, should have made himself a second father to this young man— in a reserved and wholly undemonstrative way, that is, for I feel certain now that Adam Brown looked upon himself simply as an ordinary employee and did not fancy that the place he held in John Buller's business was due to the place in John Buller's heart of his dead mother. I daresay that little romance might prove worth writing for its own sake in the hands of a sentimental author. But this story is not a sentimental one.So I was really rather sorry that circumstances pointed so clearly to Adam Brown as the guilty man, though of course I felt also that John Buller's eyes ought to be opened and that such ungrateful crime ought to be punished as openly and as richly as it deserved. I had not the least intention of helping my client to persuade himself of the innocence of a guilty man. On the contrary, I fully meant to expose the young rascal before he could do worse harm; and for that purpose the plan of privately marked cheque seemed the best that, upon the spur of the moment, I could hit on. It would satisfy John Buller by avoiding immediate scandal and no doubt convict the forger just as well as any more open way. But the explosion was to come more sharply and swiftly than I had planned.

On the following Saturday morning the spirit moved me to take John Buller's house on my way to my own office, for I was not particularly busy at the moment. I thought it advisable to see with my own eyes something of that curious weekly dispatch of cheques and bills to Redport, and I wanted also to make more particular acquaintance with the physiognomy of Mr. Adam Brown. I believed in physiognomy in those days. I need hardly say that I no longer now do anything of the kind, beyond knowing when a man eats too much and drinks too often. I have seen such saintly faces in the dock, and men on whom Nature has stamped blackguard, or even murderer, have been among the best whom she has made. Adam Brown, who had finished his breakfast and was just on the eve of starting for Redport, fell into neither of these extreme classes and might easily have belonged to either side of the broad band between them where good is inextricably and undecipherably mixed up and often confused with harm. As I have said, he was young and good-looking, and he had a good face too, like a lad's who comes of good people and has been brought up well. And, what was better, it was not a weak one nor a stupid one. But, at the same time, it wasn't a happy one, and gloomy rather than merely grave. His eyes, instead of looking bright or open, as a young man's should always be in the morning, were dull and red, as if he had either slept but little or were in the habit of taking something stronger than tea or coffee for breakfast when at home in his Redport lodgings. In such cases, the eye and the hand are one, and his hand was not quite so steady as he held out his hand for the leather cheque-case, so I thought at least, as it ought to have been.

"I've only dropped in to see if you've made your arrangements about marking today's cheques," said I, as soon as Adam Brown had closed the street-door. "You've found nothing new, I suppose?"

"No. I wish to Heaven the thing was out and over; it worries me more than I try to say. There's nothing so horrible as having somebody about that you can't trust and you don't know who. And you're a married man, Standish; you don't know what it means to swallow all your own worries yourself, with nobody to give the least bit of 'em to. But— Holloa! Hi, Adam!" he called out, throwing up the window and calling down the street. "Just to show you how things bother me," he said to me, "I've left out of the case just the very cheque from Archer and Company that I wanted to have paid in at Redport this very day. Hi, Adam! Ah, here you are! I was afraid you were out of earshot, but you're in lots of time for the train. There's something I wanted to say to you, and Mr. Standish coming in just now—"

There was nothing in the sudden recall, however unusual, to frighten an honest man. But I could not mistake my eyes. There are some cases in which we can't help reading faces— ay, and in believing what we read. If ever fright turned a man's face red and pale, it turned Adam Brown's now.

"Here's a cheque of Archer's," said John Buller, noticing nothing, "that I want paid in at Redport this morning and I forgot it when Mr. Standish came in. Put it in the case with the others. Here it is. Three hundred and eighty-eight pounds nine."

Adam Brown held out his hand for the cheque, but a sudden inspiration, prompted by the young man's unmistakable confusion, made me say, "Yes; there's plenty of time for the train, but not for me. There's something  I must say to you, Mr. Buller, before I go on to the office, and I've only allowed myself a minute to spare. Would you mind leaving us alone for one minute, Mr. Brown? You can leave the case here; Mr. Buller can put in the cheque while he's listening to me to save time."

I watched the young man while I spoke, and what I saw made me feel more sure than ever. I held out my hand for the case to pass it to John Buller, and felt Adam's fingers tremble as they touched mine. And yet not a word had been said that could alarm a perfectly innocent man, who has no secrets from his employer or even from his employer's attorney."Wait a bit," I said to John Buller, as soon as Adam had left the room. "Before putting in that cheque, just see if the others are as they ought to be."

"The others? Of course they are. What do you mean?"

"Why, as you made one mistake, you might by chance have made another, you know. Well, while you're overhauling, I only just wanted to say—"

There was nothing I wanted to say, but I had no need to think of a pretext. I had my eye on John Buller and before "say" was off my lips—"Good God!" cried he. "Look here! Brown!" he shouted, "Adam Brown—"

"Don't frighten him," said I, rising and opening the door, knowing what John Buller had found in the case as well as if I had seen it with my very eyes. "Mr. Brown, you may come in now."

He came in, as a detected criminal comes before a judge, trembling and pale. I wondered he had been able to remain in the hall all alone for that terrible moment, during which, as he must have known, he was being tried, found guilty, and condemned.To my surprise, John Buller, whom I had thought in the first stage of a passion, sat still in front of his detected clerk without a word. But I should not like to have been in Adam Brown's shoes during that silent pause. There was no sign or thought of anger in the long look of mingled sorrow and scorn— more of sorrow than of scorn— with which John Buller regarded the young man to whom he had tried to be a second father. I had done my duty, I suppose; but I could not help pitying both and I know whom I pitied the most of the two. It was not the younger man.I looked steadfastly at the fifth forged cheque for fifty pounds which John Buller had found, just as I had expected, in the leather case, and the preparation of which was quite enough to account for the sleepless look of the young man's eyes. It seemed to me that the imitation was even better than before.

"Adam Brown," said John Buller at last, in a voice full of sadness and yet of the double pathos which comes alone from more dignified firmness than I should have expected from such a man—"Adam Brown, I know well enough that you see your deceit discovered and I won't add to your wrongdoing by tempting you to tell a lie. I knew your mother— long ago— and for her sake I first gave you work, and bread to work for. But it was for your own sake I trusted you, even as she might have trusted me, and the end is that I shall never be able to trust man, woman, or child again. That is the injury you have done to me, and there's none greater that man can do man. I fought hard against the belief of my own eyes— for weeks I've fought against it; but I know now. Don't be afraid. I'm not going to have you— your mother's son— put in the dock as a felon. But there's nothing I can do for a man— A boy— That— That— Go; and never cross my path again."

The culprit tried to lift his eyes, but failed. "Sir," he began, "I do not defend–I do not excuse– I never intended–"

"I am sorry for myself. Do not make me despise you. A man does as he intends. I'm wrong not to prosecute you; it's what I should do to any other man who did as— As you have done. Go. I give you the chance to redeem yourself, if you can; but not with me. Go."

Without one attempt to defend or excuse his guilt, far less to deny it, the young man was gone.

"I do not thank you for this, Mr. Standish," said John Buller. The tears came into his voice as he turned away.The more I thought things over, the less displeased I was with myself for the way in which they had gone. The more anybody thinks about it, the more finished a rogue, in spite of his years, will Adam Brown appear to be. His plan was as clear as daylight now. Obviously, he had easily found where his employer kept his cheque-book for the bank at Redport, and spent the better part of Friday night in filling up one of its forms and manipulating the counterfoil so as to produce an exact facsimile of a cheque drawn and signed by John Buller. On my life, I believe he might, so perfect was his process, have got a jury to acquit him on the ground that some strange accident must have been his enemy and that the cheque was really John Buller's after all, for the best men of business may be guilty of mistake or error now and then. Yes, but then you see that defence would not have done after all, seeing that here was the sixth cheque forged in six weeks, and that John Buller not only had never had occasion to draw these and knew he never had drawn them, but had kept a perfectly complete and accurate account, inaccurate in no slightest particular, of all he had had occasion to draw and remembered drawing. Mistake— if the reader will think for one instant— was thus rendered absolutely impossible. And not only was the matter clenched now by conduct on Adam Brown's part amounting to confession, without so much as an appeal for mercy, but every cheque in the case bore the private mark except this alone. And the packet had been in no hands but those of Adam Brown.

Of course it was natural that John Buller, like all men of his temper when they met with such everyday things as ingratitude and breach of trust, should feel misanthropical and as if confidence in his fellow-creatures was henceforth dead in him. But very few men indeed are Timons. We mostly return to our original nature; instinctive trust is happily a fine hardy growth that requires a great deal of killing. In a little while, no doubt, John Buller would trust the next stranger rather more implicitly than if he had been his own brother, and be all the better for being rid of such an exceptionally clever rogue, a man with a positive genius for forgery as his ex-clerk of the works at Redport. Perhaps, even, his experience would have a wholesome effect upon him by teaching him that the son of a woman we have loved in our youth is not, solely for that rather sentimental reason, bound to be better than all other sons of Eve in general. Young men who have had mothers have also had fathers, and Mr. Brown, the commission agent, had not borne altogether the highest of characters while alive.

I did not see or hear from John Buller for the next few days, which was rather singular, as he nearly always had a good deal of business on hand which required the help of a solicitor, and as two or three important agreements to which he was party were just then passing through my hands. But I heard in various incidental ways of young Brown. A clerk of mine was an acquaintance of his, and he told me— without knowing any of the circumstances— that Brown had suddenly left John Buller and had gone up to London to find another situation; which, without any sort of character (for John Buller was incapable of give a false or even a misleading one to anybody), I imagined he would find it hard to do, except as active partner in a firm of forgers. From another source I heard he had had a fortune left him and was going to live on a fine estate in the country. Anyhow, he left both Redport and Carcester without leaving behind him a guess as to the true reason of his departure. It was not, indeed, till the following Friday afternoon that I next received a visit from John Buller. I thought him looking fagged and harassed, and I told him so.

"I'm afraid you keep to many irons in the fire," said I."Not a bit of it. One keeps the other warm. If you was as much by yourself as I am, you'd want a bit more work than you could manage just to keep you and yourself from quarrelling.""Have you heard anything more of young Brown?"

"Young who?"

"Young Brown."

"I've forgotten his name. And you won't remind me of it, if you and me's to keep friends. There's no such name. Talking of not looking well— It's you that don't look yourself, it seems to me. You want a day's holiday, and I've looked in to ask you to be so kind as to take one."

"You're very kind, I'm sure; but—"

"'But' be hanged! Look here, Mr. Standish. Today's Friday, and there's the usual business of paying in and drawing out to be done over at Redport tomorrow. I can't do it myself as I've got to be in three other places at once by the first train, and I'm not such an ass as to trust any of my people here with the value of seven-pence-half penny. Once bit, twice shy. I've done with trusting for the rest of my days. At the rate of fifty pound a week, it don't pay. You've never been over at Redport and, though I say it that shouldn't, the place is worth seeing as a specimen of what places can be made to grow. You take a day's run over there tomorrow— you and Mrs. Standish too. I'll give you a pass on the line and telegraph to the Star to treat you like princes and princesses. All you'll have to do will be to hand my cheque-case over the bank counter, which won't take you two minutes or fifty yards out of your way to the new pier, and then you can make a Saturday-to-Monday of it, if you please. I want you to see Redport before it grows out of all knowing. Say yes and I'll have the cheques and things ready for you to pick up at my house on your way to the train."

I was not particularly anxious for a holiday; and certainly no wish to spend one en prince at the Star. But, at the same time, I had no sort of objection to an idle day and it was almost necessary, as a matter of business, to see the neighbouring town which was becoming every day more and more an office word. So, though more to please my best client than for any other reason, I agreed, only bargaining that I should be left free from the special attentions of the Star. John Buller thanked me for my promise to go as if I had done him some extraordinary favour.

"Well, if you won't let me telegraph, when you do ask for lunch at the Star, mention my name. You won't see much going on in the building line just now; one of the things I've got to be away for tomorrow is to get another scoundrel— till he's found out, like the rest of 'em— In the place of poor young— Of that young blackguard whose name I'll never remember again, if I live for a thousand years."

Now I don't want to have it supposed for a moment that my going over to Redport alone— that is to say, without my wife— was due to any fault or neglect of mine. If I could have foreseen that my day of idleness was to be one of solitude also, I should probably not quite so readily have consented to take a holiday. As it happened, however, I found when I got home from the office that Mrs. Standish had almost that very moment received an urgent summons to the sick-bed of her sister, who lived at the other end of England, which obliged her to take the very next train from Carcester and to travel all night through. Naturally, until I had seen her off I did not think again of my promised visit to Redport. So, as it was too late to back out of going, I decided to run over in the morning, do my business at the bank, and get back as early in the afternoon as the then infrequent trains between Redport and Carcester allowed.

So next morning, having told my clerks to close the office at the usual hour, which on Saturday was always an early one, I went to John Buller's house and from his hands received the cheque-case which he had ready for me. Knowing his feelings about the matter, I refrained from making any sort of allusion to it and even made a point, while receiving the case, of speaking carelessly about indifferent things. I put the case, otherwise untouched, in my breast-pocket, and there it remained till I reached the counter of the bank at Redport.

"Where's Mr. Brown?" asked the clerk, as he took the leather case. "It doesn't seem like Saturday morning without seeing Brown."

"He's away just at present," said I. "Mr. Buller asked me to give you this. All right, I suppose?"

There was no need to lessen my dignity in Redport as Mr. Buller's legal adviser, or to give Adam Brown the reputation he deserved, by explaining why I was doing the work of a builder's clerk and messenger on this occasion,

"All right," said the clerk, turning over the cheques and duly noticing whether they were properly endorsed and so on. "Quite right. By the way, there's a message or something the manager wants to send to Mr. Buller. I believe. I was to tell Brown so when he called. I suppose you'll do just the same?"

"I can take any message for Mr. Buller," said I. "Anyhow, I shall be seeing him on Monday if that will do."

"I daresay it will. Would you mind stepping this way?"I followed the clerk into an inner room, where I for the first time met the manager of the Redport Branch of the County Bank, hitherto known to me as Mr. George Richards by name only. We bowed, and he offered me a seat politely.

"You are my friend Mr. Buller's new clerk of the works, I presume?" asked he.

"No," said I. "I have no business in Redport except to cash and pay in these papers for Mr. Buller while passing by. But if there is any message I can give him—"

"I don't know. You are not leaving Redport immediately, I suppose?"

"Well, as to that, I am. In fact, by the very next train."

"By the next train? H'm!" Mr. Richards was a very young man for his place, and I began to fancy there was something I did not like in his manner. "Going back to Carcester anyhow, I suppose?" he asked again.

"Yes," I answered shortly. "And I believe the train starts in half-an-hour. So if you can tell me what you want said to Mr. Buller I shall be glad, as I haven't much time to lose."

"Yes— Of course— Certainly. But there is a little matter. Would you mind telling me if you received these cheques straight from Mr. Buller?"

"Certainly I did. Is there anything wrong?"

"You received them just as they are now?"

"Exactly as they are now. What is it, Mr. Richards? I am really in a hurry—"

"I'm very sorry. But you see, I am in a responsible position, and one can't be too careful in these days. I have already sent a messenger to telegraph to Mr. Buller. Would you mind waiting here till he comes?"

"The messenger?"

"No, till Mr. Buller can come over. I daresay it is all right, but—"

"But I can't wait, Mr. Richards. May I ask you what you mean? I can tell you that Mr. Buller is not in Carcester, and will not get your telegram till Monday, if then."

"That's awkward, by Jove, if it is so. But that we shall see."

"But meanwhile I must wish you good-day. If there's anything wrong you must settle it with Mr. Buller. I can't wait now."

"No? Well, then, Mr.— Mr.— I must frankly tell you that I must ask you to wait, even if it's till Monday, till Mr. Buller can come over here. It's an awkward situation I'm placed in, but— and I daresay Mr. Buller is not at Carcester, as you say. But— Well. Whether you're— It's, all right or all wrong, you see, in your own interest that I must ask you to remain. You see here's a cheque here that I daren't cash without special instructions from Mr. Buller."

"Don't cash it, then. Good-day—"

"Quite so. But I'd advise you not to be in quite such a hurry to be off, all the same. In fact, it's my unpleasant duty to ask you to stay here at the bank until the fact of this cheque being in your hands can be more fully explained."

"I have explained it," I began rather angrily. "I received it from Mr. Buller, if it came out with the rest from that case lying before you. Why should you venture to speak, even to a stranger, as if you had any reason to doubt his word? I don't understand this at all."

"For this reason: I have the best reason for believing that this cheque was never drawn by Mr. Buller. And now you see how it becomes my unpleasant duty—"

"Nonsense! As if I hadn't received every one of those cheques straight from his hands! You talk as if you took me for a forger. Well, I suppose I must excuse you, on the ground of over-zeal."

"It is most improbable that this cheque was drawn by— Well, never mind why. I'm bound to tell you that if you refuse to wait here for Mr. Buller's arrival of your own free will, and in your own interest, I shall have to call upon the police to assist me in the execution of my duty towards the bank and its customers and the public at large."

"Why," I began, my anger half-losing itself in amusement, "this is something too absurd. You can't call in a constable unless you can give him good reason to suspect me of felony. I have half-a-mind to let you try, for the fun of the thing. Only it would be wasting my own time. So I'll put an end to your scruples about the public at large by telling you at once that my name is Standish, and that I am solicitor to Mr. Buller and live at Carcester. And the next time I advise you, as a lawyer, to be more careful how you treat people who come to your bank."

"You are Mr. Buller's solicitor? Indeed? Of course that is important— very important. And no doubt you can send for somebody in Redport who know you? No— we can't be too careful in these days."

"I don't know a soul in Redport."

"No? H'm! Well, Mr. Buller will know you— when he comes."

"But I tell you he won't get your telegram for at least two days. This is monstrous!" I broke out, my amusement turning back into anger again.

"Monstrous or not— Well then, perhaps, as you feel safe from being brought face to face with— I should say, as you are convinced Mr. Buller is not at home, I suppose you have friends or clerks in Carcester who could give evidence as to who you say you are— Are, I ought no doubt to say? The telegraph's as open to you as to me."

