Past Masters Sixty Five
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: 21 Short stories in the Life + 70 Public domain culled from magazines, newspapers and the like. 1: The Sword of Wood / G.K. Chesterton 2: Cocktail For Cupid / Peter Cheyney 3: The Russian Cipher / Huan Mee 4: Man-Size in Marble / Edith Nesbit 5: Three Hours Between Planes / F. Scott Fitzgerald 6: A Golden Shanty / Edward Dyson 7: The Third Chair / Edward Dyson 8: The Great Black / Raoul Whitfield 9: Where Early Fa's the Dew / Guy Gilpatric 10: The Bank Clerk's Love Story / Headon Hill 11: The "Artemis" Mystery / Headon Hill 12: Limping Justice / Headon Hill 13: The Dining-Car Clue / Headon Hil

PAST MASTERS

SIXTY-FIVE

February 2022

Part 5

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: The Sword of Wood / G.K. Chesterton

2: Cocktail For Cupid / Peter Cheyney

3: The Russian Cipher / Huan Mee

4: Man-Size in Marble / Edith Nesbit

5: Three Hours Between Planes / F. Scott Fitzgerald

6: A Golden Shanty / Edward Dyson

7: The Third Chair / Edward Dyson

8: The Great Black / Raoul Whitfield

9: Where Early Fa's the Dew / Guy Gilpatric

10: The Bank Clerk's Love Story / Headon Hill

11: The "Artemis" Mystery / Headon Hill

12: Limping Justice / Headon Hill

13: The Dining-Car Clue / Headon Hill

14: Cat or Devil / Percy James Brebner

15: The Outcast / Beatrice Heron-Maxwell

16: Joan Dark / F. Frankfort Moore

17: Markham's New Partner / Fred V Green

18: The Secret of the White Castle / Julia Magruder

19: Stolen Centuries / Otis Adelbert Kline

20: The Black Camel / G. G. Pendarves

21: Gentlemen of the Jury / Fred Merrick White

Cumulative index 61-65

___________________

Not a Father Brown story; more a fable...

1: The Sword of Wood

G.K. Chesterton

1874-1936

The Pall Mall Magazine, Nov 1913

DOWN in the little village of Grayling-Abbot, in Somerset, men did not know that the world we live in had begun. They did not know that all we have come to call 'modern' had silently entered England, and changed the air of it. Well, they did not know it very clearly even in London: though one or two shrewd men like my Lord Clarendon, and perhaps Prince Rupert, with his chemicals and his sad eyes, may have had a glimmer of it.

On the contrary, by the theory of the thing, the old world had returned. Christmas could be kept again; the terrible army was disbanded; the swarthy young man with the sour, humorous face, who had been cheered from Dover to Whitehall, brought back in him the blood of kings. Every one was saying (especially in Grayling-Abbot) that now it would be Merry England again. But the swarthy young man knew better. The Merry Monarch knew he was not meant to make Merry England. If he treated his own life as a comedy, it was for a philosophical reason; because comedy is the only poetry of compromise. And he was a compromise; and he knew it. Therefore he turned, like Prince Rupert, to the chemicals; and played with the little toys that were to become the terrible engines of modern science. So he might have played with tiger-cubs, so long as they were as small as his spaniels.

But down in Grayling-Abbot it was much easier to believe that old England had been restored, because it had never, in any serious sense, been disturbed. The fierce religious quarrels of the seventeenth century had only stirred that rustic neighbourhood to occasional panics of witch-burning. And these, though much rarer in the medieval society, were not inconsistent with it. The squire, Sir Guy Griffin, was famous as a fighter quite in the medieval style. Though he had commanded a troop under Newcastle in the Civil Wars with conspicuous success, the local legend of his bodily prowess eclipsed any national chronicle of his military capacity. Through two or three counties round Grayling-Abbot, his reputation for swordsmanship had quite eclipsed his reputation for generalship. So, in the Middle Ages, it happened that Coeur-de-Lion's hand could keep his head: it happened that Bruce's hand could keep his head. And in both cases the head has suffered unfairly from the glorification of the hand.

The same almost unbroken medieval tradition even clung round the young schoolmaster, Dennis Tryon, who was just locking up his little school for the last time; having been transferred to a private post at Sir Guy's own house, to teach Sir Guy's six hulking sons, who had learned their father's skill with the sword, and hitherto declined to learn anything else. In numberless and nameless ways, Tryon expressed the old traditions. He was not a Puritan, yet he wore black clothes because he might have been a priest. Though he had learned to fence and dance at College, like Milton, he was plainly dressed and weaponless; because the vague legend remained that a student was a sort of clerk, and a clerk was a sort of clergyman. He wore his brown hair long, like a Cavalier. But as it was his own hair, it was long and straight: while the Cavaliers were already beginning to wear other people's hair, which was long and curly. In that strict brown frame, his face had the boyish, frank, rather round appearance that may be seen in old miniatures of Falkland or the Duke of Monmouth. His favourite authors were George Herbert and Sir Thomas Browne; and he was very young.

He was addressing a last word to a last pupil, who happened to be lingering outside the school—  a minute boy of seven, playing with one of those wooden swords, made of two lengths of lath nailed across each other, which boys have played with in all centuries.

'Jeremy Bunt,' said Tryon, with a rather melancholy playfulness, 'your sword is, as it seems to me, much an improvement on most we have lately looked on. I observe its end is something blunt; doubtless for that gallant reason that led Orlando to blunt his sword when fighting the lady, whose name, in the ingenious romance, escapes me. Let it suffice you, little one. It will kill the Giants, like Master Jack's sword of sharpness, at least as well as the swords of a standing army ever will. If you be minded to save the Lady Angelica from the ogre, it will turn the dragon to stone as quick as any sword of steel would do. And, oh, Jeremy, if the fable be false, the moral is not false. If a little boy be good and brave, he should be great, and he may be. If he be bad and base, he should be beaten with a staff'—  here Tryon tapped him very softly on the shoulders with a long black walking-cane that was commonly his only ferule—  'but in either way, to my thinking, your sword is as good as any other. Only, dear Jeremy'—  and he bent over the child swiftly, with a sudden tenderness—  'always remember your kind of sword is stronger if one holds it by the wrong end.'

He reversed the little sword in the child's hand, making it a wooden cross, and then went striding up the road like the wind, leaving the staring boy behind.

When he became conscious that human feet were following him, he knew they could not possibly be the feet of the boy. He looked round; and Jeremy was still hovering in the distance; but the rush of feet came from a far different cause.

A young lady was hurrying by close under the high hedge that was nearly as old as the Plantagenets. Her costume was like his own, in the sense that it had the quietude of the Puritan with the cut of the Cavalier. Her dress was as dark as Barebones could have asked; but the ringlets under her hood were yellow and curly, for the same reason that his own hair was brown and straight: because they were her own. Nothing else was notable about her, except that she was pretty and seemed rather in a hurry; and that her delicate profile was pointed resolutely up the road. The face was a little pale.

Tryon turned again to look back on his tracks; and this time saw another figure more formidable than Jeremy with the wooden sword.

A tall, swaggering figure, almost black against the sunlight, was coming down the road with a rapidity that almost amounted to a run. He had a wide hat with feathers, and long, luxuriant hair, in the latest London manner; but it was not any such feathers or flourishes that arrested Tryon's attention. He had seen old Sir Guy Griffin, who still wore his wild, white hair half-way down his back, to show (very unnecessarily) that he was not a Puritan. He had seen Sir Guy stick in his hat the most startling cock's feathers, but that was because he had no other feathers. But Tryon knew at a glance that Sir Guy would never have come forward in such extraordinary attitudes. The tall, fantastic man actually drew his sword as he rushed forward; and offered it like a lance to be splintered as from the end of a long tilting-yard. Such frolics may have happened a hundred times round the 'Cock' of Buckingham and Dorset. But it was an action utterly unknown to the gentry round Grayling-Abbot, when they settled affairs of honour.

While he was still looking up the road at the advancing figure, he found himself breathlessly addressed by the escaping girl.

'You must not fight him,' she said, 'he has beaten everybody. He has beaten even Sir Guy, and all his sons.' She cast her eyes about him and cried out in horror: 'And where is your sword?'

'With my spurs, mistress,' replied the schoolmaster, in the best style of Ariosto. 'I have to win them both.'

She looked at him rather wildly and said: 'But he has never been beaten in swordsmanship.'

Tryon, with a smile, made a salute with his black walking-stick. 'A man with no sword,' he said, 'can never be beaten in swordsmanship.'

The girl stood for one moment staring at him as if, even in that scene of scurry and chase, time were suspended for a flash. Then she seemed to leap again like a hunted thing and plunged on: and it was only some hundred yards higher up the road that she again halted, hesitated, and looked back. In much the same manner Master Jeremy Bunt, who had not the faintest intention of deserting the delightful school in which he was no longer required to do any work, actually ran forward. Perhaps their curiosity ought to be excused. For they were certainly looking at the most astounding duel the world had ever seen. It was the duel of the naked sword and the walking-stick: probably the only merely defensive battle ever fought on this earth.

The day was full of sun and wind, the two chief ingredients of a glorious day; but till that moment even Mr. Tryon, though of a pastoral and poetical turn, had not noticed anything specially splendid in the sky or landscape. Now the beauty of this world came upon him with the violence of a supernatural vision; for he was very certain it was a vision that he soon must lose. He was a good fencer with the foil in the Collegiate manner. But it was not to be expected that any human being could emerge victorious from a prolonged fight in which he had no means of retaliation; and especially as his opponent, whether from drink or devilry, was clearly fighting to the death. Tryon could not be certain that the wild creature even knew that his sword only struck against wood.

Dennis Tryon took in every glory of the good English land, and the still more glorious English climate, with the corner of his eye; he took it in with that same swift, indirect and casual, yet absolutely substantial way in which Nature is noticed in the old English poets that he loved. For the great poets of England, from Chaucer to Dryden, had a trick that has since been lost, the trick of implying the nature of a scene without apparently even attempting to describe it. Thus, any one reading the line 'Pack, clouds, away,' knows at once it is the kind of clouds called cumuli, and could not possibly be meant for level or streaky clouds. Or any one reading Milton's line about the princess's turret 'bosomed high in tufted trees' knows it means partly leafless trees, as in early spring or autumn, when the edge of the forest shows soft against the sky, like a brush or broom, sweeping heaven. With the same sort of subconscious solidity, Tryon realized the rounded and half-rosy morning clouds that curled or huddled in the blue above the downs; and the mute mercy of the forests, that faded from grey to purple before they mixed with heaven. Death, in a hat with black plumes, was shooting a thousand shining arrows at him every instant; and he had never loved the world so much before.

For indeed that one streak of white steel came at him like a shower of shining arrows. He had to make a new parry for every new lunge; and, with each, perversely remembered some episode of College fencing. When the bright point of death missed his heart and slid past his elbow, he saw suddenly a meadow beside the Thames. When he seemed blinded, by the very light on that lightning blade, leaping at his eyes, but passing over his shoulder, he saw the old lawn at Merton as if its grass had sprung out of the road around him. But he began more and more to realize something else. He realized that if he had held a real sword, he could have killed his enemy six times over with the riposte.  When the heart-thrust was turned, he could have put his sword like a carving-knife into a pudding—  if it had been a sword. When the parry protected his eyes, nothing else could have protected his opponent, except the unpenetrating quality of a walking-stick. His brain was of the very clear kind that can play two games of chess at once. While still whirling his black walking-stick in a complicated but impromptu clockwork of fence, he saw quite clearly a logical alternative. Either the man thought he was fighting someone with a sword: in which case he was a very bad fencer. Or else he knew he was fighting someone with a stick, in which case he was a very bad man: or (as the more timid modern phrase goes) a very bad sportsman.

He acted suddenly in a way adapted to either case. He introduced into his swordplay a stroke of single-stick, also learned at College, jerking his stick up so as to strike and jar the man's elbow; and then, before the arm could recover its nerve, smote the sword clean out of the hand. A look at the man's black, bewildered expression was enough. Tryon was now quite certain the man's advantage had only been in his sword. He was also quite certain the man knew it. With all the rush of his released romanticism, which roared like the wind, and rolled like the clouds, and blazed like the sun which he had thought to see no more, he sprang forward and pinned the man by the throat, with a shout of laughter. Then he said, with more restrained humour, what he had said to the little boy up the road.

'If he be bad and base,' said Tryon, 'he should be beaten with a staff.' And whirling the walking-stick round his head, he laid three thundering and echoing thwacks across the shoulders of his disarmed enemy, and walked off up the road again like the wind.

He did not notice further what his murderous enemy might attempt, but he was honestly puzzled about the conduct of the crowd. For, by this time, there was a very considerable crowd. The sword-bearing Jeremy was quite prominent in the throng behind him; the lady with the golden curls and the sensitive profile was herself pausing a moment on the outskirts of the throng in front.

As he started up the road again, the mob set up a roar, redoubled and quadrupled, and several gentlemen present whirled their plumed hats and shouted observations he could not hear. What was even more extraordinary, a great part of the crowd (including the young lady, who vanished early) appeared to be disappearing up the road, as if bringing news of some great victory like Agincourt.

By the time he came from Grayling-Abbot to Grayling-le-Griffin, the next village, there were ten heads at every cottage window; and girls threw flowers, that missed him and fell on the road. By the time he came to the outskirts of the Park, with the stone griffins, there were triumphal arches.

'It seems that I was not a little hasty with Master Bunt,' said Tryon to himself, with a puzzled smile. 'It is plain I have fallen into the Kingdom of Queen Mab. It is I, and not Master Jeremy, who have, in some sense, saved Angelica from the dragon. I was rather more embarrassed in the matter of arms, and she rather less embarrassed in the matter of attire, and there, truly, the difference seems to end. But the strangest thing of all is that, whatever I have done, I have done it with a sword of wood, like little Jeremy's.'

In his academic reflections, he lifted his long black stick to look at it; and, as he did so, the cry of many crowds broke about him like a cannonade. For he had come to the very doors of Griffin Grange, to which he had been summoned on his much milder tutorial errand. And the great Sir Guy himself came out at the entrance. He might even have justified his mythic name, allowing for certain alterations of accident. For a griffin was supposed to be a mixture of the lion and the eagle; and certainly Sir Guy's mane might have been a lion's, but that it was largely white; and his nose might have been an eagle's, but that it was partly red.