"You positively are so insane as to say you will forcibly detain me— me— in Redport unless I can convince you that I am myself? And for no reason—"

"You must make up your mind to it. I know what law is," said Mr. Richards; "and— Well, not to mince matters, I've already got our police sergeant waiting in the next room. A messenger from the bank can dispatch any summons to any of your friends, if you'll write it down. Yes— it is in my power to give you into custody on suspicion of having forged a cheque which you yourself admit has passed through the hands of no third parties— a cheque of £50, signed John Buller. And as to why I have particular reasons for my belief, I don't mind telling you it's because the bank here has had special notice from the chief branch at Carcester to cash no cheques signed "John Buller" till we've communicated with the drawer, and to detain the person presenting them, whoever he may be— unless the cheques bear a certain private sign. There's reason for that, you may be sure. And there is the sign on every one of these cheques— except the one for £50."

"You mean to say that this cheque for £50 is the only one unmarked?"

"The only one."

"Let me see it, if you please."

He held it so that I might see it, taking care that I should have no chance of wresting it from his hands. I certainly could not blame him any longer for over-zeal, seeing it was on my own advice he was acting. But what room could I find for a single thought, save that an unmarked cheque, as like those presented by Adam Brown as a cheque could be, had been received straight from John Buller's very own hands by my very own? Surely it looked more like witchcraft than forgery.

And yet Adam's effective confession of guilt and the regularity with which the undoubtedly forged cheques had been presented— I could not make head or tail of it at all. I must have been bewildered; I must have seemed confused as if with guilt or fright, for I was confused in reality. I could not even affect the indignation of injured honesty; I was not indignant with Mr. Richards for being suspicious of what might be witchcraft, but certainly had all the air of a forgery— I, Charles Standish, being the forger!

"It is utterly unintelligible," said I, using the common phrase of people who won't, rather than can't, explain things that seem going against them. "But I am sure of one thing— Charles Standish of Carcester I am. And I don't want to stay in Redport till Monday. I will telegraph, as you say. I'll send word to my wife to— But no; she's not in Carcester either just now. I must send for one of the clerks at the office, I'm afraid, and make everybody wonder at what I can have been doing at Redport to need proof of my identity. Give me a form, and I'll write a message for my clerk—"

For my own credit's sake, and out of justice to Mr. Richards's zeal, I chose to wait in an inner office of the bank till somebody whom I knew should come. I need hardly say that Mr. Buller, being away from getting telegrams, never came. But it was not till hours had passed that I began to realize that it was Saturday afternoon— and that my idle dogs of clerks had of course taken advantage of my absence to close the office and go off to play at an exceptionally early hour. Closing time for the bank itself (also earlier than usual on Saturdays) had come when I saw in my mind, as clearly and truly as with my eyes, my telegram lying unopened on my clerk's desk at Carcester— and tomorrow was Sunday.

All I could do was to send off six telegrams to six different people, in the bare hope that one of them might bring over to Redport some respectable citizen of Carcester before the very last train. Not one brought a soul. And I could see what Mr. Richards thought of the result of my telegrams when I had, perforce, to put up with the accommodation of the police station instead of the hotel, there to remain until John Buller himself should come and set me free.In effect, I was a prisoner on suspicion of forgery— and I had in truth presented an unquestionably forged cheque that had been through no hands but my own! It was the most unaccountable mystery I had ever know, and it kept me from sleeping, even more than the discomfort of my cell, as much as if I were really a conscious sharer in the villanies of Adam Brown. This could not be his doing— and what then of the rest, and of his admitted guilt concerning them? Not even sleep, when it came in an uncomfortable shape at last, let me dream of a possible way through such a mystery.It was not till Monday afternoon that I received the welcome news that John Buller was on his way to see me at the police station in company with Mr. Richards. I must say that I had become more anxious now about getting home as fast as I could than about anything else in the world. It is not an amusing thing to be treated in a strange place as a suspected felon, and I have held very strong views about the treatment of unconvicted prisoners ever since that Redport Sunday.

"Here he is, sir," said Mr. Richards. "This is the— The gentleman who presented that cheque on Saturday morning. I hope and trust it's all right; but in these times, you see, one can't be too—"

"Thank Heaven, at last!" said I, springing from my seat, and holding out my hand. "I've never passed so long a day since I was born; but I certainly don't complain of Mr. Richards— he's been zealous enough, anyhow. And I only wish my clerks would simply do what they're bid and give up that confounded habit of thinking for themselves. If you ever have to leave the Company's service, Mr. Richards, for want of thinking-power, never mind— I'll take you into mine. Well, Mr. Buller, you must have slipped into drawing one unmarked cheque, after all?"

"No, sir!" said John Buller, with strange vehemence, for him. "No— I did not draw that cheque— with or without a sign. I drew no cheque for fifty pounds at all. And if you're the rascal that has been up to these games and got it all on poor young Adam's shoulders, I'm glad I see you here; I'm glad of it, with all my heart and soul. I'm hanged if I didn't know I was right, all along. Adam Brown, if a letter can find him, poor lad, goes back to my works at Redport this very hour!"

Could I believe my ears? "You— John Buller— you believe me guilty of having forged cheques, and tried to throw the guilt of it upon Adam Brown? Think for one least moment of what you are saying—"

"Think? Thinking's plain enough, it seems to me— a mile too plain by the longest chalks you can draw. It's likelier anybody would be a rogue than the orphan lad I'd brought up as my own son. I daresay, like enough, he was too taken aback by such a charge to say a word. I wonder he didn't double his fist and knock me down. But I hope I'm a just man if I'm a bit of a hasty one. I'm not going to be hasty with you. If you can explain what's at best an ugly business, say it out like a man."

"If I didn't respect an old client and an old friend— But I can't forget how you've been worrying about this business. Explain? I will, though I don't see how you and I can ever be friends again. You know as well as I do that I never cashed a cheque for you in my life before, or ever was at Redport till the day before yesterday—"

"Ay; so you say."

"So I do say. And you know that I received that case of cheques and bills— whatever they were, for I never looked at them— from your own hands on Saturday morning."

"Did you? That's my cheque-case, sure enough. But suppose you did, what then? Because something comes out of it, it doesn't follow it was I who put it in. No, no. I never drew that cheque. You present it to be cashed, and it purports to be drawn, signed, and endorsed by me. You say you received it from me. I say you didn't. And I ought to know; for you couldn't have received a cheque that never was drawn. Justice is justice. Adam Brown goes back to my works and you'll go to the country's, whoever you are. I don't know what's the right way to start a prosecution, but that's easy known. I'll see Standish this very day."

"You'll see Standish?"

"Ay, Standish of Carcester, my lawyer. Criminal business isn't his line, he says, but he'll do it for me."

"You mean I'm to prosecute myself? Well, it all seems queer enough. Perhaps I don't know who I am. Do you?"

"No, sir, I don't, I'm happy to say. Forgers aren't in my line."

"Good Heaven! Do you mean to deny that I am Mr. Standish of Carcester?"

I saw a very decided smile come over the face of Mr. Richards. And it was not pleasant to see. For if John Buller, as he was quite capable of doing, chose to prosecute me for forgery— well, I should be acquitted, of course, but my character would be gone forever and a day. The names of ladies are not more delicate than those of professional men.

"Come, none of that nonsense," said John Buller, "you're no more Standish than I am the Duke of Wellington. It does aggravate me to hear a man talk in that way. If you choose to deny that you're the Duke of Wellington when I say you are, we'll have a wager upon that and toss up for the winner. You come and dine with me at the Star, both of you, and I'll treat you like princes. We'll eat cheques for fifty pound apiece between slices of brown bread-and-butter cut thin, with lemon and cayenne. Its very odd, but I took a fancy to you the first minute I saw you. There's something about you puts me in mind of somebody or other— I never could remember names. But it's all one whoever you are. We're the sparks that fly upwards, and by Jingo, we'll have a jolly good fly... Who are you?" he called out at the top of his voice to Richards. "You're a murderer, sir, and a forger, and a fool. Come and dine with me at the Star...."

I need not continue the talk of poor John Buller, whom overwork, and loss of faith in the one human being who was dear to him, had driven out of his mind. It was an overwhelming relief when my managing-clerk arrived, and when sufficient explanations were obtained to allow of my return home in company with my poor friend. Even to the zealous Mr. Richards the state of things was as clear as day, so far as he knew.

It was not hard for me, now, to see how John Buller, once assured against his will of Adam's treachery in the first instance, had brooded over the shock, with an already over-lonely and over-burdened mind till, as sure as Friday night came round, he, possessed by the demon of monomania— which simply means the abnormal growth of a natural and normal idea— drew the cheque which haunted and fascinated him. If my readers cannot follow the chain of mental association with its manifold links of time, place, person, and occasion in which his disturbed brain became tangled and coiled, I fear I cannot hope to make it very clear. But there are very few who have not met with the most extraordinary cases of monomania in some form, and noticed how consistent they are with all outward appearance of sanity. Are there very many of us who have not felt some form of it ourselves in some slight degree? But, fortunately, few of us live altogether alone; few of us are over-trustful or, therefore, half-maddened when deceived; most of us have more, if not much more, self-control than was evidently possessed by John Buller. And yet he must have had a great deal. Only the insane can tell the very torture of self-suppression they have to undergo when they feel monomania slowly broadening into a wider, if not deeper, mode of lunacy. For, conscious of its own state every diseased brain must be when that state first beings.

And yet— could this be all? The madness of John Buller did not account for the more than apparent guilt of Adam Brown.

It was not till years afterwards— not till my poor old friend had left all his troubles behind him; not till I had long ago given up puzzling my head about the matter— that I one day received a letter bearing an Australian postmark, and addressed to myself in a strange hand. There was nothing curious in that. But as I read, the story I have been trying to tell came back to me as freshly as if it had all happened yesterday. For thus the letter ran:

Sir, It will doubtless surprise you to receive this from me; for I can not suppose that you will remember so much as my name. But you will remember— I fear only too well— a clerk in the service of Mr. John Buller who was dismissed from his service for embezzlement. I am that man; and my reason for calling myself to your remembrance is that I have at last found myself able to re-pay the sums that I abstracted wrongfully, and for which only Mr. Buller's kindness saved me from being sent to gaol. I do not, moreover, want him to think me always such a hopelessly ungrateful and treacherous scoundrel as he must be thinking me. I got into bad ways, knowing them bad all the time. I wanted more money than I could get honestly, and I had to pay it. I needn't tell that story; it's over now and no harm done to anybody but me.

I was tempted by what I called to myself need and weakness to "borrow" I called it then— to steal, that is to say— some of the money I drew from Redport bank. I had complete control of the accounts at Redport, and I suppose it was all so easy that at first it didn't so much feel like stealing, and so I went on and on. I used to take sometimes more than fifty pounds together. I've sent you a statement of all I took and I hope it's correct, for of course I had to muddle up all the accounts. You see, sir, Mr. Buller always used to give me a fifty-pound cheque over and above what I asked for, meaning, I suppose, to keep plenty of ready-money in the works for the week, and I never told him it was more than was wanted, for the reasons I've written.

The only excuse I had is this— I never knew how much I owed to Mr. Buller. I thought I was nothing more to him, and rather less, than any other man. That's no reason I should rob him, but it makes me a bit less of a thorough blackguard. He ought to have had me sent to gaol. And when he didn't, but just as much as told me to go and do no more wrong, as if I had been his own son— well, sir, it did go to the bottom of all the heart I've got, and I'd like him just to know that he wasn't foolish in being kind. If I ever did another wrong, or mean, or dishonest thing, I should have been the biggest cur on earth. I got a chance in New Zealand, and I should like him to know that his words made a man of me. This is a poor sort of a letter, but I can't say what I feel, and I won't try.

Trusting to hear from you per return, yours respectfully,

Adam Brown

And that is the not wholly unsatisfactory end of a sad story. I suppose that the first cheque must have been some sort of a blunder and that an obstinate man's supposition that forgery on somebody else's part was more probable than a blunder on his own resulted in— What we have seen. I intended, when I set out, to point a good number of morals, legal and otherwise. But I will content myself with two. One is, that justice has even queerer ways of going to work than law— as when it punishes a man for a fault that hasn't been found out by finding him guilty of one that he has never committed. The other is that trust, even if carried to the pitch of insanity, is not by any means so mad a thing as it seems. John Buller's over-trust sent him out of his own mind, but it saved another man.

_________________________________

7: The Mystery Of The Essex Stairs

Sir Gilbert Campbell

1838-1899

From New Detective Stories, 1891

IT WAS a bright moonlight night, the stars were shining clearly, and scarcely a breath of wind was stirring as Police Constable X-924 walked slowly down Essex Street, whistling to himself softly as he did so. His tour of duty was nearly over, and he was feeding his mind on the anticipations of a snug supper, with a comfortable pipe afterwards, when he heard a deep groan and a heavy fall, succeeded almost immediately by the rapid patter of footsteps, as though someone had made away at the top of his speed. These sounds appeared to come from the foot of the flight of stone steps with which Essex Street terminates at one end. "There's something wrong there," muttered the constable, as he abruptly ceased his whistling and quickened his pace, descending the timeworn stairs with as much celerity as was compatible with safety.

When, however, he reached the bottom, he could not at first see anything to account for the sounds which had alarmed him until, glancing into the dark street on the right of the steps, he saw a shapeless mass extended on the pavement, whilst a smaller object close by was struggling with quick, uncertain movements. Just as the constable flashed his bull's-eye on the recumbent figure, and had discovered that the struggling creature was a black poodle, the creature, by a sudden exertion, succeeded in emancipating itself and, with a bark of triumph, tore away round the corner and along the embankment in the direction of the Temple Station.

"It ain't no good my following that creature," thought Constable X-924; "there seems to me to be something more important here."

The constable was right, for the recumbent form was that of a man lying with his face in a pool of blood, which was still flowing from a terrible wound in the neck.

Constable X-924 was a prudent man, and had an intense horror of responsibility, and therefore the shrill notes of his whistle soon brought a couple of his comrades upon the scene.

They raised up the fallen man, who was still breathing, but it was evident to all the constables that the little life which still lingered in him would speedily have fled. There was a terrified look in his eyes, and his lips moved eagerly, though no sound issued from between them. robbery had evidently been the object of the murder, for coat and waistcoat were torn open, and no sign of a watch-chain was visible.

"He's going," remarked one of the new arrivals. "Where's the nearest doctor?"

"In Norfolk Street," answered Constable X-924; "if you fellows will stand by I will run and fetch him."

"Stop!" exclaimed the third man, as the constable was about to make a start; "look here, the poor fellow has been trying to write something on the pavement in his blood."

The light of the lantern showed the letters "J.A." roughly scrawled in the crimson fluid, then came something like an incomplete half-circle, and after that a dash, as if the writer's strength had failed.

"Is that meant for the name of the fellow that hurt you?" demanded one of the constables, bending over the wounded man, who made a movement of his hand, which might have been taken either for assent or negation, and then lapsed into a state of unconsciousness.

Police Constable X-924 hurried off, but the medical man was unfortunately not at home, and the policeman was standing disconsolately on the embankment, wondering what he should do next, when he was startled by seeing the identical black poodle which had escaped from the grasp of the injured man, jumping and whining round a figure seated upon one of the seats.

The constable at once walked up to the bench and perceived that the person with whom the dog appeared to be on such intimate terms was a young man, with a fair moustache and a pleasant cast of features. He was very shabbily dressed, and had on a much worn light overcoat.

"That dog seems precious fond of you," remarked Constable X-924; addressing the young man.

"He ought to be," was the reply, "for he has been with me five years, and shared good and evil fortune with me, principally the latter, during that period."

"Oh, and so the dog is yours, is he?" asked the constable, a little suspiciously.

"Of course he is," replied the young man; "but fool that I am, what am I thinking of? Besotted fool that I am, I have parted with him, and my curse upon the juggling fiend who tempted me. Scrub, where is your new master?"

"That is a question you will have to answer, as well as to account for those blood stains on the sleeve of your coat," replied the constable.

"So I will, whenever you like," returned the late master of Scrub, "but not now; any time after nine this morning I will come where you like, but I have an appointment at that hour and am only resting here because I have no money to pay for a bed."

"Gammon," replied the constable; "a fine chance I should have of meeting you again if I let you out of my sight. Come along," and he seized him roughly by the collar.

The young man made a violent resistance, but he was weak and unable to cope with the stalwart constable, and though Scrub utterly ruined Constable X-924's pantaloons by a sudden attack on his rear, both he and his late master were eventually overpowered and marched off to the police station.

When the prisoner, who gave the name of John Maynard, was brought before the magistrate, the case seemed very black against him, and he was remanded for a week.

When he was brought up again, the coroner's inquest had delivered a verdict of willful murder against him, and a well-known barrister had been instructed by the Treasury to prosecute.

The prisoner, John Maynard, who was in a terribly depressed state of mind, would have been without legal assistance had not a young barrister, who had become interested in the case, volunteered his services. Arthur Medlecott had been called to the bar about three years; he was a quiet, studious young man, and though he had not as yet received many briefs, had won golden opinions in those cases in which he had been engaged.

Something seemed to tell him that there was some mystery in this affair, and the further he went into it the deeper interest he felt. The unhappy man who had been found at the foot of Essex Stairs, and who had died whilst being conveyed to the hospital, was identified as a certain Reuben Blatchley, a betting man, who bore rather an equivocal reputation. There was no money save a few coppers found on the body, though it was well known the deceased had been in possession of a comparatively large sum of money before his death.

Before obtaining the assistance of the young barrister, the prisoner had made a statement to the following effect.

His name was John Maynard, aged twenty-eight, and he earned his living by exhibiting his trained dog, Scrub, at various music halls of inferior stamp. For the past two years his mother had been suffering from a painful and incurable disease, the expense of which took away every farthing he made. He had an acquaintance with the dead man, Reuben Blatchley, who had for some months been desirous of purchasing the poodle Scrub. At length, crushed down by adverse circumstances, Maynard had consented to sell the faithful animal for ten pounds, which sum Blatchley had paid him at a public house on the night of the murder. He confessed that he had been very angry at the time, and had accused the deceased of putting pressure upon him, but he had no hand in his death. He had parted with him outside the door of the public house, and after placing Scrub's lead in his hand had seen him turn toward the Temple, with the dog whining and struggling to get free.

Police Constable James Morgan, X-924, deposed to finding the dying man, and also to seeing the dog escape. He arrested the prisoner, who made considerable resistance.Cross-examined by Mr. Medlecott.

"Did he not say that he would come at ten o'clock and explain matters?"

Witness, smiling, "Yes, but I did not put any faith in him."

Inspector Frederick Hailes deposed that the prisoner had been brought to the police station, and that he noticed blood on his coat sleeves. Two five-pound notes were found in his pocket, each of which had two small punctures as though made by the point of a pin.

Question by counsel for the defence. "Did not the prisoner say that he was waiting for daylight in order to take the money, which was the price of his dog, to his mother?"

Answer. "He did make such a statement."

Gregory Marlton, publican, deposed that the prisoner and deceased were in his house on the night of the murder, and that prisoner was speaking very angrily to the dead man, but at the time he did not pay much attention, as he was accustomed to hear people quarrel. He heard deceased call the prisoner "Jack".

Deceased had given him a fifty-pound note early in the day, requesting him to get it changed. He would swear to the notes found on the prisoner as forming a portion of the money he had handed to deceased, because he had pinned the notes together, and the holes were still apparent. Prisoner had a black poodle with him, and he and deceased left the house together.

By Mr. Medlecott. "Did you hear anything said about the sale of a dog?"

Witness. "No, I did not."

"Did deceased pay prisoner any money?"

"Not as far as I saw; he bundled the notes into his breast pocket and went on jawing. He was a little gone, I think."

"And you will swear that he and the prisoner went out together?"

"Yes, I will swear to that."

William Hallock was next sworn. He said that he was at the Bunch of Grapes on the night in question, and heard the prisoner call deceased a mean-spirited devil who would take advantage of a man's necessities, and that he would repent of it sooner than he fancied. Prisoner's manner was threatening, but deceased was conciliatory, and called him "Jack, old fellow", offering to stand him a drink. He saw deceased receive money from the landlord. He left the house before deceased or prisoner. He had no acquaintance with either of them.By Mr. Medlecott. "What is your business?"

Witness. "I haven't any; I do odd jobs."

"Have you ever been in trouble?"

"I got into a mess a year ago about a gentleman's watch, but it was all a mistake."

"However, mistake or not, you got six months' hard labour."

"Yes; the witnesses were all prejudiced; it was a cruel shame."

"You were drinking in the Bunch of Grapes; where did you get your money from?"

The witness, insolently. "I don't see that I have any call to tell you that, gov'nor."

"When the clerk gave you the Testament you put out your wrong hand; are you left-handed?"

"There is no harm if I am, is there?"

"I ask you again if you are left-handed?"

Witness. "Well, for the matter of that, I am."

Police Constable Robert Dicker, Z-834, who had been summoned to the spot, deposed that he had discovered the handwriting on the flagstone, and said that the facsimile of it produced in court was perfectly correct.

By Mr. Medlecott. "You assisted in placing the deceased on the ambulance for conveyance to the hospital?"

Answer. "I did."

"Did you notice his hands?"

Witness. "I do not understand what you mean."

Mr. Medlecott. "Were there any bloodstains upon them?"

Witness. "No, they were perfectly clean."

Mr. Medlecott. "If there was no stain on his fingers how do you account for his having written the letters "J.A." in his blood?"

Witness, hesitatingly. "I cannot account for it at all."

Dr. Andrew Macalister, MD, was then called and deposed that he was house-surgeon at Saint Gengulphus' Hospital, and that the deceased when brought in was quite dead. The witness then proceeded to state that death had been caused by an incised wound in the throat, and that it could not have been self-inflicted.

By Mr. Medlecott. "Would it have been possible for the deceased to have written the letters which have been produced in court after having received a mortal wound?"

Dr. Macalister. "Quite possible, though I do not think, after such a shock to the system as deceased received, he would have had sufficient presence of mind to have given such a clue to his murderer."

No further evidence was brought forward on behalf of the prosecution, and the magistrate was about to commit the prisoner for trial at the approaching sessions when Mr. Medlecott interposed, saying that he had further evidence which he wished to bring forward for the defence.

Peter Romney, of Beech Place, Peckham, deposed that he was well acquainted with the deceased, and acted as his "penciller" at all race meetings.

The magistrate. "What do you mean by 'penciller'?"

The witness. "His clerk, your worship. I entered the bets he made, and kept his accounts generally. He had plenty of money, but used to drink a bit, at times."

The magistrate. "Really, Mr. Medlecott, I cannot see that this evidence has any bearing on the case."

Mr. Medlecott. "One moment, sir, and I think you will see that I am not wasting the time of the court."

To the witness. "Had you any particular reason for acting as clerk to the murdered man?"

Witness, with a laugh. "He had a previous good reason for engaging me, for if it had been to save his life, he couldn't have written a single letter of the alphabet."Sensation in the court.

Mr. Medlecott. "Thank you, that will do. Please call Mr. Erasmus Urswick."

Erasmus Urswick stepped into the witness box, and made the following statement. "I am a professional expert in handwriting, and I have examined the facsimile of the marks made in blood on the flagstone, which were supplied to me by the police authorities. The letters "J.A.", and the unfinished semi-circle, have certainly been traced by someone using their left hand; of this there can be no doubt—"

The magistrate. "I should really be unwilling, Mr. Urswick, to challenge the professional opinion of a gentleman who has now such a reputation as you have, but do you not think that you are going a little too far?"

Mr. Urswick. "In what way, Your Worship?"

The magistrate. "In so decidedly stating that the writing must have been executed with the left hand."

Mr. Urswick. "The caligraphy of the right hand differs in the most wonderful and marked manner, and there are very few persons whose handwritings are alike; but in the course of my experience, I have invariably found that the writing executed by the left hand has almost invariably the same characteristics. I produce, for the inspection of the court, a sheet of paper, upon which I have obtained a dozen copies of the letters "J. A." Not copies, for they have not seen the facsimiles in the hands of the police. They were all effected in the same manner— by dipping the forefinger in blacking— and your worship will observe the marked resemblance between the various attempts. I am now going to make a further statement, which may seem even more incredible than my first one, and that is, that if the letters were written with the left hand, they were never written by the dead man."

The magistrate. "That is a bold assertion, Mr. Urswick, and I shall be glad to hear how you will prove it."

"I was brought up, your worship, for the medical profession, and took my degree in due course, but I, after a time, abandoned it— I am sure Dr. Macalister will pardon me— for a less precarious position. I examined the left hand of the murdered man, and I find that the middle finger is wanting, doubtless the result of some accident, and the forefinger and the one next to it are stiff and unbendable, so that by no possibility could they have been used to inscribe the letters "J.A." I appeal to Dr. Macalister to know whether I am or am not right."

Dr. Macalister, rising and bowing. "You are perfectly right, Mr. Urswick."

Renewed sensation in the court.The magistrate. "Then what is your argument, Mr. Medlecott?"

Mr. Medlecott. "That it would be absurd to suppose that my client would have inscribed the two first letters of his Christian name had he been the actual murderer, and that "J.A." was written by the real criminal in order to throw the blame upon an innocent party."

"You forget the blood upon the coat, and the two five-pound notes, which have been identified as having been in possession of the deceased on the night of the murder, and which were found upon the prisoner."

"The notes, my client has asserted, were give him in payment for the poodle, which the police constable, who discovered the body, saw escaping from the dying man's grasp; and the blood is easily accounted for by a wound which the dog received when the murderer made his first attack, and with which he would have stained his master's coat in his joy at finding him again."

"Let the dog be brought into court," said the magistrate; "I should like to examine the wound myself."

Within five minutes after this order had been given, a sudden tumult arose at the door of the court. The barking and snarling of a dog was mingled with the oaths and vociferations of a man, and a confused murmur from the officials.

Above it all rose the tones of a man, pronouncing these words, clearly and distinctly: "You infernal brute, are you not content with having bitten my leg nearly through for the accidental slash I gave you at the foot of Essex Street, but you must make for me again."

"There is the end of my case for the defence, your worship," remarked Mr. Medlecott. "Scrub, the poodle, has put in the finishing link of evidence, and if you want the real murderer, why, there he stands, self-confessed, in the person of William Hallock, the left-handed villain who, with his fingers dipped in his victim's blood, traced the lying letters which have almost thrust an innocent man's neck into the hangman's noose."

Taken by surprise, and feeling that there was no retracting the admission he had made, Hallock sulkily confessed his crime. The remainder of the stolen notes were found in the lining of his coat, and Scrub's mark was visible on the calf of his leg. He confessed that he had seen the notes handed over to Blatchley and heard the quarrel between the two men. The idea of the crime had flashed suddenly upon him, and waiting outside, he had dogged the betting man after he had parted with Maynard until a convenient spot was reached, when, springing upon him, he had cut his throat with a razor which he had in his pocket. The dog had received a chance cut in the struggle, and had retaliated after the manner of his kind with his teeth. He had then robbed the dying man, and traced the letters "J.A." on the flagstone near, as if the expiring efforts of the victim had been to give a clue to his murderer. He had then run of at full speed and hurled the bloodstained weapon into the Thames.

In due time William Hallock expiated his crime on the gallows, whilst John Maynard, whom Scrub had quietly followed out of court, was lucky enough to obtain a good engagement for his canine protégé at one of the leading music halls, where his sensational story became known through the medium of the press, and so to supply his mother in her last days with every comfort.

__________________

8: How the Girl Came to Bentley's

E Charles Vivian

1882-1947

World's News (Sydney) 21 May 1910

[Nash’s Magazine April 1910]

BENTLEY'S was the boarding-house, shadowed throughout the afternoons by Leeuwberg's mighty bulk, and in the early mornings by hills which guard the Basuto border thereabouts. At Bentley's the three big troopers and one small corporal of police boarded, and it was Heaton, biggest of the three big troopers, and a New Zealander, who brought the girl to Bentley's.

Herein is set down the manner of his exploit.

HE HAD met the girl at a dance when he had gone in to headquarters with a prisoner, some six months previously, had discovered that she was a school teacher, and become engaged to her. It is not implied that all these things transpired in that one visit, though Heaton was fairly rapid in his ways.

He had secured a promise from the girl that she would spend the greater part of her next holidays with Mrs. Bentley, who was a good woman, and reliable; and, now that the holidays had commenced, he wanted a Cape cart to fetch the girl, for his headquarters town was 25 miles distant from Bentley's. The two remaining troopers had gone stony broke over their last "beano," as had the small corporal, and Heaton himself still owed for the dress suit in which he had appeared at the last dance. The girl's holidays would be nearly ended by next settling day, so Heaton sat on a log and reflected that he was bound to get that Cape cart in some way, or the £2 wherewith to hire it. This was in the days when Mausers had not long ceased echoing from the kopjes and across the veldt stretches, and transport hire ran high aye, higher than that.

Now, as Heaton sat meditating over his girl and his problematic Cape cart, staring dowu the Aliwal-road with eyes which saw not, Providence came to his aid in the shape of the small corporal, who bade him saddle up and go out to Van Zyl's farm with a Kaffir boy. That Kaffir boy would tell him what was the trouble.

Thereupon Heaton said "damn" and other things to the same purpose, for the ways of Providence are inscrutable and beyond comprehension when it works in the shape of a small corporal and a Kaffir boy. Yet, knowing that he must, Heaton saddled up and went with the boy, who told a story as follows:

In company with a bundle, without which no native can travel, he had been trekking up from Wepener, and had lain down by the road-side to rest, after the manner of his kind. Then it was that he missed from his bundle a pair of best Sunday inexpressibles, together with £2 17s and two tickies, which he had been keeping in the pocket of the inexpressibles. He had trekked back for two miles, and had found the trousers lying on the road, but the £2 17s and the two tickies were not, for somebody had been there and taken all, even to the last tickie.

In the dust of the road, beside the trousers, was a spoor left by two small feet, of which the right foot was deformed, and turned inward. This matter of explaining a physiological point took the Kaffir boy a long time and much gesticulation, but after a while Heaton comprehended, and the boy went on with his story concerning how he had followed that spoor up to Van Zyl's house. There, before Van Zyl kicked him out and went for a sjambok, he had seen a small boy whose right foot— more gesticulation and explanation.

And Heaton felt sore in thinking that a Kaffir boy could walk about the colony with £2 17s and two tickies, while he, who wanted a Cape cart, had not 5s to his name. Providence had not yet deigned to reveal itself.

He rode up to Van Zyl's, while the Kaffir boy seat on the step, and Van Zyl rose from his seat on the stoep, moving slowly out to meet them. This Vau Zyl was, as are many other dopper Boers, unshaven, unwashed, patched at the knees, and surmounted by a hat which was old in the days of T'Chaka and the great trek. He scowled at the Kaffir boy, then at Heaton.

"Goot daeg," he said.

Now, although he would not, Van Zyl could speak and understand English. Heaton, who knew this, answered in English:—

"You have a boy here, Mr. Van Zyl, with a deformed right foot?"

"Nix, ni," said Van Zyl.

Just at that moment the boy limped round the corner of the house, and Van Zyl muttered some things best left untranslated, concerning "verdomde Hendrik."

"Come here, Hendrik," Heaton commanded.

Hendrik came there, and as he came, Heaton observed a Cape cart standing by the cattle kraal, and mules grazing on the veldt.

"Your Cape cart?" he asked Van Zyl.

"Ja," said that worthy, sulkily.

Heaton put on a magisterial air, to cover his exceeding joy, and turned to the limping boy.

"Hendrik," he said, "out on the Aliwal-road, you found a pair of trousers, with £2 17s and two tickies in the pocket. You took the money, and left the trousers."

"Nix," said Hendrik.

"The money belonged to this Kaffir, and when he had tracked your spoor here, Hendrik, Van Zyl wouldn't listen to him, but kicked him out."

"Nix," said Van Zyl, "nix, ni."

"Therefore, Hendrik," Heaton pursued imperturbably, "I find it my painful duty to arrest you for theft, and must warn you that anything you may say now will be used as evidence against you."

The warning was totally unnecessary. Van Zyl indulged in a few more lurid phrases, but Hendrik merely looked stupid. Then Heaton took a pair of handcuffs from the back of his saddle, and dangled them suggestively.

"Also, Mr. Van Zyl, it is incumbent on me to arrest you—" he paused with impressive solemnity— "as an accessory to the theft, for making a statement tending to pervert the course of justice, and for a brutal and unprovoked assault on a Kaffir boy."

This last was— and is— a serious crime, as Van Zyl knew.

He looked up at Heaton and opened his mouth as if to speak, but Heaton raised a warning hand. "Anything you may say now will be used as evidence against you."

Van Zyl let fall one sulphurous expletive which he had learned from a military policeman in the concentration camp, and Heaton took out a notebook and pencil. But Hendrik, who had observed the way in which things were moving, extracted a dirty, knotted handkerchief from his pocket, and untied the knot. Therein reposed £2 17s and two tickies, and Hendrik held out the handkerchief towards the Kaffir boy.

"Nix," said Heaton, "give it here!" And Hendrik gave it there. Then, while Van Zyl watched him anxiously, Heaton pondered.

"You can consider the two arrests cancelled, Mr. Van Zyl," he said at last, and Van Zyl bowed his relief. "But I shall be obliged to report the case, and Hendrik will have to accompany me to headquarters. You had better inspan that Cape cart."

Van Zyl turned and beckoned to a Basuto boy. "Inspan, January," he said, with sad resignation.

"Buck waggon, baas?" January queried.

"No, you condemned fool, Cape cart!" Heaton interjected.

January rounded up two mules and inspanned, and Hendrik climbed into the Cape cart beside the Kaffir boy, who took the reins. Heaton heard Van Zyl murmuring sulphurous wishes concerning Hendrik as he rode off with them towards the headquarters town, but it disturbed him not. Providence had become visible.

When they had rounded the corner of a kopje and were out of sight of Van Zyl's homestead. Heaton stopped the Cape cart, and gave the Kaffir boy his wealth, bidding him come out from the cart. As he came Heaton handed him the reins of his pony.

"Take that pony back to my post, tell the corporal I sent you with it, and then clear out. Also keep a very quiet tongue about it."

The boy smiled comprehensively and mounted the pony, while Heaton set out on his way toward the headquarters town— but not toward headquarters. Outside a certain house he climbed down, bidding Hendrik wait for him with the cart. Hendrik waited with stolid Dutch patience for an hour and a half.

She was a very nice girl, Hendrik decided, when his time of waiting was over, and the way in which he helped to fix her trunks on the cart surprised even himself. But he could not understand why Heaton kept an arm round her when they had left the town. She was not likely to fall out, for she sat between Heaton and himself, and he wondered why. But concerning these things he kept silence, as he did with regard to a vague curiosity as to why Heaton let the mules trot so slowly.

It was dark when they pulled up at Bentley's, and Heaton lifted the girl down from the cart. Hendrik got down from his seat and gave Heaton a hand in removing the trunks.

"Now, it's a straight road to Van Zyl's," Heaton said to him, "and you can drive two mules. Hendrik, better than I can. I think you can get home to-night— eh?"

"Ja," said Hendrik.

He drove off for Van Zyl's, bearing with him Heaton's last half-crown. Heaton turned toward the boarding-house with the girl.

"I had an awful bother to get that Cape cart to-day," he remarked.

_______________

9: The Faith of Men

William Le Queux

1864-1927

Australian Town and Country Journal  20 Nov 1918

[The Grand Magazine Feb 1918]

ON A glorious summer day— one of those warm peaceful August days before the war— Barbara Brogden, a charming and attractive girl, was punting leisurely up that stretch of the Thames between Richmond and Twickenham. To complete the picture she should have been accompanied by a young man in flannels, but she was all alone— supple, pretty, and smiling.

She had stolen away from her cramping environment, her dull outlook; that monotonous life she led with her mother in their small, ivy-clad cottage in the older part of Richmond. Perhaps she wanted to gather from the glowing sunshine, the softly-shimmering river the consolation that Nature ever , gives to those whose souls are bruised and sore, if they only, have the courkge to ask- for it.

Her face grew serious, for she saw happy couples passing her in their boats; indeed, some of the women stared at her as they passed. The gaze of the men lingered longer, as they took note of the graceful figure bent to the punt pole and the charming face, just delicately flushed with her exertions.