His face had at first a dangerous and even dissipated look, and Tryon had one momentary doubt about the reason of his defeat. But when he looked again at Sir Guy's erect figure and animated eye; when he rather timidly accepted his decisive handshake and received congratulations in his clear and comfortable voice, the doubt vanished. And the young schoolmaster felt even more bewildered in receiving the equally adoring, though rather more gaping, congratulations of the six strenuous sons. At the first glance, Tryon felt something like despair about their Greek and Latin. But he also felt an increasing conviction that any of them could have knocked him anywhere with a cudgel. His own triumph began to seem as fantastic and incredible as his triumphal arches.

'Assuredly it is a strange matter,' he said to himself in his simplicity. 'I was a tolerable good fencer at Merton, but not excellent. Not so good as Wilton or Smith or old King of Christ Church. It is not to be believed that men like these could not beat him with their great swords, when I could beat him with a stick. This is some jest of the great gentry, as in the ingenious tale of Master Cervantes.'

He therefore received the uproarious plaudits of old Griffin and his sons with some reserve; but, after a little time, it was hard for one so simple not to perceive their simplicity. They really did regard him, as little Jeremy would have regarded him, as a fairy-tale hero who had freed their valley from an ogre. The people at the windows had not been conspirators. The triumphal arches had not been practical jokes. He was really the god of the countryside and he had not a notion why.

Three things convinced him finally of the reality of his reputation. One was the mysterious fact that the young Griffins (that brood of mythic monsters) really made some attempt to learn. Humphrey, the eldest and biggest, got the genitive of quis right the third time, though wrong again the fourth, fifth, and sixth. The attempts of Geoffrey to distinguish between fingo and figo would have moved a heart of stone: and Miles, the youngest, was really interested in the verb ferre; though (being a waterside character) he had some tendency to end it with a 'y.' Underneath all this exceptional mental ambition, Tryon could see the huge, silent respect which savages and schoolboys feel everywhere for one who has 'done' something in the bodily way. The old rural and real aristocracy of England had not that rather cold and clumsy class-consciousness we now call the public-school spirit; and they enjoyed sports instead of worshipping them. But boys are the same in all ages, and one of their sports is hero-worship.

The next and yet more fascinating fact was Sir Guy. He was not, it was clear, in the common sense an amiable man. Just as the slash he had at the battle of Newbury made his eagle face almost as ugly as it was handsome, so the neglects and disappointments of his once promising military career had made his tongue and temper as bitter as they were sincere. Yet Tryon felt he owed the very knowledge of such an attitude to a confidence the old man would not have reposed in other people.

'The King hath his own again,' old Griffin would say gloomily. 'But I think it is too late. Indeed it might nigh as well be the King of France come to rule us as the King of England. He hath brought back with him French women that act in stage plays as if they were boys; and tricks fit for pothecaries or conjurers at a fair, and tricks like this fellow's that twitched away my sword, and every one else's—  till he met his master, thank God.' And he smiled at Tryon, sourly, but with respect.

'Is the gentleman I met,' asked Tryon, rather timidly, one from the Court?'

'Yes,' answered the old man. 'Did you look at his face?'

'Only his eyes,' said the fencer, smiling; 'they are black.'

'His face is painted,' said Griffin. 'That is the sort of thing they do in London. And he wears a pile of false hair out of a barber's; and walks about in it, like the house of a Jack-in-the Green. But his was the best sword, as old Noll's was the best army. And what could we do?'

The third fact, which affected Dennis Tryon most deeply of all, was a glimpse or two of the girl he had saved from the obstreperous courtier. It appeared she was the parson's daughter, one Dorothy Hood, who was often in and out of the Grange, but always avoided him. He had every sort of delicacy himself; and a comprehension of her attitude made him finally certain of his own inexplicable importance. If this had been, as he first thought, a trick played on him in the style of the Duke and the Tinker, so charming a girl (and he thought her more charming every time she flashed down a corridor or disappeared through a door) would certainly have been set to draw him on. If there was a conspiracy, she must be in it; and her part in it would be plain. But she was not playing the part. He caught himself rather wishing she were.

The last stroke came when he heard her saying to Sir Guy, by the accident of two open doors: 'All say, 'twas witchcraft; and that God helped the young gentleman only because he was good, and—  '

He walked wildly away. He was the kind of academic cavalier, who had learnt all worldly manners in an unworldly cloister. To him, therefore, eavesdropping was in all cases, horrible; in her case, damnable.

On one occasion he plucked up his courage to stop and thank her for having warned him of the danger of the duel.

Her delicate, pale face, always tremulous, became positively troubled. 'But then I did not know,' she said. 'I knew you were not afraid. But I did not know then you were fighting the devils.'

'Truly, and I do not know it now,' he answered. 'By my thinking, I was fighting one man, and no such great fighting at that.'

'Everybody says it was the devils,' she said with a beautiful simplicity. 'My father says so.'

When she had slipped away, Dennis was left meditating: and a new and rather grim impression grew stronger and stronger upon him. The more he heard from servants or strangers, the clearer it was that the local legend was hardening into a tale of himself as exorcist breaking the spell of a warlock.

The youngest boy, Miles, who had been (as usual) down by the river, said the villagers were walking along the bank, looking for the old pool where witches were drowned. Humphrey said it would be no good if they found it, for the tall man with the painted face had gone back to London. But an hour later, Geoffrey came in with other news: the wicked wizard had gone out of Grayling, but the mob had stopped him on the road to Salisbury.

When Tryon bestirred himself with curiosity and alarm and looked out of the Grange gates he found fearful confirmation, almost in the image of a place of pestilence or a city of the dead. The whole population of the two villages of Grayling (save for such non-combatants as the wooden-sworded Bunt) had vanished from their streets and houses. They returned in the dark hour before dawn; and they brought with them the man with the magic sword.

Men in modern England, who have never seen a revolution, who have never seen even a real mob, cannot imagine what the capture of a witch was like. It was for all the populace of that valley a vast rising against an emperor and oppressor, a being taller, more terrible, more universal, than any one would have called either Charles I or Cromwell, even in jest. It was not, as the modern people say, the worrying of some silly old woman. It was for them a revolt against Kehama, the Almighty Man. It was for them a rebellion of the good angels after the victory of Satan. Dorothy Hood was sufficiently frightened of the mob to take Tryon's hand in the crowd, and hold it in a way that made them understand each other with an intimate tenderness never afterwards dissolved. But it never occurred to her to be sorry for the warlock.

He was standing on the river bank, with his hands tied behind him, but the sword still at his side; no one feeling disposed to meddle with it. His peruke had been torn off; and his cropped head seemed to make more glaring and horrible the unnatural colours of his face. It was like some painted demon mask. But he was quite composed, and even contemptuous. Every now and then people threw things at him, as at one in the pillory; even little Jeremy Bunt flinging his wooden sword, with all the enthusiasm of the Children's Crusade. But most things missed him and fell into the flowing river behind, into which (there could be little doubt) he himself was to be flung at last.

Then stood up for an instant in the stormy light, that rare but real spirit, for whose sake alone men have endured aristocracy, or the division of man from man. Sir Guy's scarred face looked rather unusually sulky, or even spiteful; but he turned to his bodyguard of sons. 'We must get him back safe to the Grange,' he said sourly; 'you boys have all your swords, I think. You had best draw them.'

'Why?' asked the staring Humphrey.

'Why,' answered his father, 'because they are conquered swords, like my own.' And he drew his long blade, that took the white light of the morning.

'Boys,' he said, 'it is in the hand of God if he be warlock or no. But is it to be said of our blood that we brought crowds and clubs to kill a man who had whipped each one of us fairly with the sword? Shall men say that when Griffins met their match they whined about magic? Make a ring round him, and we will bring him alive through a thousand witch-smellers.'

Already a half-ring of naked swords had swung round the victim like a spiked necklace. In those days mobs were much bolder against their masters than they are to-day. But even that mob gave to the Griffins a military reputation beyond their mere territorial rank; and the parties were thus the more equal. There was no sword in that crowd better than a Griffin sword; except the sword that hung useless at the hip of a pinioned man.

Before the next moment, which must have been blood and destruction, the man with the useless sword spoke. 'If some gentleman,' he said with marmoreal calm, 'will but put a hand in the pocket of my doublet, I think bloodshed will be spared.'

There was a long silence; and every one looked at Dennis Tryon: the man who had not feared the wizard. Every one included Dorothy; and Dennis stepped forward. He found a folded piece of paper in the doublet, opened it and read it with more and more wonder on his round young face. At the third sentence he took his hat off. At this the crowd stared more and more: it had fallen suddenly silent and all were conscious of a change and a cooling in that intense air.

'It would appear,' he said at last, 'that this is a privy letter from His Majesty, which I will not read in entirety. But it advises and permits Sir Godfrey Skene to practise with the new Magnetic Sword which the Royal Society has for some little time attempted to manufacture in pursuance of a suggestion of Lord Verulam, the founder of our Natural Philosophy. The whole blade is magnetized; and it is thought it may even pull any other iron weapon out of the hand.'

He paused a moment, in some embarrassment, and then said: 'It is added that only a weapon of wood or such other material could be used against it.'

Sir Guy turned to him suddenly and said: 'Is that what you call Natural Philosophy?'

'Yes,' replied Tryon.

'I thank you,' said Griffin. 'You need not teach it to my sons.'

Then he strode towards the prisoner, and rent the sword away, bursting the belt that held it.

'If it were not His Majesty's own hand,' he said, 'I would throw you with it after all.'

The next instant the Magnetic Sword of the Royal Society vanished from men's view for ever; and Tryon could see nothing but Jeremy's little cross of wood heaving with the heaving stream.

__________________

Romance Cheyney Style

2: Cocktail For Cupid

Peter Cheyney

1896-1951

Australian Women's Weekly, 2 Jan 1953

[Modern Woman, London, May 1946]

IT was one of those rather cold and dreary evenings and, although the fire in my drawing-room was burning brightly and the room itself is attractive and cheerful, I felt a peculiar sense of depression.

And I couldn't shake it off. I asked myself: What have you got to be depressed about? But I couldn't find any answer.

I was still trying when the telephone bell rang. It was Glynda. She said: "Mignon, my dear (she always calls me by my first Christian name, although most people call me Adela), do you think you could come round and drink a cocktail? I have a few nice friends here and there is a man who seems rather nice. And he's awfully keen to meet you."

I said: "Glynda, I'd love it. Who is the man? Do I know him?"

"I don't think so," said Glynda. "But he's fearfully keen to meet you. I've forgotten his name for the moment. Julia Spence brought him here. He has a fascinating face and nice manners. Now— are you curious?"

I wasn't, but I said: "Very! I'll be with you as soon as I've changed my frock."

While I was changing, my mind, for no accountable reason, switched to Robert. Why I should suddenly begin to think about him I don't know. I ought to dislike Robert intensely; yet I made no endeavour to dismiss him from my mind. I shrugged my shoulders. Thinking about Robert was just "one of those things." It didn't really matter and it didn't mean a thing.

I slipped into my fur coat and was on the way to my drawing-room when Herbert, my maid, came in and said that I had a caller. She gave me his card. I looked at it and read, "Detective-Inspector J. B. Ellams, C.I.D., New Scotland Yard," and printed underneath was a private address and telephone number. I wondered what on earth a detective inspector could want with me!

When I went in, he was standing in front of the fireplace. He was a nice-looking man of about forty-five years of age, with greying hair, a kindly face, and good-humoured eyes.

I said as brightly as possible: "Good evening, Mr. Ellams. I do hope I haven't been breaking the law. I'm not used to receiving visits from detective-inspectors."

He smiled. He said: "You've nothing to worry about, Mrs. Hayes, but I wonder if you'd mind answering a few questions. And I'd be awfully glad if you'd answer the questions before I tell you my reason for asking them."

I said: "That's rather odd, isn't it? And won't you sit down?"

He sat down. I gave him a cigarette.

"No, it isn't really odd, Mrs. Hayes," he said. "You see, if I told you the reason why I'm asking the questions, it might possibly affect your emotions, and your answers. Do you understand?"

"Ye-es? I think I do," I answered. "Anyway, please ask me anything you want to."

He said: "I think I am right in saving that you were the Comtesse d'Epernay, Mrs. Hayes, and that you divorced your husband— the Comte Robert d'Épernay— about a year ago. And then you retook your maiden name and called yourself Mrs. Adela Hayes. Isn't that right?"

I said: "Yes, that's perfectly right. You know, Mr. Ellams, it is rather strange, but only a few minutes ago I was thinking about my ex-husband, and I wondered why. Now you arrive and begin to talk about him."

He said: "I don't know that that's strange, Mrs. Hayes. Very often there is a sort of telepathy between people who are fond of each other."

"Oh, dear," I murmured, "am I still supposed to be fond of him?"

"I don't know," he replied. "But I'd like to know."

I said: "Really, Mr. Ellams, this is most peculiar, isn't it? Are you going into all the nuances of my past love life?"

He smiled. He had the most charming smile. He said: "No. I'm not going to ask you anything you don't want to answer, but I had a reason for suggesting that. You will see what it is in a minute. Tell me, Mrs. Hayes, have you seen the Comte since you divorced him?"

I said: "No, I haven't seen him for a long time, and I don't know that I particularly want to."

He asked: "Are you sure about that? You know, when a woman begins to think about her ex-husband, sometimes she gets a little curious about him. She wonders if he's altered; whether he's missed her."

I said: "Well, I don't think I've been thinking about those things, and I don't think— in fact, I'm sure I'm not fond of Robert. You see, since we are talking about this, I might as well tell you that I was very angry with him."

He nodded. He said: "Yes? He was very attractive, wasn't he— much too attractive?"

I said: "Women adored him. I did at one time. Mind you, Mr. Ellams, I don't know that it was entirely his fault. You know, women are awful cats. They are not a bit kind to each other. I must say I think there was an awful lot of temptation put in Robert's way."

He said: "Yes, I expect there was. And I suppose the temptation got a little too strong eventually."

"I suppose so," I answered. "There was a woman— she was supposed to be a friend of mine— very charming, very good-looking. I suspected Robert— I really suspected him for thefirst time in my life. So I left him."

He raised his eyebrows. "Do you mean you left him without knowing anything really definite about him?" he asked.

I nodded. "Yes, I suppose I did. But then, I've always believed in my instinct. Anyway, I wrote him a letter and I told him exactly what I suspected, and he wrote back and told me I was quite right."

"I see. And then did he go off with this lady? Was that what made you bring your action for divorce?"

I said: "No. He supplied some other evidence. I suppose he didn't want to bring her into it."

"Quite— the usual thing," he said. "And has he married her since?"

I shook my head. "No, as far as I know, he hasn't married anybody. You know, Mr. Ellams, I'm getting most frightfully curious about this. I would like to know what it's all about."