She felt alone, and perhaps a little sad, as those happy couples went by, but after a while she felt less discontented. The voices, of Nature were whispering, in their varied accents. The sunshine, spoke to her, the soft ripple of the river, the sweet cry of the birds, the gentle rustling of the leaves, just stirred by the faint, summer wind. Ah! yes, it was good, to be away for one brief bour from the close narrow walls of the ivy-covered cottage!

She was not a very expert punter, and, lost in her reveries, she made a false Plunge, and, gripped her pole. In a second she had lost her balance. She was in the river, and the punt was drifting fast away.

Then, in a moment, came adventure and romance.

A swarthy young fellow sculling along in her wake with practised ease, came up with her, as she rose to the surface. He leaned over, picked her out of the water with his long, muscular arms, as easily as he might have lifted a kitten, and deposited her in his own boat. Even in her great shock she discovered that he was not addicted to emotion.

"A pretty near squeak that! By Jove! You were in a nasty part of the river. I'll bet anything you can't swim!" he said laughing.

"No," she gasped, "I— I can't swim." Then, womanlike, her thoughts fixed themselves on comparatively trifling matters.

"The punt," she cried, "I must recover the punt."

The young man smiled good-naturedly.

"Punt be hanged. It will be picked up presently, and returned in due course. The most pressing question is, what am I going to do with you, half-drowned as you are?"

She looked at him with rather shy eyes. Yes, he was very nice.

"I have not yet thanked you," she said.

"No thanks wanted," he said in his brusque way. "When a man falls into a pit, etcetera— I forget the rest of the quotation. I say— where do you live?"

She gave him the address of the ivy-covered cottage. She added that her name was Brogden. The young man was active, and in a few seconds he had turned his boat round, and with long, powerful strokes brought her to the landing-stage.

"We'll just go at a steady trot to your house," he said, as he lifted her out. "Never mind if people look at us; it's no use pretending you haven't been half-drowned. As soon as you get home hot bath— hot drinks, then bed— then doctor."

They went at a very swift pace to the cottage, and Mrs. Brogden meeting them in the hall, Barbara flew to her.

"Mother, darling. I fell into the river, and this gentleman rescued me!" she cried.

Mrs. Brogden paused to find befitting words.

Then the young man cut in in his usual laconic fashion.

"My name is Renfrew," he said, "Guy Renfrew. Nasty part of the river— just got there in time— girls who can't swim shouldn't go on the river. Get her into a hot bath at once, Mrs. Brogden. Give her some hot brandy and water, put her to bed — and then send for a doctor."

Mrs. Brogden, quite overpowered by the masterful young man, hurried her daughter away. During her absence a maid came in with refreshment of a liquid nature, to which Mr. Renfrew helped himself generously.

When the mother of the pretty girl returned Mr. Renfrew chatted with her for a long time, and became quite communicative. He told her something of his family history.

He was the nephew of the Earl of Carshalton. Mrs. Brogden knew a good deal about the aristocracy, through the so-called society, papers. The Earl was a gouty nobleman, of about 60 years, a bit of a miser, with a rent-roll of thirty thousand a year, and a bachelor. Guy Renfrew would succeed— if his uncle, did not marry.

Mrs. Brogden beamed on him as he disclosed a few further interesting facts. When they said good-bye, he begged permission to call next day to inquire after the progress of the young lady he had rescued. Needless to say, the requisite permission, was accorded.

Next day he came, and every day after for a month. At the end of the fourth week they were engaged,, and at the end of three months they were married. —Very happy they were until quite suddenly the Earl of Carshalton married.  That was the first cloud. In due course the Countess presented her husband with two sturdy boys, and all hope of the title and thirty thousand a year vanished.

This hurt Barbara very much, but it hurt her husband far more. After long brooding he took to drink, and grew coarse and brutal. When he died, just after her 23rd birthday, his wife could not shed a tear. She only felt his death as a great relief.

The miserly uncle at once stopped the allowance of two hundred a year. She had the income of her husband— three hundred— in the hands of trustees. Her mother helped her as far as her narrow means would permit. That was all.

One day, about a year and a half later, Barbara Renfrew sat in the saxe  blue drawing-room of her dainty little flat in Mayfield Gardens, an air of deep thought on her youthful features. Dainty and fair-haired, She was still young; indeed, it wanted three months, to her 26th birthday. She was thinking, deeply oyer a letter she had just received from her most intimate friend, Mrs. Nicholson. And this is what the brief letter said:—

"Dearest Babs,— I have made up a little impromptu dinner for next Thursday, just people I happen to have met.  I have left the last place for you, so wire your acceptance or refusal at once. Count von Raudnitz is to be one of the party. So don't fail me."

Mrs Nicholson was a woman of considerable social talents, the wife of a rich stockbroker. She had once tried to storm Mayfair with the assistance of an. Earl's impecunious daughter. The result, however, had been unsatisfactory. Mayfair had pronounced her "impossible."

So she had retired to a big house in South Kensington, where she dispensed hospitality to her heart's content, and was certainly not exacting as to the quality of her guests. Like so many modern hostesses, she accepted, them at their face value, and rather exaggerated than depreciated their qualifications.

It was in the big house; in South Kensington that Barbara first met thq Count von Raudnitz, and that handsome nobleman fell in love with her at once.

Her first marriage had been a horrible failure, and she felt a little fearful of a second experiment. Then she would smile at herself for her fears, and her friend, Mrs. Nicholson, was always urging her to accept the chance that now presented itself.

The Count was handsome and very accomplished, and she heard from her friend that he was extremely rich. He had a fine house in the Wollzeile, in Vienna, the ancient Castle of Szatsmar, in Hungary, and was connected with several of the greatest Hungarian families. Indeed, no greater proof of his aristocratic birth was needed than the fact that his name was upon the list issued each autumn by the Obersthof-Meister-amt, of the houses and families which make up Society with a capital S in Vienna. So exclusive is society in the Austrian capital that, no matter what the title or position or a person may be, he is considered outside the pale if his name is not in that cherished list.

Barbara Renfrew gazed at the costly gift of flowers which had arrived frow! him that morning, with a brief note expressing his respectful homage. And then she rose and wrote out a telegram, accepting the invitation.

She had experienced bad luck up till now. She shuddered as she recalled those last miserable months of her short wedded life. And now her luck was going to change. Count Franz von Raudnitz, handsome, wealthy, and well-born, was ready to lay his title and his fortune at her feet.

At Mrs. Nicholson's dinner gathering on Thursday night the guests seemed to be enjoying themselves thoroughly. The hostess manners might be a little too flamboyant for perfect taste, but she radiated geniality herself and promoted it in her acquaintances. The Count, being the only guest of rank, had taken her in to dinner.

Barbara Renfrew sat between the handsome nobleman and her own cavalier, a Mr. Charlies Vivian, a man of about 35, of quiet manners and distinguished appearance.

It was characteristic of Mrs. Nicholson's circle, as it is of many, that although they were always meeting at mutual houses, they never seemed to know anything about each other's antecedents or family history. It had always struck Barbara that Mr. Vivian was in many ways superior to the majority of men she met at her friend's house. But it was a long, time before she could get any definite; information about him.

She got it at last from a man named-Agnew, who, came there now and again, a brother of the lady of title who had tried, anfl failed, to launch Mrs: Nicholson into real Society.

"I know him well," he had; told Barbara in answer to her inquiries. "We were at Eton and Oxford, together: He belongs to one of the oldest families in England. He' s a bit of a crank, is dear old Charles, great on crimes and criminals, and all that sort of thing. Does a lot of detective business as a hobby, and is always hobnobbing with weird people at Scotland Yard. He is also awfully rich, and a great philanthropist; He's keen on helping prisoners when' they come out of gaol."

Then Barbara asked him if he knew anything of the handsome and fascinating Count.

He shook his head. "See him here as a matter of course, and at one or two clubs I drop into sometimes. I never see him in my own world. But then, you see, ue's a foreigner."

Barbara flushed angrily. There was not the slightest doubt as to Mr. Agnew's purity of lineage, but it was not good taste to emphasise so obviously the difference between his own social position and that of Mrs. Nicholson's guests.

Agnew felt he had made a blunder, and tried to retrieve it.

"He's supposed to be a Socialist, or something of that sort, isn't he? That would account for his being given the cold shoulder in certain quarters."

And Barbara admitted, in a somewhat frigid tone, that this might account for his not being admitted into Belgravian circles.

Mr. Vivian. was never a very talkative person, but on that Thursday evening he was unusually silent and, preoccupied. Perhaps he felt himself eclipsed by the brilliant Count, who chattered away in his delightfully good English, and certainly had the monopoly of conversation at their end of the table.

There had been a time when Barbara had fancied that Vivian admired her, and she was not unattracted by him. His face was rather stern, but ae had kindly eyes, and she thought he would be very chivalrous and tender in his treatment of women.

Then the Count had appeared on the scene, and with his advent Vivian seemed to retire into the background and to lose his former interest in her.

The long dinner was over. The men stayed for a few minutes to smoke cigarettes and then followed the ladies. In the drawing-room they broke up into couples, and very speedily the Count manoeuvred Barbara into the conservatory.

Here he made love with all the elegant phrases he could command, and with all the exuberance of his foreign temperament.

"I worship the very ground you walk upon!" he cried wildly. "Marry me, my beloved, and I will make the world a paradise to you. Not a wish I will not anticipate. Not a whim I will not gratify. Is it possible for you to resist such devotion as mine?"

She did not think she wanted to resist. Her first husband had fallen in love with her at first sight, but he had not wooed her in this tempestuous fashion. He had rather taken her acquiescence as a matter of course. She could not imagine Mr. Vivian, if he were proposing, indulging in all those promises. So she spoke the fateful words that bound her to become Countess von Raudnitz at as early a date as she could fix.

As they rose to return to the drawing-room, Mrs Nicholson put her head through the open door, and saw at once ithat something of importance had happened.

"Ah! You have news for mel" she cried in her rather hard, ringing tones. Barbara blushed slightly. The Count hastened to answer.

"Mrs. Renfrew has just made me the happiest man in the world, Madame."

The elder woman took her young friend in her arms, kissed her, and whispered: "My dear, I am so awfully pleased! You must be married from my house, and I must be your first visitor at vour beautiful Castle of Szatsmar."

Mrs. Nicholson was so delighted over the affair that she longed to be able to shout out the news at once to all the company. As she could not do this very well, she informed the first person she could button-hole, and it happened to be Mr. Vivian. He did not receive the announcement with any great enthusiasm.

"I hope it will turn out well. Personally, I don't look with favor on this sort of marriage. Mrs. Renfrew is such a charming young woman that she should have had no difficulty in finding a second husband amongst her own countrymen," was his reply.

Later on he found Barbara alone for a moment, and went to bid her good-bye.

"I hear I have to congratulate you." he said very quietly. "Mrs. Nicholson told you, of , course?

"I should think it would be impossible for Mrs. Nicholson to remain silent when there was the fact of a betrothal in her own house," he said grimly. He lingered a moment longer, and then added, in his low, quiet tones,

"I wish you every happiness, and a should like very much, if I may, to come and see you after your marriage. I am sure I should like to be your friend."

She looked up quickly. There was deep feeling in his voice, as he uttered that last sentence. She found herself wondering whether, if he had shown the same feeling earlier in their acquaintance, her answer to the Count might have been a different one.

"I shall be most pleased," she answered quickly. "But don't wait until am married. Come and see me soon."

With a brief word of thanks, he bowed over her hand, and left the room.

Mrs. Renfrew had stipulated for three months' liberty; but the impetuous pleadings of her fiance induced her to curtail it to two.

While not averse from entering on a second experience of matrimony, she was not very eager. It might be said that she was in a middle state— neither reluctant nor enthusiastic. The wedding was attended by many acquaintances. Neither bride, nor bridegroom could produce many members of their respective families. On her side, Barbara produced three— her mother, a maiden aunt, and a cousin of about her own age.

Two representatives of the Raudnitz family attended the ceremony— a venerable old gentleman with a snowy beard, and a rather foxy-looking young man— uncle and cousin respectively. Neither of these gentlemen, who came from Vienna, could speak a word of English, and few of the other guests being strong in German, there was, consequently, but scant opportunity for the exchange of sentiments.

Before the wedding a few illusions had to he dispelled. Her fiance explained that the Castle of Szatsmar and the estates had been mortgaged by his grandfather, and had passed out of his hands. He explained that his father was the descendant of an impoverished house, and that he himself, as a mere youth, had emigrated to Australia under an assumed name. With what was left of a small patrimony, he had amassed there a fortune, and had returned home too late in life — too late to re-purchase the estates and pick up the sundered social threads.

Of the numerous members of aristocratic families with whom he claimed connection he had to admit that he possessed no acquaintance— their paths having diverged for so long. He could only produce two of his kindred at this important moment of his life— the venerable uncle with the beard and the foxy-looking cousin Barbara was a bit disappointed. If Mayfair would not open its door to them, she had hoped that she might have a chance of mingling with foreign aristocracy.

"What matters it, my beloved?" had urged her betrothed. "The aristocracy everywhere is cold and repellant, yet my name is upon the Court list, and the social doors of Vienna are open to a Raudnitz, even though I have lost the family possessions."

So they were married, and after a fairly long honeymoon in Norway, returned to London, took a big house in South Kensington, and were more than ordinarily happy. He had been an ideal lover; he was an equally ideal husband.

She gathered that he lived on the interest of the fortune he had made in Australia. There was plenty of money, and he was always making her handsome presents. He used to make flying visits abroad from time to time, sometimes after the receipt of a telegram, to look after his  investments. Once or twice he had taken her with him to Paris and Brussels, but she always had a notion that when he went to Vienna he preferred going alone. Still he always quickly returned, the devoted, adoring, and generous husband, and never failed to bring her some handsome present.

IT WAS ABOUT 12 months after their marriage that he made one of these flying visits, and when he came back he was in a state of wildest excitement. He folded her in his arms, and his voice was broken with emotion as he said:

"My dearest, I have, made a great triumph. A certain investment I made in France has gone up from five thousand to fifty thousand. Wish me joy! You shall have a magnificent present, my beautiful Queen!"

He, was so elated that he proposed a dinner-party to some thirty of their most intimate acquaintances, not in their own house, but in a private room of that most expensive of London hotels, "The Excelsior."

They made out the list of guests. Barbara suggested Vivian, but her husband, frowned at the name.

"Ah! dear wife, I do not like that cold, self-contained Englishman!" he said. "He has ice, instead of blood, in his veins."

Barbara, a wise woman, held her peace. Her husband was very jealous, and Vivian really did call rather frequently. It was better not to press the point.

THE DINNER took place, and was as perfect as the art and resources of "The Excelsior" could make it. The guests had got to the cigarette stage and were enjoying themselves thoroughly, when maitre d'hote! handed a note to the hostess. On the envelope was written— "Wait answer." She recognised Vivian's handwriting, and read:

I must see you without a moment's delay. It is of the utmost urgency. Plead any excuse to your guests, for your absence.

Charles Vivian

Her cheeks blanched. What could It mean? She turned to the few guests near her.

"Please excuse me for a few moments, l am called on urgent business; I'll be back directly."

The maitre d'hôtel conducted her across the lounge, and showed her into a small sitting-room. Vivian advanced to meet her as soon as the door had been closed. He was no longer the self controlled man she had always known. His voice broke again and again as he spoke to her.

"My poor Barbara! I am here to bring you terrible news. Summon all your bravery. You will want it!"

"What— what is it?" she gasped as she sank into a chair he had placed for her, white-faced and trembling.

"By the merest accident I lunched today with a friend of mine, a highly-placed official at Scotland Yard. In confidenee he told me that the Paris Surete had requested the arrest of one of the cleverest bank-note forgers in Europe, and that they had planned to take him to-night, here, at The Excelsior hotel. He told me his name."

She was braver than he thought.

"Yes," she whispered "Ah!— I see it!" she cried hoarsely. "You mean that— that the man is my— my husband!" He bowed his head

"You have guessed right," he said. "The man is no Count. The real Count  Frans von Raudnitz is still living in Hungary. This man is the head of an international gang of forgers who have dodged the police from capital to capital for years. At last they have run them to earth."

"But why have you come— to— to tell me this?" she asked wonderingly.

"I told my police friend that you were a friend of mine, and knew nothing ot the Count's antecedents. I asked his permission to accompany the detectives, in the hope that I might assist you in some way, however small," he said a little eagerly.

"How can you help either of us?" she asked in a dull voice.

"They have given me ten minutes to see you before they come up and take him. We still have a few minutes left; I thought we might perhaps get the guests out of the way before they came."

But she was too dazed to follow him.

"How can that be done?" she asked hopelessly.

"There is no time to talk. I will come up with you and find a way. Will you trust me?"

She rose unsteadily and linked her arm within his. She was, after all, wonderfully brave. Together they entered the room where the guests were still chattering and laughing, the elegant host the gayest of the party.

Vivian placed the "Countess" in her chair, and stood by her side, raising his hand for silence. He knew a great many of the guests, having previously met them at her house.

"It Is my misfortune, ladies and gentlemen, to be the bearer of very terrible news to your hostess— news which I must, in a moment or two, communicate to her husband. Will you forgive me for saying that the greatest kindness you can do would be to break up this party at once, and leave us three alone?"

There was no mistaking the solemnity of his words and manner. There was, they saw, tragedy in the air. All rose hastily, and hurried from the gaily-lighted room. One or two furtively pressed the hand of the pale-faced woman who sat in the chair with a frozen look on her face. Her husband dashed up to Vivian, his eyes starting from his head .

"What does it all mean?" he asked thickly.

"It means," replied the other, "that your game is up, Rudolph Marck! In three minutes the police will be here to arrest you. Your gang were all captured in that house outside Lyons—"

The man gave a vicious snarl.

"And it is you who have set them on my track! You!"

Vivian threw him a contemptuous look, and replied:

"I never heard of you in this connection until this afternoon. If I had, I expect I should have let you go for the sake of your poor wronged wife whom you made a 'Countess!' "

The instincts of self-preservation came back to the hunted man. He cast a wild glance to the one big window in the room before which hung heavy curtains of purple velvet.

"Useless," Vivian remarked quietly. "The police know every corner of this hotel. If you could jump out there, and avoid breaking your neck, you would  only find yourself in their arms. Outside the door they are now waiting for you. Believe me, there is no escape."

The wretched man, known to his gang as "Number One," shivered, and then stretched out imploring hands to the woman in the chair.