He said: "I'm going to tell you what it's about, Mrs. Hayes, and then you'll understand my questions. The first thing I wanted to find out was whether your ex-husband believed that he was entitled to be angry with you— such as, for instance, if your suspicions about this lady for whom you left him were incorrect. You say he wrote to you and said that what you thought was right, but a man will often write a letter like that out of anger. He may have thought that as you accused him of it he might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb."

"All right," I said. "And supposing he did think that?"

He looked serious. "The point is, as far as I am concerned, and when I say I, I mean the police," he went on, "if he thought he was entitled to be angry with you, then perhaps we ought to regard him as a potential enemy."

My mouth almost opened with amazement. "A potential enemy! Robert! Whatever do you mean?"

He said: "I'll explain. For some years we have had our eye on a gentleman called Marcel Gulavet— an extremely clever crook. I believe he was at one time in the French Army and in the F.F.I. He had a not undistinguished career in the war. But since then his record has been very bad. He's got a very clever racket, Mrs. Hayes, and one I do not want to see used on you."

"On me?" I was amazed. "Whatever has this Marcel Gulavet to do with me?"

"Just this," he went on. "Marcel's specialty is a clever one. He takes pains to scrape up an acquaintanceship with any man who has been married to a wealthy woman who possesses valuable jewellery and who feels disgruntled about the divorce proceedings which the wife has successfully brought. He endeavours to obtain the confidence of such a man. From him, by degrees, very slowly and very cleverly, so as not to arouse any suspicion, he finds out about the late wife's habits, her method of life, what time she goes out in the day, whether she goes to the theatre or dines out a great deal. You understand?"

I said: "Yes; I think I do."

"Very often," he went on, "the husband will have retained keys of safes or strong-boxes— quite innocently, of course. We've known cases where Gulavet has actually taken an impression of a key of a safe in the possession of an ex-husband, had a duplicate made and, picking his time, walked into the lady's flat and helped himself."

"And do you think this Marcel Gulavet is going to use the same tactics on me, Mr. Ellams?" I asked.

"I don't know, but I don't propose to take any chances," he replied. "I want to get my hands on this Marcel Gulavet, and the thing is we do know that during the past six or seven months he has assiduously cultivated the friendship of your ex-husband."

I said a little hotly: "Mr. Ellams, are you suggesting that Robert— my ex-husband— would league himself with this criminal in order to rob me?"

He shook his head. "I'm not suggesting that at all, Mrs. Hayes. It is quite possible that the Comte might be perfectly innocent in this business. But if he has developed a dislike for you he might possibly allow himself to be talked into doing something which might harm you, by this Gulavet."

I said: "You can set your mind at rest on that point immediately, Mr. Ellams. I know Robert very well. He may have had failings— he may have been tempted by women— but I do tell you that he would never stoop to do anything that was dishonest."

He said: "Thank you very much, Mrs. Hayes. You've told me all I wanted to know. Incidentally," he went on, with a little smile, "you don't seem to dislike the Comte as much as you gave me to believe a little while ago."

I said: "But I do dislike him— I naturally dislike him. Any woman would dislike a man who preferred somebody else, but that doesn't mean to say that I have to depreciate his character."

He got up, saying, "I see. Well, thank you very much once more. We'll keep a close eye on our friend, Gulavet. In the meantime, Mrs. Hayes, you have my card, and you'll find my private address and telephone number on it. I suggest that if you notice anything that seems at all suspicious you ring me at my private address immediately."

I said: "That's very kind of you, Mr. Ellams."

"Do you keep many valuables here in this flat?" he asked. "If you do, I should be rather inclined to move them to a safe place."

"I don't propose to do anything of the sort," I replied. "I'm perfectly certain that Robert would not allow himself to be talked into giving away any of my personal affairs to this Gulavet person, even if he did consider him to be a friend."

He said: "Well, that's as you like. But don't forget, if you need me you know where to get in touch with me."

We shook hands and he went away. After he had gone I stood in the middle of the room thinking about Robert. I remembered certain sides of him— the charming, mischievous side of his character.

Robert was very clever— quite a brilliant person— a man who always managed to get his own way.

And Inspector Ellams had put a very funny idea into my head. Just supposing Robert were angry with me; supposing the police officer had been right and there hadn't been anything between Robert and that woman; supposing he had written that letter saying I was perfectly right about her in a fit of pique; supposing now, being thoroughly angry, he was in a frame of mind to score off me?

But he couldn't consider robbing me! Or could he? He might if he were broke; if he hadn't any money. Lots of men changed during the war and I hadn't seen Robert for some time. Then I thought to myself: It isn't any good being depressed. You'd much better go round to Glynda's and drink a cocktail. I went. But on the way round in the cab I felt more depressed than ever.

Glynda met me in the hall. She took one look and said: "But, my dear, whatever is the matter? You look most unhappy. What's wrong?"

I said: "Oh, I suppose I'm merely being stupid, Glynda, but I've been thinking about Robert."

She said: "Oh dear, has he been doing something wicked? But, anyway, you're not fearfully concerned about him, are you, my dear? It isn't as if he belonged to you any more." She looked at me sideways.

I said: "No, but it's not easy to be entirely disinterested." Glynda, I knew, had always been a great admirer of Robert's, and she's my oldest friend. I think she had the idea in her head that I'd been a little hasty about the divorce.

She said: "Well, never mind, cheer up. There's a most charming man here— the man I told you about He's dying to meet you. His name is Raoul Duchâtel, a Frenchman. He was a pilot in the Fighting French Air Force. Incidentally, he knew Robert, too. I believe they were old friends."

Wearily I replied, "Were they?" It seemed I couldn't escape from Robert.

"Yes," she said brightly.

"This Raoul Duchâtel is a great friend of Julia Spence and her husband. They think he's marvellous. Come and meet him."

I went into the drawing room, which was crowded with people. Glynda piloted me across the room, grabbed a dry Martini from the service table, gave it to me en route. Then she produced Captain Duchâtel.

He was tall and slim— about Robert's height, I thought, but thinner. And then I metaphorically kicked myself for comparing everybody I met with my ex-husband. He had an odd but rather attractive face, and his eyes were nice.

He spoke with a small stutter in a rather peculiar metallic voice, and I found myself thinking that it was a pity that his voice was not as attractive as the rest of him— for his sake, I mean.

He said: "You know, Madame, I'm so very glad to meet you, because I've heard so much about you."

"Dear me," I murmured. "Have you really? I do hope it's been good."

He said: "It's been very good. You see, I used to fly with your husband— I beg your pardon, he was your husband— Robert. He is a great friend of mine and he spent hours talking about you."

I said, "Really!" I was beginning to feel a little bored with Robert as a permanent topic of conversation. I hoped he'd change the subject, but he didn't.

He went on: "You know, Madame, he was a charming and delightful man. He was the sort of man who would have been a great success at anything he took up if only...."

My curiosity was aroused. I asked: "If only what, Captain Duchâtel?"

He shrugged his shoulders. He said: "I'm very sorry. Perhaps I should not have said that."

I said: "Why not? In any event, since you have said it, I think it's only right for you to finish the sentence."

He drank his cocktail slowly, put the glass on a table behind him. He said: "Robert is a temperamental person, as you probably know, and ever since he has not been with you he has altered, and I am afraid, not for the better."

He sighed, and went on: "One can understand it. You are so lovely and attractive that one can understand a man being very unhappy if he lost you and doing all sorts of silly and stupid things. Of course, there is no excuse for doing silly and stupid things, but perhaps...?" He stopped again, shrugged his shoulders. "No," he said, "I must not say that."

"Captain Duchâtel, what were you going to say?" I asked.

He spread his hands. He looked at me with a charming half-smile. I began to think that he was a rather fascinating person,in spite of his peculiar voice.

He said: "Actually, Madame, I think that when you divorced Robert he began to— suffer from a feeling of— what you call it— resentment. I think that he was angry with life, with himself, and possibly with you. And when a man feels like that he does all sorts of strange things." He smiled again and asked: "Please let me get you another cocktail. I hope anything I have said has not made you unhappy. I would rather die than make you unhappy, Madame."

I said thank you very much again and gave him my glass. I didn't want another cocktail, but I wanted to think for a moment.

What was all this business about Robert? My brain was almost whirling. First of all Detective-Inspector Ellams, with his story about Robert being influenced by this man Marcel Gulavet. And now this obviously very nice and charming Captain Duchâtel, who, far from having a bad opinion of Robert, seemed to be thoroughly in sympathy with him. I felt more bemused than ever, but I had to find out some more. I just had to.

He came back with the cocktail. He said: "Now drink that and let's talk about something else. There are so many much more interesting subjects than the unfortunate Robert."

I said: "Unfortunate! But why unfortunate? Captain Duchâtel, you're a friend of Robert's. You know that he's a very clever man. Well, I really don't see why he should metaphorically go to the dogs merely because I divorced him. After all, he deserved to be divorced."

He put his head on one side. He smiled at me again; that odd, twisted smile of his had an almost hypnotic effect on me.

He said: "You know, that's the trouble. I have an idea that he thought you'd been a little unjust to him."

"Unjust!" I said. I was beginning to feel rather angry. I went on: "If you know anything about Robert you will know that for some time before I divorced him he was going about with that woman. I expect you know whom I mean— the beautiful Italian lady. Well, don't you think I was entitled to suspect him?"

He said: "Are suspicions always justified, Madame? Not always. You see, Robert met her when he was doing those amateur theatricals in the country. You remember what a marvellous actor he was. She was a very fascinating woman, but that doesn't mean that there was really anything between her and Robert, does it?"

I laughed a little bitterly. "If you mean that he was particularly keen on keeping her name out of the business, I agree with you," I said. "But since you know so much about Robert's private affairs, you will also know that when I wrote him and accused him of having a liaison with the lady in question, what did he do? He didn't admit that he'd been unfaithful with her, I grant you, but he took great pains to send me the usual hotel bill in connection with some other woman, which constituted the evidence in the divorce case."

He shrugged his shoulders. He said: "Of course, Madame, what you say is quite true. I merely thought that when a man as clever and temperamental as Robert is accused of something of which, perhaps, he might have been innocent, he becomes angry. He might have been one of those men who say, 'Very well, I might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.' He might have sent you that hotel bill in a fit of pique."

I said: "Might— might — might! Captain Duchâtel, it's a lovely word, 'might'— a part of the sentence 'what might have been'." I laughed a little bitterly.

He said: "Of course, I've been very foolish. I shouldn't have talked to you about it. I've made you unhappy. I'm so very, very sorry." He looked at me with such a pleading expression on his face that I had to laugh."

I said: "Very well, I forgive you."

I drank some of my cocktail. I began to think that Robert seemed to have a very loyal friend in Raoul Duchâtel. I remembered that Robert had always attracted to him a rather nice type of man. I wondered how he could have two such different friends as this Raoul Duchâtel, who was so obviously delightful, and the sinister-sounding Marcel Gulavet. An idea occurred to me.

I said: "Tell me something, if you know Robert well, and I have a particular reason for asking this, do you know anything about a man named Marcel Gulavet?"

He looked at me. His expression was serious. "But yes," he said. "Not only have I heard of him, but I know him very well."

I said: "Really! Would you tell me about him? I have a particular reason for wanting to know."

He said: "But of course. He is a very good type of man, you know— a flying-officer in our Service with a not undistinguished record. He is, of course, younger than Robert, and I am sorry to say that ever since he's known Robert he has gone rather to the bad. Have I said something very terrible?"

I said: "No, do you mean that Robert has had a bad effect on this Gulavet?"

He nodded. "I am afraid I do," he said. "You see, Gulavet is a young and impressionable man. He has a great admiration for Robert, and, as I have told you, Robert is inclined to be very cynical these days. I think that possibly he has been a little short of the good things in life— of money, and perhaps a lot of his old friends have passed him by. Also, but perhaps you did not hear of it, he had a bad flying smash a year ago. He has recovered, of course, but it shook him very badly. I think that this Gulavet has listened too much to the things that Robert has said; has become a little embittered, too."

An idea— not a very nice one— began to take shape in my mind. I said: "Captain Duchâtel, I want you to be absolutely frank with me. Can you tell me if Robert and this Marcel Gulavet have been associated together in anything which might bring them under the notice of the police? Would you just answer yes or no?"

He paused for a moment. He looked very miserable. Then he said: "If you ask me, Madame, I must answer yes."

"Thank you very much," I said. "Now, will you answer one more question? If these two have done something together which was not right, who do you think was mainly responsible? Who would be the leader; in whose brain would the idea germinate— in Robert's or in Mr. Gulavet's?"

Without a second's hesitation he said: "There is no doubt that the inceptor of such an idea would be Robert. Gulavet would follow him anywhere."

I said: "I see. Thank you very much for telling me." I felt more miserable than ever.

He smiled at me again. He said: "But listen, Madame, all this has nothing to do with you, and I think that possibly you are a little unhappy. You are remembering the past, and the past is always finished and done with, isn't it?"

I said: "I am afraid it isn't— not always." I was never nearer to bursting into tears in my life. Yet in one way I was glad. I'd often wondered if I was still in love with Robert. I'd never been quite certain. Now, hearing all this, I knew that I disliked him intensely.

Possibly he sensed what was passing in my mind.

He said: "Love is a very funny thing, Madame. And so is hate. It is strange how the two things often go together. But now, do you think that I have deserved well of your country? I have been a good airman in the war. Don't you think that your country owes me something?" He looked at me with such an impish expression in his eyes that I could not refrain from smiling.

I said: "I'm sure you have. But why?"

"Well," he said, "if you think I deserve well, then I think you should try to repay. Mind you, the repayment is a big one. I'm going to suggest that you do me the honor of dining with me one night. I would like so much to talk to you again."

I said: "Of course, I'd like that very much."

We arranged a night. I agreed to meet him at the Splendide for dinner on the following Thursday. He seemed overjoyed at my accepting his invitation. Then he said good-bye and went off.

When he had gone, I found myself thinking about him. I thought I was beginning to be very interested in Captain Raoul Duchâtel. Perhaps too interested.

I WAS glad when Thursday came. At eight o'clock that evening, when I had finished dressing, I went to the wall safe in my bedroom, opened it, and took out some rings and a bracelet. I stood there in front of the safe, looking at the boxes which contained my jewellery and thinking about what the detective-inspector had said about Robert and Gulavet. Supposing Robert had begun to hate me, could it be possible that he could bring himself to steal from me? I shrugged my shoulders. I remembered what Raoul Duchâtel had said— that people can change quickly.

And it would not be difficult for Robert. It was the same wall safe; the same combination on the lock. And the tiara in the safe, old-fashioned but very valuable, that had come to me from my mother, would sell for a great deal of money.

I shrugged my shoulders again. Perhaps I would ask Captain Duchâtel what he thought.

We had the most delightful meal. Raoul— for half way through dinner we had gone to Christian names— was very charming. He was restful, reassuring, and possessed that supreme masculine gift of making a woman feel important. I forgot about Robert I forgot about everything. I, who had said that I would never again consider marriage, found myself thinking that Raoul would make an ideal husband for some lucky woman.

Afterwards, when he was putting me into my car, he said: "I want to see you soon, Adela. And I ought to tell I you, however disloyal it may sound, that I'm glad you did divorce Robert and that you are free."

I said: "Really! I thought you were disliking me because I had. Do you remember what you said at Glynda's cocktail party?"

He nodded. "I know. But I feel differently now." He put his hand through the driving window and took mine. "I want you to dine with me one night soon," he went on. "There is something I want to ask you. Will you dine next Thursday— please?"

My heart began to beat a little too quickly for my liking. I wondered what was happening to me. The idea came to me very definitely that he was going to propose to me on the following Thursday. And I liked the idea— very much.

I said I would like to dine with him, and drove back to my flat. I felt very happy. At least I felt very happy until, I took off my bracelets, opened, the wall safe in my bedroom, and took out my jewel case to put the bracelets away.

Then my heart stood still. The tiara was gone!

I THOUGHT immediately of Robert. The wall safe had not been opened by force and there was only one person who knew the combination.

I felt terribly angry. I don't think I've ever been so angry in my life. I sat down and cried with rage and disappointment. I was furious that a man who had once been my husband could descend to such depths.

Then I dried my eyes, powdered my nose, smoked a cigarette, and telephoned to Detective-Inspector Ellams.

It was half an hour after midnight when I decided to telephone through to Raoul and tell him what had happened. I felt lonely, undecided, and miserable.

When he answered the telephone, I said: "Raoul, I'm terribly sorry to disturb you, but I'm in such trouble. Will you listen carefully?"

He said yes. He also said that nothing was so serious that it couldn't be put right, and that I was to try not to worry too much. Then he told me to go ahead.

I said: "When I got back here to-night, after leaving you, I found that my tiara was gone from the wall safe. I telephoned through to Detective-Inspector Ellams, who had warned me some time ago that he thought Robert might try to steal it. Mr. Ellams told me to do nothing until he had a chance to make some inquiries. This was about ten o'clock. At eleven-thirty he came through again. He told me that Robert had been seen in the corridor outside my flat this evening while you and I were dining."

Raoul said: "But this is terrible. Still, it doesn't mean that Robert—"

"I'm afraid it does," I said. "Because the detective-inspector had also found out that at about nine-forty-five this evening, within half an hour after he was seen here, Robert endeavoured to sell the tiara to some shady character, who has told Mr. Ellams all about it. Mr. Ellams said that my only chance of getting the tiara back was to have Robert arrested. He said that if Robert was arrested he would probably divulge where the tiara was to save his own skin.

"I agreed. Robert has been charged with burglary and is in a cell at Cannon Row Police Station, and I'm so miserable that I don't know what to do."

Raoul said: "Don't think about it. Just do nothing at all but try to go to sleep. I'll come and see you in the morning. Please give me the detective-inspector's telephone number and I'll ring him up and see what can be done. But whatever happens, don't worry. I'm sure it will be all right."

I gave him the telephone number and tried to sleep. I was furious with Robert, and the more I hated him the more I felt that Raoul was the only person who really understood me. Almost suddenly I began to realise that I was head over heels in love with him.

NEXT morning, at ten o'clock, Raoul arrived, accompanied by Detective-Inspector Ellams. I gave them cigarettes and asked what had happened.

"Your ex-husband denies everything," said Mr. Ellams. "He says that he was here last night, but that he came round to see a friend who lives in this apartment block and who was not at home. He denies that he has been in here or even touched your tiara." He shrugged his shoulders.

I looked at Raoul. He said:

"It's easily settled, isn't it? If Robert were here and opened that safe, his fingerprints would be on the jewel case. Unless, of course, he wore gloves."

The Inspector said: "Would you open the safe, Mrs. Hayes? I'd better take a look."

We went into my bedroom and I opened the wall safe. Mr. Ellams put on his gloves and took out my jewel case. He put it down on the table and opened it.

The tiara was in its usual place!

I looked at them in amazement. "But it was gone," I said. "It wasn't there last night. I assure you it wasn't!"

The detective-inspector looked at Raoul. He looked very serious. He said: "This isn't very good. I've charged a man with burglary and locked him up and the stolen property isn't even stolen!"

Raoul laughed. He said: "Well, all's well that ends well. All you have to do is to release Robert. Mrs. Hayes must have made a mistake."

"But I didn't," I said. "I'm perfectly certain it was gone. I know it was gone."

Mr. Ellams shrugged his shoulders. He looked very grim. "But it isn't gone now," he said. "The trouble is that your ex-husband has a very good action against you and the police. He has been wrongfully charged and wrongfully imprisoned. He can be very nasty, Mrs. Hayes, if he wants to be."

My brain was spinning. "Oh, dear," I said, and sat down weakly.

Raoul said: "Don't worry, Adela dear. There's only one thing to be done. There's been a mistake somewhere. But we've no time to go into that now. Mr. Ellams and I must go to Cannon Row at once, withdraw the charge against Robert, and have him released. Then I'll take him to my flat and try to persuade him not to do anything about this."

I looked at the detective inspector. He said: "I think Captain Duchâtel is right, Mrs. Hayes. We must hope that he can talk the Count into agreeing not to do anything about this. That is if he can."

They went off and I sat in my room, smoking a cigarette and trying to sort out my ideas. I just couldn't understand how all this had happened! I felt quite wretched. Supposing Robert were entirely guiltless and brought an action against me? I could imagine the headlines in the newspapers!

AT twelve o'clock the telephone jangled. I actually ran to the instrument. It was Raoul.

He said: "I've got Robert here at my flat. He's furious and is threatening all sorts of things. He says he knows nothing about your tiara, and that you've had him arrested out of spite. I'm trying to persuade him that a mistake has occurred. Please come round and help. I think if you talked to him it might help."

I said: "Very well," and he gave me the address. I was unutterably miserable. I didn't want to meet Robert. I felt that I wanted to die.

When I arrived at Raoul's flat, his man let me in. I was shown into a sitting-room and sat down. From the room next door came the sound of voices— Robert's and Raoul's voice.

I could hear them arguing Raoul pleading and Robert threatening.

After a while the door opened and Raoul came out.

He said: "My dear, it's not very good. Robert says that he will consent not to bring action against you if you will remarry him. He says that there was nothing between him and the Italian woman; that your suspicions were quite unjustified, and that he wrote you and sent you a faked hotel bill because he was furious with you. Well what are you going to do?"

I tried to keep the tears out of my eyes. I said weakly "Raoul, I don't want to marry Robert. I can't. I don't love him. I love someone else."

He smiled at me. "Do you?" he asked. "It isn't me, by any chance?"

I nodded. I couldn't speak He took me by the hand. He said: "Come and tell Robert. Perhaps he'll relent."

He drew me across the room and through the doorway. He closed the door behind us.

The room in which we stood was empty. And there was no other door.

"But— but where is Robert?" I asked.

Raoul said: "I'm Robert. I've been Robert all along. You see, my dear, I wanted to come back to you, but I had to know that you were still in love with me."

His voice had changed. I knew it was Robert speaking

"I crashed badly in a plane a year ago," he said. "They've given me a new face. I hope you like it." He grinned at me like a mischievous schoolboy.

"But Raoul— Robert," I said. "What about Marcel Gulavet and what about Detective-Inspector Ellams, and what about—?"

"There isn't any Marcel Gulavet," he said, still grinning like a Cheshire cat. "And 'Detective-Inspector Ellams' is my partner— John Fraser. We're starting an aeroplane factory. You see, I got Fraser to go to your flat and tell you that fairy story. And then I persuaded Glynda to ask me to her party and to introduce me to you as Raoul Duchâtel. I'd still got a key to the flat and I knew the combination of the safe. Fraser went round and stole the tiara while you were dining with me, and I came round last night and put it back in the safe after you'd gone to sleep. You looked awfully nice, too."

He smiled at me again. And I remembered all the lovely times I'd had with Robert in the old days and I felt terribly happy.

I said mischievously: "This is all very well, Robert d'Épernay Raoul Duchâtel. But how do I know that you are Robert? How do I know that I'm not being deluded even now?"

He looked at me for a moment. Then he said: "Come and be kissed, Kitten." Kitten was the secret name that Robert had given me on our wedding day.

He put his arms round me and kissed me.

He said: "Well?"

It was Robert! No one ever kissed like Robert!

_________________

3: The Russian Cipher

Huan Mee

[Walter E. and Charles Mansfield]

1870-1916 & 1864-1930

Cassell's Magazine, June 1899

"SAINTS defend us!" I pettishly exclaimed. "Is there no one in the world with an atom of brains? I don't want to go as Night or Morning, nor as Marguerite or Pierrette, or Madame la Pompadour. I want something original!" And I stamped my foot to give emphasis to the remark.

"Shall it be as Carmen, madame?"

I sank into a chair in dismay. Carmen! This was the creature's idea of originality. It was too ludicrous for anger. I laughed, and then, as I raised my eyes to Madame Virot's indignantly bewildered countenance, my glance fell upon a dress in a wardrobe behind her, and I pointed to it in a flutter of excitement.

"Someone has originality, after all," I cried. "What does that dress represent?"

"An ice palace, madame."

"It is superb."

"Certainly, madame, it is superb; it is a miracle," and then, carried away with enthusiasm, she brought it forth and dilated upon it. A pale green dress, covered with a shimmering, sparkling network that looked like frost itself.

"You see, madame, the head-dress forms the snowy pinnacle of the tower, and the eau de Nil embroidered skirt follows the frosted outlines of the building, which is a fac-simile of the ice palace raised last winter upon the Neva. An emerald satin mask, with tiny crystal icicles hanging from the edge, in place of the usual fringe of lace, completes the costume."

"I must have it," I cried; "it is incomparable."

"It is sold, madame."

"I will pay double."

"Impossible!"

"Treble!"

"I would willingly give it to madame, as it pleases her fancy, but I cannot; it was designed according to sketches sent me."

"Tush!" I impatiently exclaimed; "make a duplicate."

"It is impossible, madame, for the dress is for the same bal masqué that you will attend."

"And for whom?" I superciliously queried, for I was beside myself with vexation. "Some nobody who has secured a card by chance and wishes to be thought a princess in disguise, eh?"

"I make for no such people," Madame Virot exclaimed, with a reflection of my own annoyance. "The dress is for the Countess Zarfine. If madame will suggest something else—"

I turned my eyes from the dress that tormented me and racked my brains for something that should excel its splendour, but no idea came to me, and with a contemptuous glare I faced the inoffensive milliner, who had tried to please me for years, and had never more than half succeeded.

"To be original nowadays," I said indifferently, "is, after all, so commonplace, that to be commonplace is to be original. I will go as Carmen."

The daintiness of my epigram pleased me so well that I was almost content, yet as I drove towards the Bois the desire for the costume came upon me again, and I was disconsolate. For it was no ordinary bal masqué where everything was to be pretence, from the characters represented to the fable that the dancers knew not one another. It was all to be real and no dissimulation. There was to be no unmasking time, but everyone was to be incognito from the beginning to the end. It was rumoured that even the host and hostess would drive up to their own house and enter amid the throng. No one was to know anyone, and yet everyone was to know everyone; no master of the ceremonies, no host and hostess, no introductions or formal presentations. The fact that one was there was an official stamp upon one's passport of reputation. It was a Bohemian idea worthy of her who had brought it to Paris—the Countess Zarfine, wife of the Russian Ambassador, and since perforce I must be masked, I would have dazzled by art instead of Nature; yet it was not to be, and I grew peevish as I nursed my discomfiture.

My landau pulled up as we entered the gates, and Monsieur Roché, the Premier, from whom I had received in the past many diplomatic commissions, raised his hat and extended his hand.

"Madame, the gods love me."

"Monsieur, you are too modest; you should have used the feminine."

"I wanted to see you more than any other woman in Paris," he answered, and therefore I repeat— 'the gods love me.' "

"Those whom the gods love, monsieur—" and I smiled, for I would have given worlds to quarrel with someone, and preferably my best of friends.

"Die young, eh?" he chuckled. "Well, the danger for me is past." And then, with out waiting for an invitation, he calmly stepped into the carriage and seated himself beside me.

Here was, indeed, candour too wonderful for words, and I gazed reprovingly upon him.

"You must help me, ma chère," he said gravely. "It is no pleasantry, but a serious matter— one that touches my reputation nearly."

"Well, and then?"

"You know our relationship with Russia?"

"The pretty girl with inviting graces to a gallant who hesitates."

"Precisely," he answered in a tone of appreciation at my simile; "but the pretty girl's love letters are being opened."

"Humiliating."

"More than that," he cried impetuously; "detrimental to me. Three times in the past month has the most secret cipher of the Government been changed, because side by side with the receipt of our message by Russia its import has become public property in the capitals of Europe."

"Then ineffectually changed," I observed.

"Utterly. I have just left Count Zarfine, the Russian Ambassador, and he has dared to imply, in almost undiplomatic language, that his Government suspects us of trifling. Mon Dieu!" Monsieur Roché cried in an awe-stricken voice; "trifling with Russia!"

"Who holds this cipher?"

"Myself and Count Zarfine. When it is changed the new cipher is sent to Petersburg by him direct to the Minister, and the documents by me, through the diplomatic departments. We have varied the cipher three times, we have sent different messengers each time, but the result has always been the same. The world learnt the message at once, and we are fast becoming the laughing-stock of Europe, for the pretty girl is ready to offer so much for alliance."

"And the Count could not help you, mon ami?"

"He was brusque almost to rudeness, but his wife—"

"Ah, Monsieur, his wife, what of her?" I asked with a smile, for I well knew the fascinations of the Countess Zarfine.

"She knows as I know," Monsieur answered, "that as in France, so in Russia, there are powerful influences against this alliance."

He lowered his voice and continued impressively, "Influences so powerful, that it might be possible for them to obtain our secret papers, open them, read them, and then reseal them and pass them on to their destination."

"But that would be useless without the key to the cipher,"

"That is stolen in Paris."

"Ah! from whom?"