"Oh, forgive me!" he moaned, "forgive me, Barbara, for what I have brought upon you! But I loved you so— ah! so madly!"

It was a terrible moment. In her horror she shrank from those extended arms, and covered her white face with her hands. A look of despair settled upon the once handsome features of the man, now livid and haggard with the emotion of the last few moments.

His right hand stole to his waistcoat pocket. Vivian noted the action, and guessed what it meant. Well, it was better so. It was not his business to interfere.

The door swung suddenly open. The ten minutes' grace had expired, and three men in plain-clothes entered the room. Before they could reach him, however, the notorious forger had placed something in his mouth, and as they seized him he fell inert into their arms.

He had carried some deadly tabloids about with him for years, in readiness for the moment when the law might claim him. They laid him upon the floor, but within three minutes he had breathed his last.

Vivian led the trembling widow back to the room where he had seen her ten  minutes before.

She had not fainted; she had not cried, although she had gone through enough in those few minutes to unnerve the bravest woman. She recovered herself presently, and moaned a little.

"I have always had had luck," she murmured, lifting her wan face to that of her companion. "My first marriage promised well, and ended ino misery. And this is worse— a thousand times worse. It has finished in tragedy!"

He knelt beside her, took her cold hand in his, and held it between his own palms, as he might have done that of some unhappy child,

"The tragedy of this evening has indeed been terrible," he said soothingly. "And I still marvel that you are so brave. But even the shadow of to-night will fade in time, and then who knows what good fortune may await you? But now is not the time to speak of what may be."

She lifted up her eyes, heavy with the tears she could not shed, and met his gaze, so kind and so— compassionate. But even in that poignant moment she knew there was more in their expression than mere kindness and compassion.

She was still young, and who could tell what happiness waited for her in the future, when that tragic happening had faded into a misty memory?

Whenever it came, she knew it was Charles Vivian who would bring it to her.

_________________

10: The Yellow Imps

Thomas Burke

1886-1945

Queenslander 22 Oct 1936

Pleasantries of Old Quong, 1931

I HAVE heard many times (said old Quong) that conscience makes cowards of us all, but I have never had an authenticated case brought to my knowledge. What is undoubtedly true, and each of us can prove it from his own observation, is that conscience can and does make fools of us all. As it did in the tale of the yellow imps, which I have not, I believe, told you before.

There was a high wind in London one October evening, and among others who struggled under it was a man in a blue mackintosh. It made hats fly and frocks dance. It set the lamplight fluttering as a bird flutters when an alien hand approaches its cage. The pavements were glistening with recent rain, and it made them shiver. The roadways were lakes of ebony, and it set broken pieces of the lamplight skating upon them. It whipped columns of chimney smoke into one maelstrom. Only the houses stood rigid before it; they acknowledged it as a man acknowledges a buzzing fly. But to man himself it was no mere fly; it was unloosed power; and to the man in the blue mackintosh, with whom we are concerned, it was destiny. Dead bricks it could not move, but the man in the blue mackintosh, symbol of the immortal, was its toy, and it was now driving him, against half his will, to commit the sin that the other half wanted to commit. It first pestered his face and stung his eyes, and chilled his hands, and filled his heart with its own rage; then it drove him out of his path into Bayswater.

HE was faintly aware that he was grateful to the wind. By assuming the function of destiny it made his half-purpose a purpose. Be hadn't really meant to turn into that road; he believed that he had meant to go past it; but while he stood at the corner, thinking the thing over, a sudden gust caught him under his mackintosh and sent him running some paces down it. When the gust eased he found that he was actually in Leinster Gardens, and that to get out of it he would have to turn and battle again with the wind; and he was tired of battling. Here, clearly, was the hand-push of destiny. Useless to resist that. Being in Leinster Gardens, he felt that he was meant to go on. The affair had been decided for him by the wind. His infirmity of purpose now became upright, and he allowed that wind, which could not move the houses, to whirl him to disaster.

In the lavender dusk the interlocked squares and terraces of Bayswater made a map of the land of nightmare. The lines of tall dark houses looming upward and stretching forward to infinity; the lines of lamps that waited like a froaen guard for a procession that never came; the deep hush; the sudden enclosed spaces of whispering trees, and the insane repetition of terrace upon terrace— all this made this bourgeois quarter the apt setting for a tale of horror. Now that he had got into Leinster Gardens he began to walk up and down, and for half an hour be went up and down, pad-pad-pad, eye and mind directed to one house.

By the disposition of the street lights he was sometimes energy and sometimes reverie. Now, as be crossed the amber radius of the lamplight he lived as a man; now, as he passed into the interpaces of purple, he was an impalpable organism. That flickering march was a miniature of his life. Pad-pad-pad he went, fixed like a shuttle in a groove of two hundred yards, while all around him beat the life of this city of flittering distances.

AT six o'clock he was in the house. He was standing behind a velvet hanging that draped the connecting door of the smoking-room and the study. He was on the study side, and was peering through the opening of the hanging into its dusky depths. He saw a large room strewn with rugs of Daghestan and Kerman and Coulas, and set with appointments that confirmed the rugs. Clearly the study of a rich man of over-opulent tastes. There were deep divan chairs in glowing yellow hide. The dark yellow walls were dressed with Oriental banners and curved weapons. On brackets and tables stood Buddhas and Sivas, large and small.

On the mantelshelf and on other shelves were idols with movable heads; with the passing of heavy traffic their shaven crowns nodded in various rhythms, as at some secret thought. These figures nodding out of the shadows fascinated the man; he had the feeling of being spied upon. Baewhere were great vases of the Sung and Ming period, and carvings in coral and rock-crystal; and on the desk, in the centre of the room, scattered among inkstand and cigar-box and lamp-standard, were a number of small figures and netsukes in old ivory.

The dominant note of the room, struck by the rugs and taken up by the wallpaper, the vases, the idols, the chairs and the ivory, was gold; and this note expressed its owner. At the moment when the man behind the curtain, no longer beaten by the wind, was relaxing in his purpose under the hush and warmth of the room, it received three bursts of light from its electric lamps, and his victim stood within his reach.

Gold, or hues verging upon gold, was about his person as well as about his room. There was the hard bronze face, the amber-coloured waistcoat, the amber cigar-holder, the watch-chain, and the russet tie; and as he stood for a second or two by one of the rugs he had the appearance of a golden god in a setting of gold receiving the homage of his nodding priests. That was his last appearance in magnificence, and it was an appearance of four seconds only, for at the fifth second he was on his back across the desk, and the floor was littered with cigars and little ivory figures.

WITH one spring the man in the mackintosh fell upon him. With fingers at throat, he forced the head back and back. But it was an uncalculated spring; it was taken in the moment when resolution was weakening; and there was no certainty behind It. Even with his fingers at that throat he could not be sure that he was going to do it. Even in the next few ticks of the clock, when he had in his hand a gold dagger snatched from the desk— even then he wasnt sure that he was going to do it. He could still, if he wished, drop the dagger and take his fingers from the throat, and try to laugh it away as an Insane joke, or a rough-andtumble assault.

But he didn't know whether he did wish to do that; he didnt know what he wished to do; the room had softened and bewildered him; and he was trying to make a firm decision this way or that when the gold man made it for him. The gold man wrenched his neck aside and through closed jaws spluttered one word.

On that word down came the dagger into the neck, and down it came again into, the side just below the arm. As it was drawn bock for a third stroke, and the pressure on the throat a little loosened, the gold man made a death-heave and broke away. They fell, and on the floor, among the litter of ivories, they struggled softly. The vibration set the solemn idols nodding to each other—Look, look, look! There were slow gasps and hot panting. They spluttered. The gold man could make no words, but the blue mackintosh waa crisp.

"There— that's shut your mouth. You won't talk much more. How's that?"

A third time the dagger came down, this time full into the throat. There was a gurgle, a sigh, and then peace. The blue mackintosh got up. It was done. After months of approaching it and recreating from it, of nursing it and dismissing it, it was done. He had tried to frighten himself out of it by visualising himself as a murderer in the dock and in the condemned cell and on the scaffold. He had tried to laugh himself out of it by imagining himself doing it— a ludicrous picture. He had tried to kill the idea, by observing it from the outside as the silly antics of a fool. And now he had done it. Well, he must see about fixing things.

HE stood over the body and bent himself to a question-mark, listening. But the great house was silent and still. Nobody had seen him enter, nobody, it seemed, had beard their struggle, and, by familiarity with the man's habits, he knew that nobody would come to the study until the dinner gong was sounded.

He looked down at the body and the blood-stained carpet and ivories, and then at his own clothes. No marks or stains that he could see. The dagger was still in the body, and could stay there; by his precaution of wearing gloves the haft could hold no clue. To assure himself that he had missed no danger-points he made a quick glance round the room, and in the moment of that glance his forehead froze.

At every point of the room was something that grinned and nodded at him. Then he remembered the idols and laughed. But the moment was useful; it showed that he hadn't yet come to himself. He must wake up and be wary. One must be specially wary in matters like this— much more wary than in his ordinary business. He found himself shaking a little, and his thoughts had a tendency to stray from the immediate business. That wouldn't do.

His eye caught the glint of a series of decanters and glasses. Perhaps they would help. He never touched anything like that when on his regular business; but this was different. It was a new crisis for him, and a little slowing-down of his nerves might be useful.

He stepped through the litter of ivories and cigars, and opened the first decanter and poured himself a drunkard's draught. It was brandy. He drank it in quick sips, neat, keeping his ears tightened for the tiniest sound. When it was done he found that he was still trembling, still unable to fix his mind on the best way of meeting the situation. He turned to the next decanter and took a liberal one from that— whisky. In a few seconds he felt more at ease.

A goods van went past the house and the idols, which had recovered from the vibrations of the struggle, were set nodding again. With ferocious geniality he nodded back at them. One more peg— then he would be ready for a clean exit.

He took it, this time in one gulp; then went across to the switches and turned off the light. And here came another spot of panic. The sudden plunge of darkness gave him the shock of an unexpected plunge downstairs. He could have screamed. It was so complete a darkness that it came with a burning pain upon his hot eyes, and in the sudden void of black he staggered and almost fell.

STARTING into it, seeking his way to the window, he could see the projected aureole of his own eyes just beyond the temples; and as he looked past that glow into the pit of darkness he saw it filled not with bloody faces or nodding idols, but with amorphous bodies of fear. The corners of the black room were breeding grey shadows, and the grey shadows bred purple shadows, and the purple shadows bred other shadows blacker even than the blackness of the room. Each shadow was a growth of new and stronger fear.

Never before had he been afraid, and he did not know how to handle himself. The knowledge that he was afraid surprised him. He made a gesture of bewilderment. Putting his hands to his face he found that they were damp with sweat and that his heart was a dynamo. The hostile mixture of brandy and whisky was working, and as the realisation of that went slowly into his brain and showed him his danger, instead of sobering him, it made him laugh. He told himself that he was too old a hand to be flustered by accidents.

He was drunk. That's what it was— drunk. Just that. Those shadows were whisky and brandy shadows. They weren't there at all. Funny one should feel afraid of nothing just because one had killed a brute. Still, it would be wise to get away, and to get away as tactfully as he had come.

He went to the wusdow, swaying across the rug, and turning his ankJe on the scattered ivories. In the middle of the room he stopped and listened, wondering whether his drunken self might not have made some noise that his other self had not heard. But the whole house seemed as stark and dumb as the corpse on the floor. Only the ticking of the clock, for sound, and the nodding ot the idols, for motion. Nothing else.

He put his gloved fingers to the window, raised it without noise, and looked out. He waited for a lorry to pass; then slid to the sill. He pulled the window down behind him. He reached forward from a kneeling position, and with one hand grasped a gutter-pipe that ran down the front of the house to the area. With the animal grace of a dancer he swung himself clear of the kitchen windows and landed on his toes by the entrance-porch of the next house.

Some half-minute he stood there, with the air of one waiting for the bell to be answered. This was his method of proving whether an exit had been "clean." It seemed that it was. He heard no stir anywhere and met no curious eyes. With a glance of apparent disappointment he went down the steps and walked casually away.

The wind was behind him, as it had been behind him at half-past five. Once out and free, he was conscious of the wild air, and discovered that in the last half-hour he had not taken one full breath. Breathing was a momentary luxury, and he breathed deep. He filled his lungs with the rushing air, breathing in time with his long steps.

He was making for the canal, where he had planned to sink his mackintosh and soft hat, and he was almost upon it when his long breathing defeated him. He was feeling once again master of himself, and of the occasion when, without warning, earth and sky were twisted into one, and the moon came reeling and crashing through the wind into a chaos of nausea and vomit.

WHEN, some minutes later, he came up from this collapse, he found himself clinging to the railings of Porchester Square. His legs were weak and his ears were buzzing and his eyes were blocked by a picture of the gold man's face as he last saw it when they lay wrestling on the floor.

A popular dance melody came into his head. He tried to drive it away by thinking of other melodies and of conversational phrases, but it came back and danced upon his brain. He began to be afraid that he would sing or whistle it. That would never do. Mustn't attract attention. Must be careful.

With a jerk he pulled himself up, loosened his collar, and prepared to walk on. It was at this moment of moving away that he first became clearly aware of a noise that had been troubling his ear under the dance-melody; a little clittering as of fairy castanets.

He looked about him, into the square, along railings, and then at the pavement, and as he saw how the noise was being made a frozen wire went down his spine. He was nearly a mile from the house in Leinster Square, but there they were. They had trotted after him, they were now trotting round him— the little golden blood-stained netsukes.

His brain was still slumbering under the drink, but at this sight it came to a kind of cloudy awakening that deceived him into thinking it was a true awakening. There they were, clearly enough, running around his feet, jumping, curvetting in the frightful contortions of Oriental carpets. They were making arabesques all round him.

He did not attempt to imagine how the thing had happened. It had happened; and he was sensible enough to see the danger of the situation. If people passed and saw him like this they might come and ask awkward questions. Certainly they would remember having seen him with these things all round him; and they would make a guess that he had stolen them and dropped them in running; and they might speak to the next policeman. He must pick them up and hide them.

He went towards them, toppled. and fell on his hands. In that position he groped for them and snatched at them; but in his nervous haste be was clumsy and they were too quick for him. They dodged and doubled and danced under and over his hand. Not one could he hold, and meantime they pestered him and leapt about him, and vexed his eyes with their dartings. He felt one of them warm and wet against his cheek.

Well, if he couldnt pick them up he must get away. He had forgotten now about the canal and his mackintosh. The important matter was to get away from these blood-stained things, and he clambered up and turned his back on them, and went with a quick lurch through the square. He kept as much out of the light as he could.

TO deceive them he made two or three crossings and recrossings of the road. In Gloucester Terrace he could see nothing of them, and was applauding himself at having shaken them off when in Cleveland Square his ear told him that his strategem had failed. Close behind him came the sound of castanets. Soon they caught up with him and encircled him.

He broke through them and they again encircled him. He kicked at them, but still they made their undisciplined ballet between his feet. Some of them leapt at him in lilliput anger. The faces of these held the features of the dead man on the floor.

He tried to turn back towards the stir and glare of Harrow Road, where he might lose them, but they buzzed and twisted about his knees with the infuriating pester of mosquitoes. For peace he was compelled to go forward.

He went at a half-running pace, and all the time they were with him. They kept about him, before and behind, in a sort of open order. When he ran they ran; when he trotted they trotted, and when he kicked at them he kicked only the air.

He was sobbing now, striking with arms and legs. As he stumbled on through the lamplit dusk of Craven Road he was aware that the few people who passed looked curiously at him. No wonder. A man being chased by little golden men. But he was not now so concerned with the figure he cut. He was mainly concerned with dodging these damnable things. They filled him with the crawling horror of necromancy. He felt that they had Satanic powers drawn from all the objects of that room and from their owner.

Whichever way he turned they were with him, sometimes driving him, sometimes impeding him. Some of them settled on his trousers. With inward gasps he struck them off. Some of them jumped high in the air and pattered elfin clog-dances on the crown of his hat. They played about him with the intimate deviltry of afreets. As they pattered and bussed it seemed to him that they called on other little golden things to join them. Coming into a half-lit square, he was met by a new host. He turned right and left, but only when he went straight on did they suspend their pestering. Even at those dark corners where he could not see them he could still hear them and feel them.

He went forward at a shamble, and as he went he thought again of the canal. If he could get there he might elude them. If he could get into the water they couldn't follow him there. He could swim across or stay in the water.

He turned for the canal, but as he turned they made a cloud about him. and he lost his direction. He could only go blindly forward. Then, as he came out of the square into a side street, they seemed to turn aside to his right, the whole hook of them. He was fighting them with both arms when he saw that there was a clear space on his left, and that they had dropped behind him.

Before him he saw an open door and a lighted hall.

If he could get in there.

HE got in.

In the hall a man met him. He addressed the man in whimpering indignation.

"I say— look here— all these things following me. Can't get along the street for them. Perfect pest."

"Oh? What's the trouble? What things?"

"Those things out than. Little golden men. Followed me from Leinster-gardens. Worse'n mosquitoes. All round one's face."

"Followed you from Leinster-gardens? Let's have a look at 'em. Here —Hold up."

He swayed, and supported himself with an arm on the wall.

"Ah— all the way from Leinster-gardens."

"I see. You better sit down a bit. Little golden men, eh? Leinster-gardens? Come and sit down."

The inspector led him to a farther room, and spoke to two men in the room.

"Just look after this man. He's a bit faint."

The two men got up, and as one of them caught the inspector's eye, he closed the door and stood against it.

The inspector went to the telephone at the desk in the hall, and the October gale continued to rush down the street and fill the hall with companies of yellow leaves.

_______________

11: The Horrible God

Thomas Burke

Herald (Melbourne) 12 March 1936

[Esquire October 1934]

MR RAINWATER wasn't easily scared, but for the last three or four days he had had a strong feeling that he was being followed, and it was upsetting him.

He knew that the feeling of being followed is often a symptom of a neurotic or morbid state, but that wasn't his state. He was quite healthy and free of melodramatic or nervous imaginings.

He was being followed. He could feel it through his skin. He could feel it in the air the moment he left his home. He could feel pursuit and the prickings of danger.

Towards midnight that evening his suspicion became certainty. He was walking down Shaftesbury Avenue towards Piccadilly and was in the thick of the crowd coming from the theatres when, clearly and with electrical urgency, a voice reached his ear.