"The Count himself, and despatched at once to those awaiting it."

"Childlike in its simplicity," I murmured, with a world of satire.

"The Countess is a wonderful woman," he admitted, and then continued, "You see how easy it is. These people can gain access to the documents passing between France and Russia, but not to the key of the cipher— that is stolen here."

"And, of course, the thief is known already," I cried disdainfully.

"Almost," he replied with the first flash of enthusiasm he had manifested, "almost. On Wednesday we shall catch him in the very act. Of one thing we are certain. He moves in diplomatic circles, and knows that our final proposal will be made to Russia by the end of the week. On Wednesday morning I hand the new cipher to the Count, at night he despatches it, but in the hours that intervene the Countess will discover the thief. She suspects one of her husband's secretaries."

"You have enlisted a new and powerful ally, monsieur," I cried, with a jealous tremor in my voice.

"Tut, tut," he answered mildly, "you are the ally I must have, for, frankly, I do not believe a word the Countess says."

"Then the saints be praised," I ejaculated; "you are not the simpleton that I feared you were. But you go too far, my friend, for all is true excepting one thing, the name of the spy, and that is—"

"Let us be diplomatic," he interrupted, "until we are sure. Take the missing quantity X."

"Why not Z?" I replied, and then I own I started with slight surprise at the coincidence, for the Countess herself cantered up to the side of the carriage, and I took her proffered hand.

"I do not believe in Z," Monsieur Roche cried, raising his voice a little. "'Zero' cannot win the race, notwithstanding her distance allowance," and then he looked up and bowed to the Countess Zarfine.

"I did not suspect diplomacy found recreation in horse racing, monsieur," she exclaimed with an arch smile.

"Age has its follies as well as youth," he answered, and then leant anxiously towards her and whispered, "Any news?"

"What can there be until then?" she asked. "On the night of the day chosen I shall know. At the bal masqué I will tell you his name."

Monsieur Roché looked the picture of despair, and then with a gesture as though the whole world had been lost to him, spoke in an undertone to the Countess, said something that I judged, from her dainty frown, she did not favour, but in an instant the cloud had passed, and she smiled again, and answered, "As you will."

Yet to me it still seemed that she was being forced into some action she would not have elected of her own free choice.

Then Monsieur Roche, still a little embarrassed, turned to me. "A message— a written message— is to be conveyed to me at the bal masqué: I cannot be there, and"— how charmingly he was confused— "will you receive it for me?"

"And take it at once to Le Quai d'Orsay," the Countess interjected.

"Bring it myself?" I cried in simulated surprise.

"Yes," Monsieur answered, and tactfully continued, "I am shamed at the greatness of the favour I ask, but it is vital."

"Very well," I reluctantly consented. "If that be so I will do it;" and he murmured his thanks.

"At midnight I shall pass the head of the staircase and slip a note into your hand," the Countess exclaimed; "that will be the message."

"But we are all incognito" I observed, with my most ingenuous smile.

"You will easily recognise me— I represent the Franco-Russian Alliance," she answered, with the ready lie of a Russian. "The national emblems and the national colours— the double eagle and the fleur de lys. And you?"

"The Lost Provinces," I replied, meeting her lie with diplomatic evasion.

The look of annoyance still slumbered in the depths of her dark eyes, and I thought, too, there was the glint of a dawning suspicion, but it was swiftly chased away as she turned with a jest to Monsieur Roché, and after the interchange of a few pleasantries, nodded gaily to us both and rode off.

"You are well matched in one thing," Monsieur Roché suavely remarked as he watched her retreating figure, "your originality of costume."

"And in another," I replied; "the fact that neither will wear what she has said she will."

The dear man's eyebrows shot upwards in bewilderment.

"She will represent 'An Ice Palace,' I, 'Carmen.' "

He looked at me for a moment in undisguised admiration, and then sank back and whispered with contented appreciation, "Mon Dieu, you are a wonderful woman."

"And a fortunate one," I replied, "to win the approbation of so accomplished a diplomat."

"Ma chère" he murmured, "men are diplomats by education, women by intuition. It is civilisation against Nature."

"The dresses we have mentioned," I continued, "will be worn by our maids, leaving the Countess Zarfine at liberty to carry out her work and me free to frustrate her, for I am certain now that it is she who reveals the cipher. Had I not known the costume she really intends to wear, I should have devoted the night to watching the 'Franco-Russian Alliance.' As it is, my maid, the 'Lost Provinces,' will do that for the sake of diplomatic appearances, the Countess will be deceived, and I shall be free. So I require another card for the carnival— get it secretly for me."

"Success is assured," he cried enthusiastically.

"Not so fast, mon ami. She already suspects me— I could see it in her eyes— and therefore you must act with consummate tact; you must delay the delivery of the key on some pretence until an hour before the ball, and so render it impossible for it to be revealed to anyone except at the carnival. Then I know when it will be done— directly I have left."

"After you have left?" he cried in bewilderment.

"After my maid has left with the Countess Zarfine's message for you."

"Ah," he sighed, and there was a world of admiration in the utterance of that monosyllable, but a moment after his face became grave again, as he suggested, "Perhaps the key may be given in such a way that you cannot prevent it— another note, for instance, skilfully passed from hand to hand."

"I think not. She would not risk anything so liable to be discovered. Besides, she suspects— and more," I continued, "does not the whole idea of this bal masqué proclaim the lady's love for the theatrical? No, my friend, the cipher will be given in such a manner that if a man watched her actions every minute of the night he would see nothing, but a woman might see much."

Monsieur smiled again complaisantly.

"Then, too, if I fail, it is not ruin," I said, "for the documents will not be despatched until you have heard from me. If I succeed, the evidence against her will be strong enough to give you all the proofs you need."

"But—"

"No more suppositions, my friend; you weary me."

"You're the cleverest woman in Paris," he said, with a glance of warm admiration, as he alighted and stood by my carriage.

"And you, for one who has left youth behind, are the most gallant man in France," I answered with a glow of merriment, for I already counted my mission as accomplished.

"Left youth behind," he murmured despondingly.

"You said so."

"It was in an undiplomatic moment."

"Therefore true, and your tongue at least is still youthful. Au revoir, monsieur."

Thérèse created a sensation. There are women even amongst my chosen acquaintances who insist upon their maids being stiff, and, if possible, ugly. Perhaps they fear the comparison which I am too satisfied with myself to be concerned about, and on that night I was thankful that my choice had fallen upon a girl who could so admirably play the part I had selected for her, one who I need not fear would spoil my plans or endanger my success by some vulgar gaucherie.

Thérèse created a sensation, and, as she entered, the audacity of her costume drew all eyes towards her.

Her pretty auburn curls were surmounted by the Cap of Liberty, draped in crape; her skirt was of the palest yellow silk, with the outlines of our Lost Provinces in black; while symbolical of the day we prayed for, the arms of France were more than half eclipsing those of Germany.

For a moment there was the silence of admiration as she entered, and then a hum of applause burst into a shout as each loyal heart caught the symbolical meaning of the fading colours of the German arms, almost hidden by the simple sweetness of our own dear fleur de lys, and patriotic voices cried, "Vive la belle Alsace! Vive, vive Lorraine!"

And Thérèse bore the sensation as I would have done myself. I turned a diamond half-hoop on my finger, reflecting it was the last time I could do so, for to-morrow it should be hers.

Strictly obedient to my instructions, she danced but little, always following, with some ostentation of persistence, the movements of a lady who had attracted passing attention— the embodiment of the Franco-Russian Alliance. It was a quaint sport we favoured— the maid watching the maid.

Midnight struck, and from a secluded corner I saw the note passed to Thérèse, who quietly descended the steps, mingled for a moment in the kaleidoscopic throng, and so departed.

Then I added a new gown to the diamond ring, for what other girl could have left a carnival where she was the belle, because she had been told to do so?

Like a modern Cinderella, she left it all, and yet, wiser than the damsel of the fairy tale, left before she was discovered, and I, a commonplace Carmen—for I remember there were three of us— now felt the decisive moment had arrived. A man had been watching Thérèse as she descended the staircase, and I touched him lightly upon the arm.

"The Provinces are lost, monsieur," I said softly. "Be content with operatic Spain," and I hummed a melody of Bizet's.

"You, madame?" he cried as he recognised my voice.

"Yes; I."

"I thought she who just left was you," he said, as though anxious to explain the attention he had devoted to Thérèse.

"And I, monsieur, know my friends too well to be deceived by a masquerade," I answered, and, of a truth, I believe that there must have been a tell-tale trace of sentiment in my tones. And why not? Even a pretty widow may have sentimental moments at times when her dearest friend is near at hand. He looked straight into my eyes as though he would read my inmost thoughts.

"Do you mean that?"

"I mean this, Gaspard, mon cher ami. I want you to do me a favour. Indeed, before the night is out there may be many favours I need to ask, and I want you to grant them all."

"Then they must be renamed," he answered, "not favours, but pleasures.'

"See," I cried, "that woman dressed in the frosted green gown— intended, I should think, to represent an ice palace?"

"Yes."

"Do you know who she is?"

"No; who can say?" he replied, with a slight shrug of the shoulders.

"I must be near her for the rest of the night— I want to watch her."

The Countess Zarfine was walking slowly across the ballroom, her hand resting upon the arm of a tall man in the dress of an exquisite of the period of Louis XIV., and, quickly grasping my meaning, Gaspard strolled aimlessly in the same direction, carrying on an animated conversation with me all the while, which raised him greatly in my estimation as a budding diplomat.

"They are going to sit upon the balcony," I found an instant to whisper, and we followed them, my nerves thrilling with delight as I realised the strength of my position, for now the Countess would feel herself secure, thinking that I had departed.

She was seated upon a basket chair upon the balcony overlooking the Champs Élysées, talking, in a voice that challenged criticism, of the new play at the Renaissance, and Gaspard skilfully led me to a seat facing them and took one by my side.

And then the clever boy entered with zest into the Bohemian conceit of the bal masqué, for without a word of introduction he joined in their conversation, and in an instant we were a quartette discussing the frivolities of life.

Gradually an idle group grew round us— flattering gallants who protested with glowing compliments that it was too cruel of their hostess to hide all the lovely faces of Paris behind silken masks.

"It must be because she is jealous," the Countess cried with a smile that showed for an instant the gleam of her teeth; "she fears the contrast."

But then— for men, despite their deceit, are strangely truthful sometimes— no one dared to dispute the beauty of his hostess, and her eyes gleamed with gratified pride as her sneer was left unsupported in the silence— yet perhaps they were suspicious.

"Still, messieurs," she exclaimed with a ripple of laughter, "since our faces are hidden our freedom is greater— we may be more Bohemian." And in an instant she produced a gold case, and, extracting a cigarette, placed it with a gesture of impudence between her lips. "Those who love me join with me," she continued, handing the case to the surrounding group.

It seemed to me that there was a falseness in this ingenuous mood that sat but ill upon one so contemptuously proud.

In an instant the blue smoke curled in the air from half a dozen cigarettes.

"Carmen," she cried reproachfully with a glance at me, "you who should have led the way still hesitate," and she extended the case and carefully lighted the cigarette for me from her own.

"And you, monsieur," with a glance at the man who had been her companion from the ball-room.

"It was a privilege I had never anticipated, and so came unprepared."

"Then she who grants permission supplies the means of enjoyment. Take two, or three, or four, or what you will; their fragrance may be even greater in the morning."

There was an intonation in the last words that struck me with a sense of hidden meaning, and as the man carelessly took several, and, after lighting one, slipped the remainder in his pocket, the truth burst upon me in a flash—the key to the cipher had been passed.

On each cigarette paper was the key. I held it between my fingers half consumed, and those around were obligingly burning the others before her eyes, save for that man whom I knew still had three in his possession. What a thoughtless fool I had been; I who held all I needed in my grasp had myself destroyed it! The cigarette had burnt down to my fingers. I was compelled to drop it, and he trod it to dust beneath his foot.

But he still had three. With an abandon worthy of Carmen herself I turned my fascinations upon him; with a swift glance at Gaspard, who instantly comprehended, I sent him to the side of the Countess, and she, nothing loth to be the centre of a group of admirers, elated because her mission was over, encouraged them, and kept them from her with the arts of one born to coquetry.

The saints be praised, all men are young— or, at least, feel they are when a pretty woman smiles upon them. He was what a diplomat would have called middle-aged, but— saints be praised— I am a pretty woman.

"You are the incarnation of Carmen herself," he whispered as we found ourselves excluded from the group surrounding the Countess.

"Merci, monsieur, you flatter me— I am afraid that the credit is to my dress."

"No, it is the sparkle of your eyes behind that envious mask, the grace of each gesture, the soul of music in your voice, the poetry in every motion that proclaims you the ideal Carmen."

"Save for one thing: a cigarette, s'il vous plait, monsieur," and I extended my hand.

Slowly, even as though he realised that he was being drawn into a trap, he took one of them from his pocket and hesitatingly handed it to me.

Half suspiciously, half in a fashion of tenderness, he held a match to the cigarette, and then, almost before the paper had caught, it dropped through my fingers to the ground, and I, with a laugh at my carelessness, placed my heel upon it and edged it beneath my skirt.

My shoe pressed upon it lightly, my lips smiled apologetically, yet murmured, "Merci, monsieur," as I expectantly awaited another to replace it.

I saw his features tighten as his eyes followed my movements, yet what could he do? Realising that I had discovered him, and I could not but feel that he knew it, he gave me another, and I lighted it.

For a second we measured glances, and I knew that he fathomed my plans as truly as I did his.

"You are a clever little devil," he said with almost a touch of appreciation.

"Monsieur!"

"You have my cigarette under your shoe, but what of that? In a minute I shall offer you my arm, you will take it, we shall go to the ball-room and dance the cotillon."

"You are sure?"

"Perfectly. I have only to raise my voice and say 'the air is cool,' and the Countess will understand, she will rejoin us, and that being so, a lady cannot search for a half-burnt cigarette. You have the desire of your quest within your reach, and yet as far removed as the north is from the south."

I looked disdainfully at him and calmly smoked.

"You are too clever to waste yourself upon such pettiness," he whispered. "In Russia I would find you a sphere worthy of your talents, and make you a duchess."

"I fail to understand, monsieur."

He leant forward until his eyes looked straight into mine, and spoke with deliberate emphasis.

"I am going to stoop and take from under your chair a cigarette, and you must perforce permit me,"

"Why?"

"Because if you attempted to resist I should prevent it. See, I slowly stoop to regain my own."

He bent as he spoke, and then, as the inspiration flashed upon me, my hands went swiftly to my throat, and with a sudden clutch I snapped my necklace, and a shower of pearls scattered upon the balcony.

"My pearls!" I cried in dismay, and brushing past him to save them as they fell, I picked up the cigarette from beneath my skirt and looked mockingly into his Jace.

"You are a clever little devil," he said with chagrined appreciation.

I smiled, for the key to the cipher was safe in my possession.

But men count for nothing in such matters, for men can even hold admiration for a victorious enemy— here there was a woman to deal with.

While the gallants who had clustered around the Countess were collecting my truant pearls she walked across and glared into my face with eyes that blazed with fury.

In passion she tore the mask from her face, and so, because she was pleased to confess herself, I accepted the challenge and removed mine. She forgot her civilisation, her breeding, her position, everything, and dropped back into the barbarous language of her ancestors.

"If I only had you in Russia!" she gasped, her lips almost touching my ear. "I'd have you flogged for this, I'd have your lying tongue torn out, and those shoulders you're so proud of branded 'Spy.' Heaven! If I had you in Russia!"

"And yet," I murmured, "methinks these charms of Russia must be enjoyed by you alone, and swiftly, too, for surely— his Excellency will resign at once."

"Ah!" she cried, "if I had you in Russia!"

I turned away, but stole a backward glance at her as she stood, her whole body trembling, her fingers clutchng the balustrade to support her quivering figure, and then her cavalier came forward and handed me my pearls.

It was the third time he had said it, and there was a crescendo of meaning in the phrase he whispered:

"You are a clever little devil."

_____________

4: Man-Size in Marble

Edith Nesbit

1858-1924

Home Chimes December 1887

ALTHOUGH EVERY WORD of this story is as true as despair, I do not expect people to believe it. Nowadays a "rational explanation" is required before belief is possible. Let me then, at once, offer the "rational explanation" which finds most favour among those who have heard the tale of my life's tragedy. It is held that we were "under a delusion," Laura and I, on that 31st of October; and that this supposition places the whole matter on a satisfactory and believable basis. The reader can judge, when he, too, has heard my story, how far this is an "explanation," and in what sense it is "rational." There were three who took part in this: Laura and I and another man. The other man still lives, and can speak to the truth of the least credible part of my story.

I NEVER in my life knew what it was to have as much money as I required to supply the most ordinary needs— good colours, books, and cab-fares— and when we were married we knew quite well that we should only be able to live at all by "strict punctuality and attention to business." I used to paint in those days, and Laura used to write, and we felt sure we could keep the pot at least simmering. Living in town was out of the question, so we went to look for a cottage in the country, which should be at once sanitary and picturesque. So rarely do these two qualities meet in one cottage that our search was for some time quite fruitless. We tried advertisements, but most of the desirable rural residences which we did look at proved to be lacking in both essentials, and when a cottage chanced to have drains it always had stucco as well and was shaped like a tea-caddy. And if we found a vine or rose-covered porch, corruption invariably lurked within. Our minds got so befogged by the eloquence of house-agents and the rival disadvantages of the fever-traps and outrages to beauty which we had seen and scorned, that I very much doubt whether either of us, on our wedding morning, knew the difference between a house and a haystack. But when we got away from friends and house-agents, on our honeymoon, our wits grew clear again, and we knew a pretty cottage when at last we saw one. It was at Brenzett— a little village set on a hill over against the southern marshes. We had gone there, from the seaside village where we were staying, to see the church, and two fields from the church we found this cottage. It stood quite by itself, about two miles from the village. It was a long, low building, with rooms sticking out in unexpected places. There was a bit of stone-work— ivy-covered and moss-grown, just two old rooms, all that was left of a big house that had once stood there— and round this stone-work the house had grown up. Stripped of its roses and jasmine it would have been hideous. As it stood it was charming, and after a brief examination we took it. It was absurdly cheap. The rest of our honeymoon we spent in grubbing about in second-hand shops in the county town, picking up bits of old oak and Chippendale chairs for our furnishing. We wound up with a run up to town and a visit to Liberty's, and soon the low oak-beamed lattice-windowed rooms began to be home. There was a jolly old-fashioned garden, with grass paths, and no end of hollyhocks and sunflowers, and big lilies. From the window you could see the marsh-pastures, and beyond them the blue, thin line of the sea. We were as happy as the summer was glorious, and settled down into work sooner than we ourselves expected. I was never tired of sketching the view and the wonderful cloud effects from the open lattice, and Laura would sit at the table and write verses about them, in which I mostly played the part of foreground.

We got a tall old peasant woman to do for us. Her face and figure were good, though her cooking was of the homeliest; but she understood all about gardening, and told us all the old names of the coppices and cornfields, and the stories of the smugglers and highwaymen, and, better still, of the "things that walked," and of the "sights" which met one in lonely glens of a starlight night. She was a great comfort to us, because Laura hated housekeeping as much as I loved folklore, and we soon came to leave all the domestic business to Mrs. Dorman, and to use her legends in little magazine stories which brought in the jingling guinea.

We had three months of married happiness, and did not have a single quarrel. One October evening I had been down to smoke a pipe with the doctor— our only neighbour— a pleasant young Irishman. Laura had stayed at home to finish a comic sketch of a village episode for the Monthly Marplot. I left her laughing over her own jokes, and came in to find her a crumpled heap of pale muslin weeping on the window seat.

"Good heavens, my darling, what's the matter?" I cried, taking her in my arms. She leaned her little dark head against my shoulder and went on crying. I had never seen her cry before— we had always been so happy, you see— and I felt sure some frightful misfortune had happened.

"What is the matter? Do speak."

"It's Mrs. Dorman," she sobbed.

"What has she done?" I inquired, immensely relieved.

"She says she must go before the end of the month, and she says her niece is ill; she's gone down to see her now, but I don't believe that's the reason, because her niece is always ill. I believe someone has been setting her against us. Her manner was so queer—"

"Never mind, Pussy," I said; "whatever you do, don't cry, or I shall have to cry too, to keep you in countenance, and then you'll never respect your man again!"

She dried her eyes obediently on my handkerchief, and even smiled faintly.

"But you see," she went on, "it is really serious, because these village people are so sheepy, and if one won't do a thing you may be quite sure none of the others will. And I shall have to cook the dinners, and wash up the hateful greasy plates; and you'll have to carry cans of water about, and clean the boots and knives— and we shall never have any time for work, or earn any money, or anything. We shall have to work all day, and only be able to rest when we are waiting for the kettle to boil!"

I represented to her that even if we had to perform these duties, the day would still present some margin for other toils and recreations. But she refused to see the matter in any but the greyest light. She was very unreasonable, my Laura, but I could not have loved her any more if she had been as reasonable as Whately.

"I'll speak to Mrs. Dorman when she comes back, and see if I can't come to terms with her," I said. "Perhaps she wants a rise in her screw. It will be all right. Let's walk up to the church."

The church was a large and lonely one, and we loved to go there, especially upon bright nights. The path skirted a wood, cut through it once, and ran along the crest of the hill through two meadows, and round the churchyard wall, over which the old yews loomed in black masses of shadow. This path, which was partly paved, was called "the bier-balk," for it had long been the way by which the corpses had been carried to burial. The churchyard was richly treed, and was shaded by great elms which stood just outside and stretched their majestic arms in benediction over the happy dead. A large, low porch let one into the building by a Norman doorway and a heavy oak door studded with iron. Inside, the arches rose into darkness, and between them the reticulated windows, which stood out white in the moonlight. In the chancel, the windows were of rich glass, which showed in faint light their noble colouring, and made the black oak of the choir pews hardly more solid than the shadows. But on each side of the altar lay a grey marble figure of a knight in full plate armour lying upon a low slab, with hands held up in everlasting prayer, and these figures, oddly enough, were always to be seen if there was any glimmer of light in the church. Their names were lost, but the peasants told of them that they had been fierce and wicked men, marauders by land and sea, who had been the scourge of their time, and had been guilty of deeds so foul that the house they had lived in— the big house, by the way, that had stood on the site of our cottage— had been stricken by lightning and the vengeance of Heaven. But for all that, the gold of their heirs had bought them a place in the church. Looking at the bad hard faces reproduced in the marble, this story was easily believed.

The church looked at its best and weirdest on that night, for the shadows of the yew trees fell through the windows upon the floor of the nave and touched the pillars with tattered shade. We sat down together without speaking, and watched the solemn beauty of the old church, with some of that awe which inspired its early builders. We walked to the chancel and looked at the sleeping warriors. Then we rested some time on the stone seat in the porch, looking out over the stretch of quiet moonlit meadows, feeling in every fibre of our being the peace of the night and of our happy love; and came away at last with a sense that even scrubbing and blackleading were but small troubles at their worst.

Mrs. Dorman had come back from the village, and I at once invited her to a tête-à-tête.

"Now, Mrs. Dorman," I said, when I had got her into my painting room, "what's all this about your not staying with us?"

"I should be glad to get away, sir, before the end of the month," she answered, with her usual placid dignity.

"Have you any fault to find, Mrs. Dorman?"

"None at all, sir; you and your lady have always been most kind, I'm sure—"

"Well, what is it? Are your wages not high enough?"

"No, sir, I gets quite enough."

"Then why not stay?"

"I'd rather not"— with some hesitation— "my niece is ill."

"But your niece has been ill ever since we came."

No answer. There was a long and awkward silence. I broke it.

"Can't you stay for another month?" I asked.

"No, sir. I'm bound to go by Thursday."

And this was Monday!

"Well, I must say, I think you might have let us know before. There's no time now to get any one else, and your mistress is not fit to do heavy housework. Can't you stay till next week?"

"I might be able to come back next week."

I was now convinced that all she wanted was a brief holiday, which we should have been willing enough to let her have, as soon as we could get a substitute.

"But why must you go this week?" I persisted. "Come, out with it."

Mrs. Dorman drew the little shawl, which she always wore, tightly across her bosom, as though she were cold. Then she said, with a sort of effort—

"They say, sir, as this was a big house in Catholic times, and there was a many deeds done here."

The nature of the "deeds" might be vaguely inferred from the inflection of Mrs. Dorman's voice— which was enough to make one's blood run cold. I was glad that Laura was not in the room. She was always nervous, as highly-strung natures are, and I felt that these tales about our house, told by this old peasant woman, with her impressive manner and contagious credulity, might have made our home less dear to my wife.

"Tell me all about it, Mrs. Dorman," I said; "you needn't mind about telling me. I'm not like the young people who make fun of such things."

Which was partly true.

"Well, sir"— she sank her voice— "you may have seen in the church, beside the altar, two shapes."

"You mean the effigies of the knights in armour," I said cheerfully.

"I mean them two bodies, drawed out man-size in marble," she returned, and I had to admit that her description was a thousand times more graphic than mine, to say nothing of a certain weird force and uncanniness about the phrase "drawed out man-size in marble."

"They do say, as on All Saints' Eve them two bodies sits up on their slabs, and gets off of them, and then walks down the aisle, in their marble"— (another good phrase, Mrs. Dorman)— "and as the church clock strikes eleven they walks out of the church door, and over the graves, and along the bier-balk, and if it's a wet night there's the marks of their feet in the morning."

"And where do they go?" I asked, rather fascinated.

"They comes back here to their home, sir, and if any one meets them—"

"Well, what then?" I asked.

But no— not another word could I get from her, save that her niece was ill and she must go. After what I had heard I scorned to discuss the niece, and tried to get from Mrs. Dorman more details of the legend. I could get nothing but warnings.

"Whatever you do, sir, lock the door early on All Saints' Eve, and make the cross-sign over the doorstep and on the windows."

"But has any one ever seen these things?" I persisted.

"That's not for me to say. I know what I know, sir."

"Well, who was here last year?"

"No one, sir; the lady as owned the house only stayed here in summer, and she always went to London a full month afore the night. And I'm sorry to inconvenience you and your lady, but my niece is ill and I must go on Thursday."

I could have shaken her for her absurd reiteration of that obvious fiction, after she had told me her real reasons.

She was determined to go, nor could our united entreaties move her in the least.

I did not tell Laura the legend of the shapes that "walked in their marble," partly because a legend concerning our house might perhaps trouble my wife, and partly, I think, from some more occult reason. This was not quite the same to me as any other story, and I did not want to talk about it till the day was over. I had very soon ceased to think of the legend, however. I was painting a portrait of Laura, against the lattice window, and I could not think of much else. I had got a splendid background of yellow and grey sunset, and was working away with enthusiasm at her lace. On Thursday Mrs. Dorman went. She relented, at parting, so far as to say—

"Don't you put yourself about too much, ma'am, and if there's any little thing I can do next week, I'm sure I shan't mind."

From which I inferred that she wished to come back to us after Hallowe'en. Up to the last she adhered to the fiction of the niece with touching fidelity.

Thursday passed off pretty well. Laura showed marked ability in the matter of steak and potatoes, and I confess that my knives, and the plates, which I insisted upon washing, were better done than I had dared to expect.

Friday came. It is about what happened on that Friday that this is written. I wonder if I should have believed it, if any one had told it to me. I will write the story of it as quickly and plainly as I can. Everything that happened on that day is burnt into my brain. I shall not forget anything, nor leave anything out.

I got up early, I remember, and lighted the kitchen fire, and had just achieved a smoky success, when my little wife came running down, as sunny and sweet as the clear October morning itself. We prepared breakfast together, and found it very good fun. The housework was soon done, and when brushes and brooms and pails were quiet again, the house was still indeed. It is wonderful what a difference one makes in a house. We really missed Mrs. Dorman, quite apart from considerations concerning pots and pans. We spent the day in dusting our books and putting them straight, and dined gaily on cold steak and coffee. Laura was, if possible, brighter and gayer and sweeter than usual, and I began to think that a little domestic toil was really good for her. We had never been so merry since we were married, and the walk we had that afternoon was, I think, the happiest time of all my life. When we had watched the deep scarlet clouds slowly pale into leaden grey against a pale-green sky, and saw the white mists curl up along the hedgerows in the distant marsh, we came back to the house, silently, hand in hand.

"You are sad, my darling," I said, half-jestingly, as we sat down together in our little parlour. I expected a disclaimer, for my own silence had been the silence of complete happiness. To my surprise she said—

"Yes. I think I am sad, or rather I am uneasy. I don't think I'm very well. I have shivered three or four times since we came in, and it is not cold, is it?"

"No," I said, and hoped it was not a chill caught from the treacherous mists that roll up from the marshes in the dying light. No— she said, she did not think so. Then, after a silence, she spoke suddenly—

"Do you ever have presentiments of evil?"