It was a keen mutter, and it said: "I speak as a friend. The vengeance of the god Imbrolu is a terrible vengeance. He seeks his own place."

Rainwater turned swiftly. He collided with two girls just behind him who were giggling and talking of Ronald Colman. On one side of him a policeman was striding. On the other side was a wall. Two paces ahead was a newsboy, and walking away from him were a couple of nondescript youths who had evidently been drinking.

As the crowd swirled round him he looked here and there for the possible speaker, but could see nobody to whom that queer mutter could have belonged. It was not an English mutter.

On the opposite side of the street was a large negro in a brilliant blue suit; in a bus coming from Piccadilly Circus sat a man of muddy color and Oriental features; and outside the Monico, some 30 yards away, was an Algerian rug-seller. But the distance of these men from him made it impossible for any of them to have spoken those words in his ear two seconds ago. He stood and considered.

It was odd; very odd. The voice had been so sharp and so close that it must have been addressing him. It had come right into his ear, as if the mouth had been touching his shoulder. Yet nobody to whom he could trace it. He knew, of course, the trick of self-effacement; that sleek movement by which a cat will pass round you before your eyes without your seeing it, and which certain people can achieve by a cessation of mental action. He attributed the vanishing of the speaker to that, and he had reason for believing that the speaker was not English. The message, he was sure, was meant for him, and no other person in the crowd; he was sure that it connected with his feeling of being followed, and that everything connected with that horrible idol.

THE idol had been worrying Rainwater for some time— even before the following had begun. It was an idol of a kind he had never before seen, an idol which gave him the shudders every time he looked at it. As a collector of native bric-a-brac, he was accustomed, even hardened, to the many variations upon certain themes of which the black mind, in its more exalted fervours, is capable. But this...  The most cloistered nun, knowing nothing of the images by which men express the baseness of man, would have known at a glance that this thing was in form and spirit horrible. It was a masterpiece of unrelated horror.

The artist who made it had withdrawn from the unfenced fields of religious ardor and had immured himself within the narrow dogmas of art— just to show, apparently, that art, with all its fetters of form and technique, could outsoar anything achieved under the licence and tolerance by which the darker religions distinguish themselves from art. Certainly he had succeeded. Never had Rainwater, under that cloak of respectability, which hides so many anomalies, even imagined anything like it. Nor had anybody else whom he knew. Of all his acquaintances among curators of museums, not one could put a name to it or even conjecture the country or island of its origin. And that was all he could get from them. They could tell him that it wasn't Egypt, that it wasn't Java, that it wasn't Easter Island, or Haiti, or Liberia; but they couldn't tell him what it was. They could only tell him that he'd better put it away or throw it away.

HE put it away at the bottom of one of his curio cabinets. He couldn't give it away, because nobody he knew would have accepted it. All his triends were married. And as a collector, he couldn't bring himself to throw it away. Yet, in keeping it in his rooms, he felt a distinct unease, ns though in possessing it he were partly responsible for its horror and had had a share in making it He wanted to throw it away, or burn it or drop it over one of the bridges, but whenever he reached the point of setting out to do it, the collecting instinct mastered him. If the thing had been emitting an evil smell into his room, he still wouldn't have been able to screw himself up to throwing it away.

So he kept it locked up, and only took it out now and then, which made him feel more guilty. If a friend was announced he would hurriedly hide it. If he heard his housekeeper's step outside the door, he would throw a newspaper over it. When he had had it for three weeks his demeanor had become almost furtive. And then began that feeling of being followed and its climax of that muttered message. He wished he had never seen the wretched thing, or, Having seen it, had resisted the temptation to buy it.

The thing itself was a horror, and now it was leading to this uncanny following and this uncanny message delivered in a crowded street. He didn't know what to do about it. It wasn't the threat that disturbed him so much, as the stealthy following and the manner in which the threat had been delivered. If it was the ju-ju of some tribe or creed with representatives in London, why couldn't they come to him openly? Why the following about, which had begun apparently from the moment he bought it, when he had been followed to his home? And how could he put the little hideous god back in his own place when nobody, not even scholars, knew whence it came?

He walked on in some disturbance. Every now and then he looked back or stopped by a shop whose side-window reflected the path behind him, but he saw nobodv who might be the follower, and did not expect to. Whoever had been following him the last few days was an experienced shadower: clever enough to convey the horrid sense of his neighborhood and clever enough to remain unperccived.

MR RAINWATER was beginning to realise that there is something in being followed which is more shocking than a revolver at the head or a knife at the throat. There is nothing to grasp; nothing to combat; only a persistent nagging at the nerves, which in time can wear you dmun. And Rainwater was being worn down. If they wanted their god, they could have it, so far as he was concerned. He couldn't throw an artistic treasure away, but if it meant something more to people than it did to him, they were welcome to it, if only they would come and ask for it. They must know his address or they wouldn't be able to follow him as they did. Why, then, this menacing and muttering of vengeance?

On reaching home he learned that they did know his address. His housekeeper met him in the hall. She held a grubby piece of pink paper.

"I don't know what this is, sir, or how it came. I found it on the mat under the evening paper. Would it be anything you know about?"

She passed it to him. It bore six words in an ungainly scrawl:

"Imbrolu waits. You have been warned."

Mr Rainwater made a noise of irritation. He passed it back to her.

"No, I don't know anything about It. Some odd bit of waste paper that blew in. I should think."

But he went upstairs feeling a little sick. When he got to his room he went first to the little cabinet in which he kept the horrible thing. The room was filled with the results of his collecting mania. They hung on the walls, they stood on tables and they decorated half a dozen glass cabinets; tribal work mainly, all of it bizarre. The horrible thing was not resting in one of the glass cabinets. It was in an old lacquer cabinet— a nest of drawers three times concealed within other drawers. He had just opened it and had reached the drawer containing the thing, when, without conscious impulse, he went to the window and moved the curtain aside. He moved it aside casually; he dropped it swiftly.

ON the opposite pavement, under the overhanging trees of a front garden, was a motionless figure. The figure was dressed in a rain-coat, and its sun hat had the brim turned down. To see the face was impossible, but something about the pose of the figure conveyed to Mr Rainwater the sense of alien ideas.

He turned from the window, shut all the drawers and doors of the cabinet, without looking to see if his treasure was there, and dropped into a chair by the fire. He had scarcely dropped when he got up again; found a glass, and mixed himself a drink. He went back to the chair with it, and dropped again. He wasn't a coward, and he wasn't a man of stout nerve. He was like most of us, in-between, and ready to admit when he was shaken. He was a mild and amiable man, but could, as mild and amiable people can, be capable of ferocity when really roused and when there was some concrete object of his ferocity.

But against intangible hostility, or against anything unfamiliar, he was a reed. His heart didn't give way, but his nerves did. None of the incidents of the last four days had made him afraid, but they had brought him to the edge of a breakdown. He needed a drink.

Sitting there in the midnight silence, he began to hear, or to think he could hear, odd noises from the street Little soft noises, of the kind that make people ask each other in whispers, "What's that?"

Once or twice, without knowing why, he looked over at the lacquer cabinet, and found himself relieved to see that it was still there and still a lacquer cabinet. He wanted to go to the window again, but couldn't. He wanted to know if the figure had gone, but there was the possibility that he would see it standing in the same position, and he didn't want to see it. There was nothing in the figure itself, or in its attitude, to disturb anyone. It was just a solitary and motionless man, yet its mere presence conveyed a stream of menace and portent and alarm which was the more potent for being obscure. It created that shrinking of the skin which man always knows before the nameless peril. In its immobility it was horrid, and Mr Rainwater didn't want to see it. Also, he had a feeling that, horrid as it was in stillness, it would fill him with more horror if it moved.

He wanted to go to bed, but couldn't. He had half an idea of taking the horrible idol from the cabinet, opening the window, and flinging it out to the watcher. But if it fell in the roadway it might smash, and that might mean more of this furtive persecution. And he felt that he couldn't stand much more of it. He was accustomed to a peaceful life, and he could not adjust himself to this invasion of his peace. Somehow or other he must get rid of the thing. He couldn't give it to a museum, because that might bring persecution on the museum's curator, and if he burnt it or dropped it in the river, he still wouldn't be free of their attentions. And he couldn't hand it over to them, because thev never came near enough to him. If he took it out now, and went downstairs to give it to the solitary watcher, he was certain that the solitary watcher would have vanished.

BUT about three o'clock in the morning, after his third drink, which had done his nerves little good, an idea came to him. A simple idea which should have come to him when the persecution began. He would pass it to the people most able to deal with the situation. He would resell it to the shop where he bought it, at any price they cared to give. It was a dim little shop, kept by two swarthy old men who looked as though they could understand and answer any roundabout messages.

On that resolution he went to bed, not caring whether the house was surrounded, or whether he was to be burgled or assassinated, or not. He was beyond caring. His nerves had jittered so much under the persecution, and had developed such a side-jittering from the three heavy drinks, that they were now exhausted. Anything could happen, but Mr Rainwater was going to bed.

Nothing did happen; and alter a miniature breakfast he took the horrible god from the private drawer of the cabinet, packed it carefully in tissue-paper, put it into his overcoat pocket, and set out ir the shop, followed, he was sure, all the way.

He di9d not get rid of it so easily as he had hoped. The partners were not in a buying mood. When he offered it, saying that he was tired of it, and that it was not in keeping with the rest of his collection, they hesitated. They answered as curio-dealers always do: they did not want it those things, they said were not easy to sell. When they could sell that kind of thing they got a good price, but they might to keep it in stock for a year, two years, five years, before finding a customer. They had had it in stock for three years before Mr Rainwater bought it.

Mr Rainwater asked: would they make an offer? They replied that they would hardly dare. The offer would be too ridiculous. They really did not want it; the small demand for such things made it impossible to offer a price at all relative to the artistic value of the thing.

Mr Rainwater said sternly: "Name a price."

Under compulsion they named, with confusion and apology, ten shillings.

"I'll take it." He pushed the horrible god across the counter. They tendered, across the counter, sadly and with deprecation, a ten-shilling note. He took it; said "Good morning," and walked out into the morning sun.

Outside, he took a deep breath, said, thats that, thank God, and walked away as though liberated from clanking chains. He walked all the way to his club, and did not once have the feeling of being followed.

This restoration of his normal life filled him with the holiday spirit, and he spent the ten shillings, and more, in a super-excellent lunch.

THAT evening, in the little shop the partners smiled at each other.

"Yes," said one, "we have done well with this thing which the English sailor carved for us. Eight times we have sold it: and eight times we have frightened the buyer into bringing it back."

In a mocking sing-song he recited: "The vengeance of the god Imbrolu is a terrible vengeance. He seeks his own place... These superstitious English!"

_________________

12: Laughing Lillian

Thomas Burke

News (Adelaide) 12 May 1934

[Liberty January 20 1934]

LAUGHING Lillian lived in East India Dock road, and for many people she was its spiritual mayoress. When those who worked about the road thought of it in their homes, they thought instantly of Laughing Lillian. She was a copper-blonde, with blue eyes which half-closed when she laughed. Most of the day they were half-closed. She was small, and she walked that road every morning as though every morning were carnival, and she were the chief vestal. Her face and bearing seemed to say "Hullo!" to everything and everybody.

Sheer impudence that walk would have been— an affront to all the melancholy and the worried— if it hadn't been turned to poetry by her merry, kindly face. It was an expresison of herself, for she was as impudent as a child, and as charming. And as exasperating.

Many a boy of the dockside district she had exasperated to fury, and then had won him back to lamb-like worship, and then had again exasperated him to the point of ending their friendship. So that many a grey head was shaken over her.

She had a chain of admirers, but though the links of the chain were constantly being broken and replaced, its pendant remained unchanged. Its pendant was Peter; Peter, the quiet, darkeyed electrician.

Often she exasperated him as much as the others, but he stood it better. She couldn't rouse Peter to fury.

She tried many times, but he kept his exasperation behind his firm mouth and smiling eyes; and at last she found the game hardly worth while. Before his eyes she played with boy after boy, but though she broke their hearts she couldn't shake his. He did no more than look on, and give her an occasional growl.

But one day, when she was not trying, she succeeded. Tiring of the worship of boys, she sent her smiles upon a new arrival, who was not a boy. She sent them upon George, who was between 30 and 40, and was the owner of a newly opened garage.

And George returned them, and she went for country rides with George, and she went to West-End restaurants with George, and was seen about with George very late.

It was then that the tranquil Peter began to simmer, and after a short simmer he came to the boil. Lillian was delighted. She listened to his protests at her doings, and to his repeated questions whether she really cared or not and then kissed him.

"Never mind, Peter. Cheer up I can't help it. It's all because there's such lots of nice boys in the world, and I want to know as many as I can. Then, when I've known hundreds and hundreds, I expect I'll know that there's only one Peter. I love them all, but I love you most."

"Yes, but this chap— this chap's not a boy. He's much older than you. And you know nothing about him. And he's a—"

"Don't get wild, Peter."

"Who's getting wild? What d'you mean— don't get wild? I'm not wild. I'm only saying he's not like the other fellows. He's much older. You think you can take care of yourself, I know. So you can with the boys. But this chap's different."

Lillian listened, fiddling with her necklace and looking at him with half-closed eyes.

"Oo-er. You do sound fierce. If I was to fall right in love with him would you kill him?"

"Don't be silly."

"You wouldn't? Some boys would. George would. He'd kill anybody if he thought he could get me by doing it"

"George is a fool; then."

"Wouldn't you kill anybody for me?"

"No."

"You would if you loved me."

Lillian had a keen sense of fun, but, like most people with a sense of fun, she had no sense of humor. Had she had a sense of humor, she would not. Have talked in this strain to a  quiet man whose whole being was in love with her: and she would have escaped disaster.

"I do love you."

"Yes, in a half-and-half way. George told me in the garage one night that he'd kill any man who came between him and a girl."

"Let him. I'm not George— thank goodness."

"No. I don't know what you are."

She turned, blew him a kiss, and went sailing down the road in blonde effervescence.

Half a minute later she had forgotten their talk. She had been talking for the sake of talking, indulging her fun. She was too young to know that it is dangerous to be funny with quiet, dark-eyed people. Had she looked back she would have seen Peter standing at the corner looking at nothing and idly lighting a cigarette: and she would have thought that he, too, had forgotten their talk. But he hadn't.

George... He knew the man by sight. Often saw him standing on the balcony of his bedroom on the third floor of the block of flats near the river. Stood there almost every night having a smoke before turning in. Big chap. Not too pleasant. Kill any man, would he? Told her so one night in the garage... Mmmm... Leaning over the balcony every night admiring the view, and perhaps thinking of... In the garage one night...

SOME DAYS later, in the middle of the morning, when George was at his garage, an electrician called at his rooms in the block near the river. The electrician told the caretaker that he had been sent to make some adjustment in the wiring, and the caretaker admitted him with the master-keys. He went in and looked at wiring, and laid out, some of the appliances from his tool-bag. The caretaker, who had known him from boyhood, left him at the job.

Lillian went on laughing. Sometimes she laughed with Peter, and sometimes with George; at other times with Harry and Jack and Walter. She tried again to rouse Peter as she had roused him the other day over George, but found that she couldn't.

That apparently had been a spasm, and he seemed now to be unmoved by anything she did— even with George. She told him of a recent outing with George, and he heard it with no more than a grunt. He uttered no solemn warnings about older men, and seemed to have forgotten that he ever had. His attitude almost suggested that he was pretty certain she would come to no harm through George.

But each night he watched George's flat. Four nights passed since his visit, and each night he kept a watch on the block from a point two streets away. He watched in vain: George made no appearance. Possibly the nights were too chilly for taking the air and admiring the view.

The fifth night, however, was warmer, and at 7 o'clock Peter, who had watched him home from his garage, took up his stand with some hope. He leaned over the wall of a little bridge spanning a narrow cut, and smoked his pipe, and appeared to have nothing to do. But from that point be could get a sideways view of part of a block of flats and of a particular balcony, and he kept the corner of his eye on it.

For an hour he stood there, chatting occasionally with some other loiterer who paused to stare at the water, or looking at the evening paper, or strolling out to the little quay. Then, soon after 8 o'clock. he was rewarded. His eye caught a movement at the window. He saw the window being raised, and a pulse in his temple gave an angry beat.

TWO seconds later the window was fully raised, and somebody stepped out. At the sight of that somebody all the blood in his body went angry. It wasn't George who stepped out, it was Laughing Lillian; Lillian without a hat, looking back into the dim room and laughing. But in the very moment of his flood of anger, caused by the thought of her visiting George alone in his room, came a recollection of something which the thought had, for a fraction of the moment, banished.

He recalled why he was waiting on that bridge, and the anger froze and his skin went cold. He started to run towards her, but his legs were sick. His throat exerted itself to scream at her, but the scream came out only as a husky moan. He saw her step forward and rest her arms on the balustrade and lean forward.

After that he did not look again. He turned round and went in a stumbling run away from the sight of that block. From within the room George called to her to come in. It was getting chilly. But he got no answer.

Laughing Lillian wasn't there. She was lying on the pavement far below, broken and dead. The iron balustrade of the balcony was lying near her. Its supports had been burnt through by a blow-lamp.

_________________

13: What was the Lady's Choice?

Thomas Nelson Page

1853-1922

Queensland Figaro 19 Jan 1911

Once upon a time there was a lady who was young beautiful, accomplished, and very rich. She was, also, very, clever. But her most striking characteristic was that she was every atom a woman. She had three lovers, who had been college cronies. She always spoke of them as her "friends." There was a fourth gentleman whom she knew, but by no means so intimately, who was a friend of the other three.

One of the three friends was tall, handsome, athletic, had languishing eyes, a long moustache, and a fine figure; one was clever, almost brilliant, and what some women call "intellectual"; the third was rich, good looking, and successful.

None of them had any drawback; the first was clever enough; the second was very good looking, and like the first, was comfortably off; and the third was neither a fool nor unread. All three were considered good catches by mammas who had marriageable daughters, and were popular.

The fourth gentleman was a silent man who kept his own counsel, went his own gait, and was thought to be independent in his fortune as he was known to be in his views.

After a season, in which the young lady had been greatly and generally adhnired, each of the three friends, having observed the growing attachment of the other two, discovered that he was in love with her; each teased the others about her to sound them ; each denied the charge, hated the others warmly for the time, and each decided to get ahead of their friends. All three made the fourth gentleman their confidant.

The society beau was the first to declare himself. He had had the best opportunities; had danced with the lady all winter; had the finest figure; had been the best-dressed man in the set ; had driven a good team, and had talked easily of Browning's poems and of Kipling's stories.

The occasion which presented itself to him was auspicious. It was a spring afternoon in the grounds of a beautiful country-place, where an entertainment was being given by a mutual friend. The spot was arrayed faultlessly, and he and the lady were alone. He naturally began to talk love to her, and was about to reach the point where his voice should grow deep and his look intense. He told her of her beauty; she had listened with a pleased smile and a changing color. He felt that he almost had her. They were at the end of a long flower bed blue with pansies, which just matched her eyes. He stopped and picked one.

As he rose she said: "A race to the other end— you that side, I this!" and dashed off. She ran like a doe.

He had a record, and could easily have beaten her, but as they approached the other end, he saw that her path divided there. One fork ran off frona him, the other turned into his, It flashed on him in a second; he would let her run into his arms. He waited to let her choose. She chose; and when they returned to the house, he had her answer. He resolved to say nothing of it.

Just afterward the second gentleman found his opportunity. It was after the intellectual entertainment. He had easily outshone all others. She had applauded him warmly, and had afterwards congratulated him. He took her into the library. Old books were about them; beautiful pictures were on the walls; the light fell tempered to the softest glow. He recognised his opportunity. He felt his intellect strong within him.

He approached her skillfully; he hinted at the delights of the union of two minds perfectly attuned; he illustrated aptly by a reference to the harmony just heard and to numerous instances in literature. He talked of the charm of culture r spoke confidently of his preferment; suggested, without appearing to do so, his fortunate advantages over others, and referred, with some contempt, to commonplace men like the fourth gentleman. He praised her intellect.

Her eye kindled; her form trembled; he felt his influence over her. He repeated a poem he had written her. It was good enough to have been published in a magazine. Her face glowed. He glanced up, caught heir eyes, and held his hand ready to receive her. She lifted her hand, looked into his eyes, and he had his answer. They strolled back, and he determined to keep it all a secret.

Passing, they happened upon the third gentleman, who spoke to her; and No. 2, a moment later left her with him.

He led,the way into a little apartment just by. It seemed to have escaped the notice of the guests. It was sumptuously fitted up for a tete-a-tete. Wealth and taste had combined to make it perfect. She exclaimed with pleasure at its beauty.

After handing her a chair as luxurious as art could make it, the gentleman began. He told of his home; of his enterprise; of his success; of his wealth. It ljad doubled year after year. It was hers. He laid before her his plans. They were large enough to be bewildering. She would be the richest woman in her acquaintance. She could be an angel with it.

With mantling cheek and glowing face she bent toward him.

"It is yours," he said; "all yours...  You will be worth—" He paused, then stated the sum. She leaned to him with an earnest gesture, her voice trembling. He had his answer.

As they passed out through the corridor they met the fourth gentleman. He did not speak. He stood aside and let them pass. He glanced at her lover, but if he looked at her, she did not see it. He was evidently leaving.

"Are you going?" she said, casually, as she passed.

"Yes."

''Is it late?"

"I do not know."

She paused, and her lover politely passed on.

"Why are you going, then?"

"Because I wish to go."

"Will you take me to my chaperon?"

"With pleasure."

"With pleasure."

"With great pleasure."

"You are not very civil."

"I had not intended to be."

"Do you think—"

"Sometimes. This evening, for instance. There is your chaperon."

"I did not think you—"

"So I supposed. You made a mistake. Good-bye."

"Good-bye?"

"Yes. Good-bye."

THE WEDDING-cards of the young lady were issued within a few weeks, and ten days later she was married. In the press accounts of the wedding the bride was spoken of as "beautiful, accomplished, clever, wise, and good." And the  groom was described as "handsome, stylish, intellectual, and wealthy."

_________________

14: The Diamond Necklace

Anonymous

Hillston Spectator and Lachlan River Advertiser 12 Jan 1901

I HAD the honour of becoming what is called a 'professional beauty' at at the age of nineteen. My aunt was good enough to take me to London when I had reached that mature age, and her influence was sufficient to launch me upon the smooth sea of society.

How my frail bark was pitched and tossed upon the ocean of fashionable existence during my four seasons— and how it sailed at last into the haven of matrimony, I will endeavour to tell in the course of the stories that follow.

The first requirement in the making of a professional beauty is, I suppose, good looks, and these were always at my command, though doubtless it seems rather conceited on my part to say so; but when one has had the fact dinned into one's ears from month to month and year to year, one begins to accept the statement very calmly, and I can therefore confess that I am exceedingly pretty without blushing in the least degree, or feeling at all vain about it.

The second requirement is a presentation at Court. I shall never forget how I spent the night previous to my first Drawing Room. Sleep was out of the question, and I consumed the hours of the night in reading a French detective romance, which was exceedingly exciting, and yet not sufficiently so to concentrate my complete attention. I could not refrain from wondering what Her Majesty would think of me— of what she would say— whether my dress would win her approval, and a host of other things, such as, I suppose, most girls are in the habit of contemplating on the night previous to their presentation.

However, when at length the terrible afternoon came, I went through the ordeal with much composure, and actually felt inclined to laugh at the solemn face of one of the Chamberlaing who stood in the Throne Room where the presentation was made. Fortunately, I controlled my mirth, and I hope Her Majesty never suspected how very near to laughter one of the debutantes was on that never-to-be-forgotten afternoon in May.

After the Drawing Room, I went with Lady Carstairs to be photographed, and very smart I looked too in my presentation frock, a thing altogether too elaborate for me to describe with any satisfaction here. I will only say that I was certainly one of the successes of the afternoon, and the Lady's Pantechnicon gave my gown three and a half more lines in its notice than it gave to any other girl. That fact will speak for itself; and, as reporters are in the habit of saying, 'Farther comment is superfluous.'

Lady Carstairs was delighted.

'I am sure I shall make a very great triumph out of you, my dear Muriel,' she said, when we had arrived at Curzon Street, and were enjoying some tea. 'You remind me very much of your poor dear mother when she was about your age. Ah, if she could see you now '

In view of the fact that my dear mother had passed away some fifteen years, the wish seemed impracticable enough; but I said nothing, and went on sipping my tea.

'Your photographs will soon be in all the shop windows,' she went on, in a rambling tone; 'and I have not the least doubt that you will develop into a professional beauty, with half the Peerage running after you. Ah, it is better to be born lucky than rich, my dear, far better!'

'Why not be born both,' I asked, innocently; 'surely the one does not preclude the other?'

'Do not question me, my dear child,' said Lady Carstairs, wearily; ' I dislike questions. If I had my way the note of interrogation should be declared obsolete, and all queries abolished.'

I laughed, and changed the subject.

THREE WEEKS passed, and slowly the fact dawned upon me that my aunt's prediction was being realised, and that I was fast touching the heights from which professional beauties look down with proud eyes on less fortunate women. Every post brought me impassioned applications from periodicals for my photograph; reporters called daily and begged for interviews. I was referred to in the  Illustrated Pilgrim  as 'the most beautiful debutante of the season,' and by the Weekly Whirligig  as 'the new Mary Anderson'.

All these kind words pleased me much, though I confess it was rather bewildering to pass shop windows and see my counterfeit presentment staring me in the face on all sides. However, the sensation soon wore off, and I began to like it.

Of course, I had my annoyances as well. Anonymous letters often came to me, threatening all sorts of unpleasant things. I showed them to my aunt, who merely laughed and said: 'Every successful beauty gets this sort of thing, Muriel dear. Throw the letters in the fire, unless they are really disgraceful, in which case I will see that they are forwarded to the police.'

Acting on her counsel, I treated the epistles with contempt, and gradually they dwindled. Begging-letter writers also approached me, pouring out harrowing tales of woe with facile pens. My correspondence-bag became almost as large and varied as that of a Cabinet Minister or a famous actress, and I contemplated engaging a private secretary to attend to it.

Having thus explained the preliminaries of my career as a professional beauty, I pass on to tell of the first adventure which happened to ms daring my London saason.

It came about in this wise: I had been invited to a very smart dance at Lady Camford's house in Grosvenor Square, and with my aunt as chaperon I set out for the ball with much glee. We were due to go on to another house in Park Lane after the Cataford dance, and altogether the night promised to be an espacially alluring one. I forget what happened during the first part of the function, for what followed drove all other events out of my rather ephemeral brain. But about twelve o'clock, when I was sitting on the stairs enjoying a rest after a Strauss waltz, an exceedingly handsome young man came towards me, and bowing politely said:

'How do you do, Miss Brudenell?' I could not help looking amazed, for I had not the slightest knowledge of the youth, so I merely said: 'I fancy I have not the pleasure of knowing you,'

'Surely you must be mistaken,' he pleaded. 'I was introduced to you in Park Lane only three nights ago. Still, I could hardly dare to hope that you would remember me. Er— my name is Fanshawe.'

I set my brains to work to endeavour to call him to mind, but in vain. Eventually I decided that he had been introduced to me, and that he had passed out of my mind, as people often do pass, and I said quickly:

'It is very stupid of me to forget, but you must forgive me, Mr, Fanshawe. I have a shocking memory for faces.'

'So have I usually,' he said in a low tone; 'but there is one face, I think, I could never forget.'

Now, of course, it was very improper of him to begin paying compliments so early, and yet he was so good-looking and had so attractive a personality that I was forced to forgive him against my will.

Indeed, before I quite knew what I was doing I had promised him two dances, and very charming dances they proved to be, for he waltzed divinely.

'Shall we have a stroll round the conservatory,' he said, as the last strains of the melody died upon the scented air; 'It will be cooler there.' I placed my hand on his arm, and we wandered towards the conservatory, where we sat down.

He did not speak for a moment, but looked round the place, as though anxious to make certain that we were quite alone. Then he said:

'Miss Brudenell, you will think me very eccentric, mad perhaps— but I want you to do me a favour.'

'A favour,' I echoed, wondering what was coming next. 'Pray go on.'

He took from his pocket the most exquisite diamond necklace I had ever seen, and said hurriedly: 'I want you to wear this necklace tonight, to take it home with you, and to keep it until I ask for it again.'

I stared at him, believing him to be mad.

'Are you serious,' I asked; 'Do you actually mean that you desire me to accept this wonderful necklace from you who are almost a stranger to me?'

He leaned over my shoulder, and spoke in the tone of one who is under some mighty terror.

'Listen to me,' he said, hoarsely. 'There is a spell— subtle and awful — upon that necklace, which, nothing but the beauty of a beautiful woman can remove. I returned from India last month bringing it with me, and knowing the history of the necklace and its horrible influence, I have been seeking such a woman as yourself, who, by wearing the trinket, shall remove its soul-destroying power.'

Half amused, half frightaned, I endeavoured to expostulate with him, but say words were in vain. He refused to taka back the necklace; if I did not consent to wear it for the space of a certain number of hours, he would destroy the priceless jewels, and there would be an end of the whole business.

At length, utterly overcome by his eloquent words, and unable to resist any father, I gave in, and when we returned to the dance-room, the necklace hung round my neck. Before we parted, Fanshawe saw me again.

'In one week's time,' he said, 'I shall claim the necklace; for, by that time, its power for evil— if the Hindoo prophet has spoken truly— will be at an end. Goodnight; and thank you very, very much for your help.'

I went home to bed, after spending an hour at the other dance in Park Lane, to which we went on quitting Grosvenor Square; but sleep refused to come to my pillow. I lay awake long after dawn, trying to puzzle out the meaning of the extraordinary and weird incident, but the explanation would not come. At length I fell asleep towards eight o'clock, and dreamed incoherent dreams regarding the necklace until my maid arrived with my matutinal tea, and I awoke with a violonfe start.

ONE WEEK passed. I had carefully concealed the episode from my aunt, for Fanshawe had made me promise faithfully to reveal it to no living soul. On the seventh day I received a note from him, undated and unaddressed, asking me to meet him at the corner of Curzon Street, and bring with me the necklace tied up in a convenient box. Had I been a girl who disliked adventure I might have refrained from going to meet this man unattended, which was, of course, a very unconventional thing to do, but a passion for the adventurous side of life has always been my leading characteristic, therefore I went.

I found him looking very pale and anxious at the spot indicated, but his face lighted up when he saw me, and perceived that I carried the box containing the necklace under my arm.

'I am glad— so glad to see you,' he said, hastily, 'and your goodness in doing me this service I shall never forget.'

'It has been no goodness on lay part,' I made answer, feeling somewhat sorry, I must say, to part with my beautiful temporary possession. 'On the contrary, the wearing of the necklace has been a great pleasure to me. Here it is.'

I held out the box towards him, and he was about to grasp it, when a heavy hand was placed on his shoulder, and a man seemed to spring up from the ground and confront us.

'Not this time, Mr. Dick Mostyn,' he said, quiety. 'I fancy that you're a bit too late.'

'Miss Brudenell, I am indeed sorry that you should have been brought into this unfortunate business. I shall plead guilty if only for your sake, so that you  may not be brought further into the case. Goodbye, and thank you very much for trying to aid me.'

I still failed to understand the situation. I dimly realised that Fanshawe had committed some crime, but what it was or how I was concerned in the business I was unable to discover. I began to understand a little more clearly, however, when the detective said to me in a quiet voice:

'I'm afraid we shall have to ask you to accompany us to the police station, madam. Your being seen in company with this man will want explanation.'

I controlled my tears which were about to bubble forth, and we all entered a cab. Arrived at the police station I immediately sent for Lady Carstairs, whose testimony, aided by her smart carriage with a couple of footmen, very soon set me free. It was proved to the satisfaction of the presiding official that I had been an innocent accomplice of the man who had been arrested, whose name it seemed was Richard Mostyn, though I heard afterwards that he had a dozen other names as well.

On reaching home I made a clean breast of the whole affair to my aunt, who reproved me mildly, and said we must be thankful things were no worse.  By the exercise of a little influence my name was kept out of the newspapers when the trial was reported, but I read the reports with much interest, feeling  that I was almost as much concerned in the case as Mostyn himself.

The latter pleaded guilty. It seemed that the diamond necklace which had temporarily graced my neck was the property of a person no less august than the Queen of Italy, from whose waiting-maid it had been stolen by Mostyn when on a visit to Rome. The London police had been communicated with, and they were on the thief's track on the night of Lady Camford's ball.

It chanced that on the evening in question he was dressed in evening clothes, and espying a ball in progress in Grosvenor Square when he passed the house, he had taken refuge from the detectives by entering the house as a guest— a fraud easy of accomplishment at such a time.

By surveying the square from the windows of the ball-room, he had perceived that two police officers were apparently on the watch for him. and to leave the house with the necklace in his possession would therefore have been madness. It was at that point that he had seen me enter the room, and the idea had then flashed across the fertile brain of beguiling me into wearing the necklace, so that I might convey it from the house safely and hold it until he should be at liberty to ask for it.

And doubtless all would have gone well for him, and the trick would have been accomplished, had not my maid happened to gossip to her policeman-sweetheart regarding the new necklace that I was wearing after the dance. This chance gossip led to the incidents which I have recorded above, and brought upon Mr. Richard Mostyn a long term of penal servitude.

As for me, I am glad to say that I was none the worse for my adventure; though I resolved that never again, no matter under what circumstances, would I consent to accept a necklace from a stranger, even though a hundred 'spells' hung over it and a hundred 'charms' weighed, it down. For I had been 'bitten' once, and was determined to be shy, not twice, but ever after.

Mr. Mostyn had the impudence to write to me from the prison to which he was taken. I think he must have been a gentleman once, for the note was perfect in style and composition, and was almost touching. It ran:

Dear Miss Brudenell

Now that I am working out my punishment, I hope you will bring yourself to forgive me for the disgraceful trick I played upon you. Believe me, it was the last desperate resource of a desperate man; and, although it failed, you have my gratitude for your kindness. When my sentence is expired, the memory of your face and of your beauty will, I hope, spur me on towards reform and a better life.

Richard Mostyn.

I hope so, too, for after all he was very, very nice.

______________________

15: The Emerald Beetle

Richard Mace

Dates unknown: active 1890s

Gloucester Advocate (NSW) 17 June 1916

[Munsey’s Magazine Sep 1894]

RANDOLPH was not in the habit of getting up at 4 o'clock in the morning, but the tiny, closet-Iike stateroom on the Hudson River boat was close and stifling, and already the noise and odours of the docks were beginning to force themselves upon his consclousness. He had been spending Sunday with his mother up the river, and he thought happily of his pleasant, airy bachelor apartment in the right part of New York.

Randolph was supposed to go up 'home' once a week. He kept up a fiction, even with himself, that he intended doing so, and that, the lapses were wholly without his consent— the result of a gratuitous meddling of circumstances; but the fact remains that he drew a sigh of relief as the long country Sunday ended.

He did not even take time to bathe his face in the thick steamboat washbowl. He turned fastidiously from the water that had stood in the ewer all night, and gave himself a happy reminder of his big porcelain tub up town. He threw his clothes on, and making his way out through the ill-ventilated salon, walked over the dock and out into the street, to wait for a car.

Perhaps it was his recent visit to the country that made him look about at the soggy men and women who were making their way home at this hour, and think of times when he had turned over a board or a stone that had lain on the grass long unmolested. In the earthy bugs and worms that had gone scurrying out of the sight of the blessed light of day he could see a disgusting similitude of those children of the city's darkness.

He had not one bit of sentimentality or romance or imagination in his make up, and even this ugly thought surprised him. He was simply a New York bachelor of 37, who never bought anything on a margin, and who looked into the character and personality of any company before he invested in its securities.

As an open 'belt line' car came along Randolph swung himself on board, taking a back seat, and lighting a cigar. He was the only passenger save one, a half-drunken sailor, who turned at the scratch of Randolph's match, and taking a villainous pipe from the pocket of his jacket lighted it.

The conductor gave him a 'Hi!' and called him back to the smokers' seats, He put himself immediately in front of Randolph. The air blew the smoke ahead so that there was no necessity for moving, and they rode along the river front and up through the tenement district, almost touching each other, these two types of worlds us far apart as the planets. Men were still sleeping to the doorways or sitting up rubbing their eyes to begin another day's existence, whose only want was food.