"No," I said, smiling, "and I shouldn't believe in them if I had."

"I do," she went on; "the night my father died I knew it, though he was right away in the north of Scotland." I did not answer in words.

She sat looking at the fire for some time in silence, gently stroking my hand. At last she sprang up, came behind me, and, drawing my head back, kissed me.

"There, it's over now," she said. "What a baby I am! Come, light the candles, and we'll have some of these new Rubinstein duets."

And we spent a happy hour or two at the piano.

At about half-past ten I began to long for the good-night pipe, but Laura looked so white that I felt it would be brutal of me to fill our sitting-room with the fumes of strong cavendish.

"I'll take my pipe outside," I said.

"Let me come, too."

"No, sweetheart, not to-night; you're much too tired. I shan't be long. Get to bed, or I shall have an invalid to nurse to-morrow as well as the boots to clean."

I kissed her and was turning to go, when she flung her arms round my neck, and held me as if she would never let me go again. I stroked her hair.

"Come, Pussy, you're over-tired. The housework has been too much for you."

She loosened her clasp a little and drew a deep breath.

"No. We've been very happy to-day, Jack, haven't we? Don't stay out too long."

"I won't, my dearie."

I strolled out of the front door, leaving it unlatched. What a night it was! The jagged masses of heavy dark cloud were rolling at intervals from horizon to horizon, and thin white wreaths covered the stars. Through all the rush of the cloud river, the moon swam, breasting the waves and disappearing again in the darkness. When now and again her light reached the woodlands they seemed to be slowly and noiselessly waving in time to the swing of the clouds above them. There was a strange grey light over all the earth; the fields had that shadowy bloom over them which only comes from the marriage of dew and moonshine, or frost and starlight.

I walked up and down, drinking in the beauty of the quiet earth and the changing sky. The night was absolutely silent. Nothing seemed to be abroad. There was no skurrying of rabbits, or twitter of the half-asleep birds. And though the clouds went sailing across the sky, the wind that drove them never came low enough to rustle the dead leaves in the woodland paths. Across the meadows I could see the church tower standing out black and grey against the sky. I walked there thinking over our three months of happiness— and of my wife, her dear eyes, her loving ways. Oh, my little girl! my own little girl; what a vision came then of a long, glad life for you and me together!

I heard a bell-beat from the church. Eleven already! I turned to go in, but the night held me. I could not go back into our little warm rooms yet. I would go up to the church. I felt vaguely that it would be good to carry my love and thankfulness to the sanctuary whither so many loads of sorrow and gladness had been borne by the men and women of the dead years.

I looked in at the low window as I went by. Laura was half lying on her chair in front of the fire. I could not see her face, only her little head showed dark against the pale blue wall. She was quite still. Asleep, no doubt. My heart reached out to her, as I went on. There must be a God, I thought, and a God who was good. How otherwise could anything so sweet and dear as she have ever been imagined?

I walked slowly along the edge of the wood. A sound broke the stillness of the night, it was a rustling in the wood. I stopped and listened. The sound stopped too. I went on, and now distinctly heard another step than mine answer mine like an echo. It was a poacher or a wood-stealer, most likely, for these were not unknown in our Arcadian neighbourhood. But whoever it was, he was a fool not to step more lightly. I turned into the wood, and now the footstep seemed to come from the path I had just left. It must be an echo, I thought. The wood looked perfect in the moonlight. The large dying ferns and the brushwood showed where through thinning foliage the pale light came down. The tree trunks stood up like Gothic columns all around me. They reminded me of the church, and I turned into the bier-balk, and passed through the corpse-gate between the graves to the low porch. I paused for a moment on the stone seat where Laura and I had watched the fading landscape. Then I noticed that the door of the church was open, and I blamed myself for having left it unlatched the other night. We were the only people who ever cared to come to the church except on Sundays, and I was vexed to think that through our carelessness the damp autumn airs had had a chance of getting in and injuring the old fabric. I went in. It will seem strange, perhaps, that I should have gone half-way up the aisle before I remembered— with a sudden chill, followed by as sudden a rush of self-contempt— that this was the very day and hour when, according to tradition, the "shapes drawed out man-size in marble" began to walk.

Having thus remembered the legend, and remembered it with a shiver, of which I was ashamed, I could not do otherwise than walk up towards the altar, just to look at the figures— as I said to myself; really what I wanted was to assure myself, first, that I did not believe the legend, and, secondly, that it was not true. I was rather glad that I had come. I thought now I could tell Mrs. Dorman how vain her fancies were, and how peacefully the marble figures slept on through the ghastly hour. With my hands in my pockets I passed up the aisle. In the grey dim light the eastern end of the church looked larger than usual, and the arches above the two tombs looked larger too. The moon came out and showed me the reason. I stopped short, my heart gave a leap that nearly choked me, and then sank sickeningly.

The "bodies drawed out man-size" were gone, and their marble slabs lay wide and bare in the vague moonlight that slanted through the east window.

Were they really gone? or was I mad? Clenching my nerves, I stooped and passed my hand over the smooth slabs, and felt their flat unbroken surface. Had some one taken the things away? Was it some vile practical joke? I would make sure, anyway. In an instant I had made a torch of a newspaper, which happened to be in my pocket, and lighting it held it high above my head. Its yellow glare illumined the dark arches and those slabs. The figures were gone. And I was alone in the church; or was I alone?

And then a horror seized me, a horror indefinable and indescribable— an overwhelming certainty of supreme and accomplished calamity. I flung down the torch and tore along the aisle and out through the porch, biting my lips as I ran to keep myself from shrieking aloud. Oh, was I mad— or what was this that possessed me? I leaped the churchyard wall and took the straight cut across the fields, led by the light from our windows. Just as I got over the first stile, a dark figure seemed to spring out of the ground. Mad still with that certainty of misfortune, I made for the thing that stood in my path, shouting, "Get out of the way, can't you!"

But my push met with a more vigorous resistance than I had expected. My arms were caught just above the elbow and held as in a vice, and the raw-boned Irish doctor actually shook me.

"Would ye?" he cried, in his own unmistakable accents— "would ye, then?"

"Let me go, you fool," I gasped. "The marble figures have gone from the church; I tell you they've gone."

He broke into a ringing laugh. "I'll have to give ye a draught to-morrow, I see. Ye've bin smoking too much and listening to old wives' tales."

"I tell you, I've seen the bare slabs."

"Well, come back with me. I'm going up to old Palmer's— his daughter's ill; we'll look in at the church and let me see the bare slabs."

"You go, if you like," I said, a little less frantic for his laughter; "I'm going home to my wife."

"Rubbish, man," said he; "d'ye think I'll permit of that? Are ye to go saying all yer life that ye've seen solid marble endowed with vitality, and me to go all me life saying ye were a coward? No, sir— ye shan't do ut."

The night air— a human voice— and I think also the physical contact with this six feet of solid common sense, brought me back a little to my ordinary self, and the word "coward" was a mental shower-bath.

"Come on, then," I said sullenly; "perhaps you're right."

He still held my arm tightly. We got over the stile and back to the church. All was still as death. The place smelt very damp and earthy. We walked up the aisle. I am not ashamed to confess that I shut my eyes: I knew the figures would not be there. I heard Kelly strike a match.

"Here they are, ye see, right enough; ye've been dreaming or drinking, asking yer pardon for the imputation."

I opened my eyes. By Kelly's expiring vesta I saw two shapes lying "in their marble" on their slabs. I drew a deep breath, and caught his hand.

"I'm awfully indebted to you," I said. "It must have been some trick of light, or I have been working rather hard, perhaps that's it. Do you know, I was quite convinced they were gone."

"I'm aware of that," he answered rather grimly; "ye'll have to be careful of that brain of yours, my friend, I assure ye."

He was leaning over and looking at the right-hand figure, whose stony face was the most villainous and deadly in expression.

"By Jove," he said, "something has been afoot here— this hand is broken."

And so it was. I was certain that it had been perfect the last time Laura and I had been there.

"Perhaps some one has tried to remove them," said the young doctor.

"That won't account for my impression," I objected.

"Too much painting and tobacco will account for that, well enough."

"Come along," I said, "or my wife will be getting anxious. You'll come in and have a drop of whisky and drink confusion to ghosts and better sense to me."

"I ought to go up to Palmer's, but it's so late now I'd best leave it till the morning," he replied. "I was kept late at the Union, and I've had to see a lot of people since. All right, I'll come back with ye."

I think he fancied I needed him more than did Palmer's girl, so, discussing how such an illusion could have been possible, and deducing from this experience large generalities concerning ghostly apparitions, we walked up to our cottage. We saw, as we walked up the garden-path, that bright light streamed out of the front door, and presently saw that the parlour door was open too. Had she gone out?

"Come in," I said, and Dr. Kelly followed me into the parlour. It was all ablaze with candles, not only the wax ones, but at least a dozen guttering, glaring tallow dips, stuck in vases and ornaments in unlikely places. Light, I knew, was Laura's remedy for nervousness. Poor child! Why had I left her? Brute that I was.

We glanced round the room, and at first we did not see her. The window was open, and the draught set all the candles flaring one way. Her chair was empty and her handkerchief and book lay on the floor. I turned to the window. There, in the recess of the window, I saw her. Oh, my child, my love, had she gone to that window to watch for me? And what had come into the room behind her? To what had she turned with that look of frantic fear and horror? Oh, my little one, had she thought that it was I whose step she heard, and turned to meet— what?

She had fallen back across a table in the window, and her body lay half on it and half on the window-seat, and her head hung down over the table, the brown hair loosened and fallen to the carpet. Her lips were drawn back, and her eyes wide, wide open. They saw nothing now. What had they seen last?

The doctor moved towards her, but I pushed him aside and sprang to her; caught her in my arms and cried—

"It's all right, Laura! I've got you safe, wifie."

She fell into my arms in a heap. I clasped her and kissed her, and called her by all her pet names, but I think I knew all the time that she was dead. Her hands were tightly clenched. In one of them she held something fast. When I was quite sure that she was dead, and that nothing mattered at all any more, I let him open her hand to see what she held.

It was a grey marble finger.

_________________

5: Three Hours Between Planes

F. Scott Fitzgerald

1896-1940

Esquire July 1941

IT WAS a wild chance but Donald was in the mood, healthy and bored, with a sense of tiresome duty done. He was now rewarding himself. Maybe.

When the plane landed he stepped out into a mid-western summer night and headed for the isolated pueblo airport, conventionalized as an old red 'railway depot'. He did not know whether she was alive, or living in this town, or what was her present name. With mounting excitement he looked through the phone book for her father who might be dead too, somewhere in these twenty years.

No. Judge Harmon Holmes— Hillside 3194.

A woman's amused voice answered his inquiry for Miss Nancy Holmes.

'Nancy is Mrs Walter Gifford now. Who is this?'

But Donald hung up without answering. He had found out what he wanted to know and had only three hours. He did not remember any Walter Gifford and there was another suspended moment while he scanned the phone book. She might have married out of town.

No. Walter Gifford— Hillside 1191. Blood flowed back into his fingertips.

'Hello?'

'Hello. Is Mrs Gifford there— this is an old friend of hers.'

'This is Mrs Gifford.'

He remembered, or thought he remembered, the funny magic in the voice.

'This is Donald Plant. I haven't seen you since I was twelve years old.'

'Oh-h-h!' The note was utterly surprised, very polite, but he could distinguish in it neither joy nor certain recognition.

'— Donald!' added the voice. This time there was something more in it than struggling memory.

'...when did you come back to town?' Then cordially, 'Where are you?'

'I'm out at the airport— for just a few hours.'

'Well, come up and see me.'

'Sure you're not just going to bed?'

'Heavens, no!' she exclaimed. 'I was sitting here— having a highball by myself. Just tell your taxi man...'

On his way Donald analysed the conversation. His words 'at the airport' established that he had retained his position in the upper bourgeoisie. Nancy's aloneness might indicate that she had matured into an unattractive woman without friends. Her husband might be either away or in bed. And— because she was always ten years old in his dreams— the highball shocked him. But he adjusted himself with a smile— she was very close to thirty.

At the end of a curved drive he saw a dark-haired little beauty standing against the lighted door, a glass in her hand. Startled by her final materialization, Donald got out of the cab, saying:

'Mrs Gifford?'

She turned on the porch light and stared at him, wide-eyed and tentative. A smile broke through the puzzled expression.

'Donald— it is you— we all change so. Oh, this is remarkable!'

As they walked inside, their voices jingled the words 'all these years', and Donald felt a sinking in his stomach. This derived in part from a vision of their last meeting— when she rode past him on a bicycle, cutting him dead— and in part from fear lest they have nothing to say. It was like a college reunion— but there the failure to find the past was disguised by the hurried boisterous occasion. Aghast, he realized that this might be a long and empty hour. He plunged in desperately.

'You always were a lovely person. But I'm a little shocked to find you as beautiful as you are.'

It worked. The immediate recognition of their changed state, the bold compliment, made them interesting strangers instead of fumbling childhood friends.

'Have a highball?' she asked. 'No? Please don't think I've become a secret drinker, but this was a blue night. I expected my husband but he wired he'd be two days longer. He's very nice, Donald, and very attractive. Rather your type and colouring.' She hesitated, '— and I think he's interested in someone in New York— and I don't know.'

'After seeing you it sounds impossible,' he assured her. 'I was married for six years, and there was a time I tortured myself that way. Then one day I just put jealousy out of my life forever. After my wife died I was very glad of that. It left a very rich memory— nothing marred or spoiled or hard to think over.'

She looked at him attentively, then sympathetically as he spoke.

'I'm very sorry,' she said. And after a proper moment,' You've changed a lot. Turn your head. I remember father saying, "That boy has a brain."'

'You probably argued against it.'

'I was impressed. Up to then I thought everybody had a brain. That's why it sticks in my mind.'

'What else sticks in your mind?' he asked smiling.

Suddenly Nancy got up and walked quickly a little away.

'Ah, now,' she reproached him. 'That isn't fair! I suppose I was a naughty girl.'

'You were not,' he said stoutly. 'And I will have a drink now.'

As she poured it, her face still turned from him, he continued:

'Do you think you were the only little girl who was ever kissed?'

'Do you like the subject?' she demanded. Her momentary irritation melted and she said: 'What the hell! We did have fun. Like in the song.'

'On the sleigh ride.'

'Yes— and somebody's picnic— Trudy James's. And at Frontenac that— those summers.'

It was the sleigh ride he remembered most and kissing her cool cheeks in the straw in one corner while she laughed up at the cold white stars. The couple next to them had their backs turned and he kissed her little neck and her ears and never her lips.