The sailor leaned back.

'I've done that,' he said, Jerking his thumb in the direction of the ragged, yawning men, 'but I ain't goin' to do it no more. I've got what!' and he slapped the breast pocket of his jacket. 'You've got on a pretty breast-pin there, but it ain't nowhere by the side o' mine.'

Randolph was looking coldly and nnfotlv Into the man's eyes. He was simply a spectacle to him, one with which he had no sort of sympathy, any more than he would have had with any other sort of an unclean beast. The sound of his voice and the look of his coarse person were offensive but Randolph's nerves were strong. He did not look underneath and see the innn that might have been. That was not his way. But that he noticed him at all was sufficient encouragement to the sailor. He was in the maudlin state when there was nothing to resent short of a blow, and he had some one to talk to.

He pushed his fist down into his pocket, and brought out a wad of dirty canvas, stained brown. With nervous, awkward fingers he unwound it. Randolph bad continued to look on, expecting to see some gaud from a water front shop, when the last wrapping came off, and the man held on the end of his finger a jewel that made Randolph draw his breath.

It was a beetle carved from a single emerald, an emerald that was a shimmer of pale sea-green light. He knew the form, and in an instant he saw the character of the cloth. It was a piece of mummy wrapping. The jewel had lain upon the mummied breast of some Egyptian king.

Randolph put out his hand, find the sailor let him take it. It seemed to him that there came up his finger and along into his brain a sort of electric shock. As the sailor saw the jewel on Randolph's hand a change passed over his face. New lines came, firmer lines, about his mouth, and some of the silly coarseness seemed to melt away. It may have been the freshness of the morning air that was blowing away the fumes of drink.

A look of loathing, if that character of face could hold such an expression, was In his eyes as he looked at the emerald.

'Ah— do you— want to sell this thing?' Randolph asked.

'Yes, I do,' the sailor said firmly. 'A mate of mine got it somewhere, and when he died he gave me the thing. There's no luck in it. You may have It for ten dollars.'

Randolph reached his fingers into his waistcoat pocket and brought out a little bill-book. He felt in a measure ashamed of himself. He knew that the emerald was worth many hundreds of tens, and he was not the man to cheat anybody, but this man would only throw the thing away. Why should he not have it?

Still holding the jewel on his finger he laid the leather of the bill-book on his knee and drew out a crisp, new ten-dollar bill, which he put into the sailor's hand. Tho man opened his mouth as if to speak, and then, without stopping the car, swung himself off the side and disappeared, while Randolph put the emerald in his pocket and went on.

Suddenly it seemed to him that the world looked different. Ideas came into his head that had never been there before. He had a large transaction on hand that morning, one in which all his powers would be exercised to make two men see the justice of their differences, and come to an amicable settlement. They were old friends of his, and he had meant to devote all his mind to their case. But now, suddenly, he saw how by leaving out a certain argument here he could permanently divide them, and by his knowledge of affairs gather in a large reward for himself. He shook himself together, sick at his evil thought.

He changed cars for his own part of town, and with an impulse he had never had in his life before walked into a hotel and asked for a morning cocktail. As he came out a tiny little brougham went by before him on the crossing, and for an instant a little gleaming face like a cat's Iooked at him through the window, the sleep-wanting eyes, with darkened lashes, gazing into his. Then a row of white teeth gleamed at him.

'Confound it,' he said savagely. 'What was there in my face to call out that?'

THREE MONTHS later Randolph stood on the hearthrug in his apartment and looked away down into the two burning sticks his servant had laid on the irons. I It was early winter, but the air was chill after dark, and it was after dark that Randolph was beginning to live.

The cozy bachelor apartment had taken on some changes in the past few months. Where there had been a leather-covered lounge, upon which he used to fling himself with a new magazine when he came in tired in the evening, there was a broad, silken Turkish couch piled with embroidered cushions, and a French novel or two lay among them. The sober engravings and etchings on the walls had been half-hidden or taken down to give place to some water colours, and one or two oils that were of the same school as the fiction.

A palm in a great Chinese bowl stood by one silk draped window, and there was about the whole atmosphere of the room a luxury, a pampering of the fleshly side of life, that made the man coming in at the doorway stop and hold his breath as though he were entering a place of strange odours. He dropped tlie curtain that fell over the door, and met Raudolph in the middle of the room.

'My dear fellow,' he said heartily, 'you're so lapped in luxury here that I hardly know the place. When did you do all this?'

'Oh, bit by bit,' Randolph said carelessly. 'The old way seemed bare, somehow. When did you come home?'

'Yesterday. How is your mother? I want to go up to-morrow and see her.'

The words were said carelessly, but Randolph sprang up as though he had been stung.

'Now, see here, Carston, I know mother has set you at me just as well as I know anything. That's just exactly what she would do. I want to say right here that I am old enough to take care of myself.'

'She hasn't seen you for three months.'

'I've been so confoundedly busy.'

Carston did not smile at this excuse. His errand was too serious. Randolph was his cousin, and Randolph's mother was his best friend, and he had come to do what he could.

'Your mother thinks, we all think, that where the honour of the name is at stake, your mother, who gave you to it, has some right to speak. They say you are going to marry—'

Carston stopped as if he could, not utter the name.

'Have it all out. They say I am going to marry the French dancer at the Casino. Well?'

'I will not believe it. I have known you, boy and man, Randolph.'

'They have also told you, I suppose, that I advised Melton and Clay out of the Western Land Company and swallowed the company. Oh, yes, the public prints keep me advised of my doings.'

Carston looked at the strong figure before him in the evening dress, and wondered what had come over the man that had been his cousin.

The door opened again, and with her mouth full of words a maid run into the room.

'If you please, Mr. Raudolph, mademoiselle said would you send her, right away, the little box you promised her. I've got the carriage below, waiting—' then she stopped with a little cluck of surprise at seeing Carston.

Randolph walked over to his desk, and, opening it, took out a dirty bit of cloth and unrolled it. A gleam of green light came to the eyes of the man and woman across the room. He put the gem into a new velvet box, evidently prepared for it, gave it into the maid's hands, and pushed her gently from the room.

Next he turned around and looked at Carston in a dazed fashion for a moment. Then, walking rapidly to the broad windows, he threw them up, so that the crisp, cold air of the evening came rushing in. He stood by one of them, and a fit of trembling took him. The handkerchief that he passed across his brow was moist.

'Carston,' he said, 'do you believe that in centuries of evil association inanimate things may become so saturated with it that they give it out like a poison?'

'I am not fanciful,' Carston replied, 'but there are queer things. People believe in the influence of holy relics. Why not the other thing?'

'Let's go out,' Randolph said abruptly. 'I want fresh air. I will go up home with you to-morrow and stay a month. That will surely relieve my mother's mind.'

'I knew they were lies,' Carston said under his breath as he grasped his cousin's hand. 'I had known you too long.'

_________________

16: White Flame

Frederick Graves

1866-1945

Border Chronicle (Bordertown, SA), 2 June 1911

[Yes or No, 16 May 1908]

IT WAS in the heart of the desert. The white heart of the burning Arabian sands that this thing happened. And to this day I have the strangest shudders when I think of it. I had heard of white magic, of strange mysteries of fire in the East, ordeals and burnings, but I have no wish ever again to witness the awful judgment of the White Fire.

At the time, and indeed, for many a month afterwards, this dreadful and incredible affair so stunning in its effect on the mind, robbed me almost of the power of connected thought. I could only wonder vaguely. But as time went on I grew to regard it as one of those unaccountable things that human mind can neither fathom nor hope to explain.

We were returning from Bombay, and something went wrong, the great engines of the monster vessel ceased their work and there was nothing for it but to stop and repair. Thus we had the chance to go ashore for a day or two, and, wild country as it was, we made up a small party for an inland excursion. We were all men, with one exception, a very lively and rather fast woman, the widow of an Indian officer, who was returning home.

Mrs. Whitney had been the life of the ship with her daring exploits, her jokes and sayings and had kept most of the men, from the captain down, dancing after her; she was very pretty too, in a rather bold way. When she  heard of the expedition nothing could induce her to refrain from accompanying us. We did our best to dissuade her and even the captain, when he heard of it, looked grave and warned us to be careful, put in a strong word against her going— that only made her the more determined than ever, go she would.

So with the Arab guide, Colonel Pardar, Captain Stern, Morten, the ship's doctor, and myself and Mrs. Whitney, the party started off. Marten had heard of an extraordinary place about thirty miles inland, an oasis in the midst of the desert, where among some excavations and ruins the temple of a sacred city had been unearthed. There was an altar a most holy relic, supposed to be one of the last resting-places of the Prophet which pilgrims came from all Islam to see and worship. Both Marten and Stern were most anxious to see it, because of some strange mystery attaching to it, some weird legend about it.

We rode on mules, and started at once to pierce the arid burning hills. Mrs. Whitney seemed to be in a more daring humour than ever, and her shrill laugh could be heard everywhere." I know neither Marten nor Stern were very pleased at her presence (though the colonel took her part and flirted all the time with her), for the journey was a rough one not too easy or too nice for a  woman, nor was it altogether quite free from risk.

We struggled on through the blazing spring heat across those burning sands. Indeed, it was a terrible journey, and every mile seemed to carry us nearer to— a certain warm place. All around us was the blinding sand and we were shut in on either side by the arid bare rocks that focussed down the sun's rays till the desert felt a perfect inferno. I know I wondered more than once whether we should become scorched to cinders before we got to the ruins.

During the day we went slowly; it took us all our time to get along, and there was little talk. I think our lady traveller regretted she had insisted on coming, but when we camped for the night and sat round a small wood fire with the blue-black void all around us, and the bright stars above, with a cool breeze fanning the sparks we all brightened up.

It was such a delicious contrast after the awful heat of the day: the cool air, the intense desert stillness, our lady sipping her coffee and smoking her cigarette, became, once more, very lively, and began to bandy her jokes around. I had been talking with Stern, when all at once I became conscious that something interesting was going on across the fire. Marten was speaking in a grave voice, and Mrs. Whitney was laughing, and declaring her intention of doing something in a petulant voice.

"I mean to have some fun out of the job," she declared; "the idea of undergoing all this horrible jaunt for the sake of merely looking at an old ruin. I tell you I will! Now, let us have a bet on it. How much will you bet me I won't do it?"

"I won't bet on any such thing," Marten laughed, uncomfortably. "Let us change the subject."

"What's that?" the colonel asked.

As no one seemed inclined to tell him, after a pause Mrs. Whitney said: "I am going to have some fun ; I have offered to give a dance on this old altar thing— see if the Prophet will turn up, don't you know! He says he won't let me— dangerous, fanatical Arabs, some such rubbish, and he won't take my bet the mean wretch."

"By Jove! I'd like to see you do a dance— awfully, don't you know. They might consider it sacrilege and make it warm for us."

She pouted and was silent for a minute. " Well, I don't care; I'm going to do it," she said, with a determined nod.

Nothing more was said, but I think we were all a little uneasy; we had come on a rather funny trip, and had brought a nice firebrand With us. There was no knowing what the hare-brained girl would do, and she might get us all into a fine mess.

We resumed our march just as the dawn was breaking. it was still dark, but the faces of the hard hills were beginning to catch the pale light of the coming day. The effects were strangely beautiful as we rode along and watched the rock face change to pink and rose and finally to gold, as the whole desert began to glow in a shimmering lustre of gilded glory that all too soon turned to a blazing glare.

Still, quite early in the day we reached the ruined village and went over the excavations inspecting every thing. Last of all we came to the altars a great slab of white stone, that glowed and burned in the sun like an alabaster throne.

A curious uneasiness crept over me. I glanced at Mrs. Whitney and noticed with a qualm that there was a lurking gleam of mischief in her dark eyes and a faint curl of the lip that seemed to threaten trouble very soon.

Was she really still contemplating some devilry, I wondered ? Would she really dare to do the thing she had threatened?

The Arab guide explained in a subdued tone the history of the stone; hinted at strange powers it was supposed to possess, while a band of white-robed Arabs ranged themselves round us listening,  amongst them one dignified old Arab sheikh I noticed, a most patriarchal personage, with a long, white beard.

Just as the guide finished speaking, Mrs. Whitney moved forward, saying: "Now, who is going to take my bet?"

There was a strained moment of silent suspense.

"I think—" the colonel began depreciatingly.

"Mrs. Whitney, please—" from Stern.

"I wouldn't run" any risks, if I were you," from Harten significantly.

We were all uneasy, but she moved a step forward, smiling back at us over her shoulder in a wicked way.

"Give me a hand, doctor!" she said, with a tempting smile; but Marten put out his hand quickly, caught at her wrist and tried to draw her away.

"No, don't, please, Mrs. Whitney! Really this is a holy monument and these chaps might create the deuce of a row!"

She shook him off and turned to approach the altar. The sheikh raised his hands and uttered a curious sound; our guide suddenly grasping something of what was happening turned to us, imploringly:

"Stop her— the lady! Do not let her. It is most holy. No woman must touch it. The curse of Allah will fall instantly."

But though she did not understand all he said, she gathered the import of it, for a disdainful smile flickered on her face, and she went straight for the altar.

Marten, with whom Abdullah had been excitedly whispering, turned to me with a face darkened with anxiety and anger:

"What the deuce are we to do with her? He says that any woman who desecrates the altar would be instantly struck dead by fire. Of course that's all bunkum; the thing is that if she persists in getting up there to dance these chaps will about murder us, or—"

But even while we whispered, Mrs. Whitney had, with one little agile spring landed herself on the sacred slab. We were all petrified and stood round like start statues; a strange, low murmur of horror went round the crowd, and some hacked away, raising their hands in protest, or shrinking as though expecting something dreadful to happen.

There she stood, a brilliant figure, standing in a picturesque pose in the dazzling sun, a beautiful image in her white draperies, her big sun hat with its sweeping gossamer veil. Yes, without doubt, she was a beautiful and striking woman. She smiled enigmatically, and in the horror-stricken hush her low voice floated down to us softly:

"I believe you are all afraid, everyone of you— you pack of arrant cowards ! You mean-minded beggars! You paltry men! Why, there isn't a man among you, not to take a lady's bet! I'm ashamed of you! But I will give you your money's worth all the same, though you don't deserve it, just to shame you."

After a moment's posing she began to sway from side to side, while; we stood watching in fascination. What the Arabs thought I do not know. I think they were too much taken by surprise too stunned to grasp really what was taking place for a moment or so.

Then very slowly she began to dance, with light fancy steps, her draperies floating gently round her graceful figure in a way that made me think of some fantastic butterfly stage dance I had once seen. It was only for a second or two. The ring of people round still stood as though petrified, watching with horrified gaze and parted, silent lips.

Then, all at once, I noticed that something was wrong, I became conscious of it— felt it vaguely rather than saw it. The dancer paused in a step, seemed to start, became fixed in a strange, strained attitude; like a beautiful statue, wonderfully carved in alabaster, while I saw her eyes open widely, and stare as though at some sudden vision of what had just become revealed. Her face grew drawn and lined, contorted as though a quiet, strange pain, a sudden piercing agony had attacked her, and she remained like one stricken with a catalepsy.

Then there was a dazzling flash, a sudden outburst of white flame, blinding and fierce even in that blazing sunshine that shot up from the altar and wreathed itself among her draperies and curled round her form, leaping above her, enveloping her utterly. It was but an instant, the next moment it was gone.

We rushed forward— though the Arabs held back as though terrified— hut there was nothing there! The dancer had vanished. The altar was just as it had been before.

____________________

Index to Past Masters Nos 61-62

The author index to Issues 1-60 has now been uploaded seperately.

Anonymous

The Diamond Necklace 62

The Great Auk's Egg Affair 61

L. Adams Beck

The Interpreter (novelette) 62

J. J. Bell

"Sir William"  61

Max Brand

Five Minutes to Twelve 61

Lion Heart 61

Thomas Burke

The Bloomsbury Wonder 61

The Horrible God 62

Laughing Lillian 62

The Yellow Imps 62

Sir Gilbert Campbell

The Mystery of the Essex Stairs 62

Richard Dowling

The Going Out of Alessandro Pozzone 62

Ford Madox Ford

Riesenberg 61

Andrew Forrester Jr.

Arrested on Suspicion 61

Robert Edward Francillon

A Circumstantial Puzzle 62

Arthur Gask

Strychnine for Village Dogs 62

Theophile Gautier

The Mummy's Foot 62

Guy Gilpatric

The Homestretch 61

Frederick Graves

White Flame  62

Val Jameson

"Burglin' ain't the game it was" 61

Thomas H. Knight

The Man Who Was Dead 61

Sinclair Lewis

The Willow Walk 61

Marie Belloc Lowndes

An Unrecorded Instance 61

Richard Mace

The Emerald Beetle  62

Edith M Nesbit

Number 17

Thomas Nelson Page

What was the Lady's Choice? 62

William Le Queux

The Faith of Men 62

The Story of the Chief of Police 61

Walter Ripperger

The Cardboard Clue 62

E Charles Vivian

How the Girl Came to Bentley's 62

R. A. J. Walling

Mrs. Rooth's "Murder" 61

The Spook of Cornelius 61

Albert Richard Wetjen

The Chief of the Loch McCree 61

Victor L. Whitechurch

The Convict's Revenge  61

How the Captain Tracked a German Spy 61

In a Tight Fix 61

Table of Contents

1: Strychnine for Village Dogs / Arthur Gask

2: The Mummy's Foot / Theophile Gautier

3: The Interpreter / L. Adams Beck (novelette)

4: The Cardboard Clue / Walter Ripperger

5: The Going Out of Alessandro Pozzone / Richard Dowling

6: A Circumstantial Puzzle / Robert Edward Francillon

7: The Mystery of the Essex Stairs / Sir Gilbert Campbell

8: How the Girl Came to Bentley's / E Charles Vivian

9: The Faith of Men / William Le Queux

10: The Yellow Imps / Thomas Burke

11: The Horrible God / Thomas Burke

12: Laughing Lillian / Thomas Burke

13: What was the Lady's Choice? / Thomas Nelson Page

14: The Diamond Necklace / Anonymous

15: The Emerald Beetle / Richard Mace

16: White Flame / Frederick Graves

Cumulative Index 61-62