'And the Macks' party where they played post office and I couldn't go because I had the mumps,' he said.

'I don't remember that.'

'Oh, you were there. And you were kissed and I was crazy with jealousy like I never have been since.'

'Funny I don't remember. Maybe I wanted to forget.'

'But why?' he asked in amusement. 'We were two perfectly innocent kids. Nancy, whenever I talked to my wife about the past, I told her you were the girl I loved almost as much as I loved her. But I think I really loved you just as much. When we moved out of town I carried you like a cannon ball in my insides.'

'Were you that much— stirred up?'

'My God, yes! I— ' He suddenly realized that they were standing just two feet from each other, that he was talking as if he loved her in the present, that she was looking up at him with her lips half-parted and a clouded look in her eyes.

'Go on,' she said, 'I'm ashamed to say— I like it. I didn't know you were so upset then. I thought it was me who was upset.'

'You!' he exclaimed. 'Don't you remember throwing me over at the drugstore.' He laughed. 'You stuck out your tongue at me.'

'I don't remember at all. It seemed to me you did the throwing over.' Her hand fell lightly, almost consolingly on his arm. 'I've got a photograph book upstairs I haven't looked at for years. I'll dig it out.'

Donald sat for five minutes with two thoughts— first the hopeless impossibility of reconciling what different people remembered about the same event— and secondly that in a frightening way Nancy moved him as a woman as she had moved him as a child. Half an hour had developed an emotion that he had not known since the death of his wife— that he had never hoped to know again.

Side by side on a couch they opened the book between them. Nancy looked at him, smiling and very happy.

'Oh, this is such fun,' she said. 'Such fun that you're so nice, that you remember me so— beautifully. Let me tell you— I wish I'd known it then! After you'd gone I hated you.'

'What a pity,' he said gently.

'But not now,' she reassured him, and then impulsively, 'Kiss and make up— '

'...that isn't being a good wife,' she said after a minute. 'I really don't think I've kissed two men since I was married.'

He was excited— but most of all confused. Had he kissed Nancy? or a memory? or this lovely trembly stranger who looked away from him quickly and turned a page of the book?

'Wait!' he said. 'I don't think I could see a picture for a few seconds.'

'We won't do it again. I don't feel so very calm myself.'

Donald said one of those trivial things that cover so much ground.

'Wouldn't it be awful if we fell in love again?'

'Stop it!' She laughed, but very breathlessly. 'It's all over. It was a moment. A moment I'll have to forget.'

'Don't tell your husband.'

'Why not? Usually I tell him everything.'

'It'll hurt him. Don't ever tell a man such things.'

'All right I won't.'

'Kiss me once more,' he said inconsistently, but Nancy had turned a page and was pointing eagerly at a picture.

'Here's you,' she cried. 'Right away!'

He looked. It was a little boy in shorts standing on a pier with a sailboat in the background.

'I remember— ' she laughed triumphantly, '— the very day it was taken. Kitty took it and I stole it from her.'

For a moment Donald failed to recognize himself in the photo— then, bending closer— he failed utterly to recognize himself.

'That's not me,' he said.

'Oh yes. It was at Frontenac— the summer we— we used to go to the cave.'

'What cave? I was only three days in Frontenac.' Again he strained his eyes at the slightly yellowed picture. 'And that isn't me. That's Donald Bowers. We did look rather alike.'

Now she was staring at him— leaning back, seeming to lift away from him.

'But you're Donald Bowers!' she exclaimed; her voice rose a little. 'No, you're not. You're Donald Plant.'

'I told you on the phone.'

She was on her feet— her face faintly horrified.

'Plant! Bowers! I must be crazy. Or it was that drink? I was mixed up a little when I first saw you. Look here! What have I told you?'

He tried for a monkish calm as he turned a page of the book.

'Nothing at all,' he said. Pictures that did not include him formed and re-formed before his eyes— Frontenac— a cave— Donald Bowers— 'You threw me over!'

Nancy spoke from the other side of the room.

'You'll never tell this story,' she said. 'Stories have a way of getting around.'

'There isn't any story,' he hesitated. But he thought: So she was a bad little girl.

And now suddenly he was filled with wild raging jealousy of little Donald Bowers— he who had banished jealousy from his life forever. In the five steps he took across the room he crushed out twenty years and the existence of Walter Gifford with his stride.

'Kiss me again, Nancy,' he said, sinking to one knee beside her chair, putting his hand upon her shoulder. But Nancy strained away.

'You said you had to catch a plane.'

'It's nothing. I can miss it. It's of no importance.'

'Please go,' she said in a cool voice. 'And please try to imagine how I feel.'

'But you act as if you don't remember me,' he cried, '— as if you don't remember Donald Plant!'

'I do. I remember you too... But it was all so long ago.' Her voice grew hard again. 'The taxi number is Crestwood 8484.'

On his way to the airport Donald shook his head from side to side. He was completely himself now but he could not digest the experience. Only as the plane roared up into the dark sky and its passengers became a different entity from the corporate world below did he draw a parallel from the fact of its flight. For five blinding minutes he had lived like a madman in two worlds at once. He had been a boy of twelve and a man of thirty-two, indissolubly and helplessly commingled.

Donald had lost a good deal, too, in those hours between the planes— but since the second half of life is a long process of getting rid of things, that part of the experience probably didn't matter.

___________________

6: A Golden Shanty

Edward Dyson

1865-1931

From Below and on Top, 1898

[Bulletin, 1889 Christmas Anthology]

Edward Dyson was an Australian poet, short story writer, novelist and journalist, who was born on the Ballarat goldfields.

ABOUT ten years ago, not a day's tramp from Ballarat, set well back from a dusty track that started nowhere in particular and had no destination worth mentioning, stood the Shamrock Hotel. It was a low, rambling, disjointed structure, and bore strong evidence of having been designed by an amateur artist in a moment of vinous frenzy. It reached out in several well-defined angles, and had a lean-to building stuck on here and there; numerous outhouses were dropped down about it promiscuously; its walls were propped up in places with logs, and its moss-covered shingle roof, bowed down with the weight of years and a great accumulation of stones, hoop-iron, jam-tins, broken glassware, and dried possum skins, bulged threateningly, on the verge of utter collapse. The Shamrock was built of sun-dried bricks, of an unhealthy, bilious tint. Its dirty, shattered windows were plugged in places with old hats and discarded female apparel, and draped with green blinds, many of which had broken their moorings, and hung despondently by one corner. Groups of ungainly fowls coursed the succulent grasshopper before the bar door; a moody, distempered goat rubbed her ribs against a shattered trough roughly hewn from the butt of a tree, and a matronly old sow of spare proportions wallowed complacently in the dust of the road, surrounded by her squealing brood.

A battered sign hung out over the door of the Shamrock, informing people that Michael Doyle was licensed to sell fermented and spirituous liquors, and that good accommodation could be afforded to both man and beast at the lowest current rates. But that sign was most unreliable; the man who applied to be accommodated with anything beyond ardent beverages— liquors so fiery that they "bit all the way down"— evoked the astonishment of the proprietor. Bed and board were quite out of the province of the Shamrock. There was in fact, only one couch professedly at the disposal of the weary wayfarer, and this, according to the statement of the few persons who had ever ventured to try it, seemed stuffed with old boots and stubble; it was located immediately beneath a henroost, which was the resting-place of a maternal fowl, addicted on occasion to nursing her chickens upon the tired sleeper's chest. The "turnover" at the Shamrock was not at all extensive, for, saving an occasional agricultural labourer who came from "beyant"— which was the versatile host's way of designating any part within a radius of five miles— to revel in an occasional spree, the trade was confined to the passing cockatoo farmer, who invariably arrived on a bony, drooping prad, took a drink, and shuffled away amid clouds of dust.

The only other dwellings within sight of the Shamrock, were a cluster of frail, ramshackle huts, compiled of slabs, scraps of matting, zinc, and gunny-bag. These were the habitations of a colony of squalid, gibbering Chinese fossickers, who herded together like hogs in a crowded pen, as if they had been restricted to that spot on pain of death, or its equivalent, a washing.

About a quarter of a mile behind the Shamrock ran, or rather crawled, the sluggish waters of the Yellow Creek. Once upon a time, when the Shamrock was first built, the creek was a beautiful limpid rivulet, running between verdant banks; but an enterprising prospector, wandering that way, and liking the indications, put down a shaft, and bottomed on "the wash" at twenty feet, getting half an ounce to the dish. A rush set in, and within twelve months the banks of the creek, for a distance of two miles, were denuded of their timber, torn up, and covered with unsightly heaps. The creek had been diverted from its natural course half a dozen times, and hundreds of diggers, like busy ants, delved into the earth and covered its surface with red, white, and yellow tips. Then the miners left almost as suddenly as they had come; the Shamrock, which had resounded with wild revelry, became as silent as a morgue, and desolation brooded on the face of the country. When Mr Michael Doyle, whose greatest ambition in life had been to become a lord of a pub, invested in that lucrative country property, saplings were growing between the deserted holes of the diggings, and agriculture had superseded the mining industry in those parts.

Landlord Doyle was of Irish extraction; his stock was so old that everybody had forgotten where and when it originated, but Mickey was not proud— he assumed no unnecessary style, and his personal appearance would not have led you to infer that there had been a king in his family, and that his paternal progenitor had killed a landlord "wanst". Mickey was a small, scraggy man, with a mop of grizzled hair and a little, red, humorous face, ever bristling with auburn stubble. His trousers were the most striking things about him; they were built on the premises, and almost contained enough stuff to make him a full suit and a winter overcoat. Mrs Doyle manufactured those pants after plans and specifications of her own designing, and was mighty proud when Michael would yank them up into his armpits, and amble round, peering about discontentedly over the waistband. "They was th' great savin' in weskits," she said.

Of late years it had taken all Mr Doyle's ingenuity to make ends meet. The tribe of dirty, unkempt urchins who swarmed about the place "took a power of feedin'", and Mrs D. herself was "th' big ater". "Ye do be atin' twinty-four hours a day," her lord was wont to remark, "and thin yez must get up av noights for more. Whin ye'r not atin' ye'r munchin' a schnack, bad cess t'ye."

In order to provide the provender for his unreasonably hungry family, Mickey had been compelled to supplement his takings as a Boniface by acting alternately as fossicker, charcoal-burner, and "wood-jamber"; but it came "terrible hard" on the little man, who waxed thinner and thinner, and sank deeper into his trousers every year. Then, to augment his troubles, came that pestiferous heathen, the teetotal Chinee. One hot summer's day he arrived in numbers, like a plague, armed with picks, shovels, dishes, cradles, and tubs, and with a clatter of tools and a babble of grotesque gibberish, camped by the creek and refused to go away again. The awesome solitude of the abandoned diggings was ruthlessly broken. The deserted field, with its white mounds and decaying windlass-stands fallen aslant, which had lain like a long-forgotten cemetery buried in primeval forest, was now desecrated by the hand of the Mongol, and the sound of his weird, Oriental oaths. The Chows swarmed over the spot, tearing open old sores, shovelling old tips, sluicing old tailings, digging, cradling, puddling, ferreting into every nook and cranny.

Mr Doyle observed the foreign invasion with mingled feelings of righteous anger and pained solicitude. He had found fossicking by the creek very handy to fall back upon when the wood-jambing trade was not brisk; but now that industry was ruined by Chinese competition, and Michael could only find relief in deep and earnest profanity.

With the pagan influx began the mysterious disappearance of small valuables from the premises of Michael Doyle, licensed victualler. Sedate, fluffy old hens, hitherto noted for their strict propriety and regular hours, would leave the place at dead of night, and return from their nocturnal rambles never more; stay-at-home sucking pigs, which had erstwhile absolutely refused to be driven from the door, corrupted by the new evil, absented themselves suddenly from the precincts of the Shamrock, taking with them cooking utensils and various other articles of small value, and ever afterwards their fate became a matter for speculation. At last a favourite young porker went, whereupon its lord and master, resolved to prosecute inquiries, bounced into the Mongolian camp, and, without any unnecessary preamble, opened the debate.

"Look here, now," he observed, shaking his fist at the group, and bristling fiercely, "which av ye dhirty haythen furriners cum up to me house lasht noight and shtole me pig Nancy? Which av ye is it, so't I kin bate him! ye thavin' hathins?"

The placid Orientals surveyed Mr Doyle coolly, and, innocently smiling, said, "No savee"; then bandied jests at his expense in their native tongue, and laughed the little man to scorn. Incensed by the evident ridicule of the "haythen furriners", and goaded on by the smothered squeal of a hidden pig, Michael "went for" the nearest Asiatic, and proceeded to "put a head on him as big as a tank", amid a storm of kicks and digs from the other Chows. Presently the battle began to go against the Irish cause; but Mrs Mickey, making a timely appearance, warded off the surplus Chinamen by chipping at their skulls with an axe-handle. The riot was soon quelled, and the two Doyles departed triumphantly, bearing away a corpulent young pig, and leaving several broken, discouraged Chinamen to be doctored at the common expense.

After this gladsome little episode the Chinamen held off for a few weeks. Then they suddenly changed their tactics, and proceeded to cultivate the friendship of Michael Doyle and his able-bodied wife. They liberally patronized the Shamrock, and beguiled the licensee with soft but cheerful conversation; they flattered Mrs Doyle in seductive pigeon-English, and endeavoured to ensnare the children's young affections with preserved ginger. Michael regarded these advances with misgiving; he suspected the Mongolians' intentions were not honourable, but he was not a man to spoil trade— to drop the substance for the shadow.

This state of affairs had continued for some time before the landlord of the Shamrock noticed that his new customers made a point of carrying off a brick every time they visited his caravansary. When leaving, the bland heathen would cast his discriminating eye around the place, seize upon one of the sun-dried bricks with which the ground was littered, and steal away with a nonchalant air— as though it had just occurred to him that the brick would be a handy thing to keep by him.

The matter puzzled Mr Doyle sorely; he ruminated over it, but he could only arrive at the conclusion that it was not advisable to lose custom for the sake of a few bricks; so the Chinese continued to walk off with his building material. When asked what they intended to do with the bricks, they assumed an expression of the most deplorably hopeless idiocy, and suddenly lost their acquaintance with the "Inglishiman" tongue. If bricks were mentioned they became as devoid of sense as wombats, although they seemed extremely intelligent on most other points. Mickey noticed that there was no building in progress at their camp, also that there were no bricks to be seen about the domiciles of the pagans, and he tried to figure out the mystery on a slate, but, on account of his lamentable ignorance of mathematics, failed to reach the unknown quantity and elucidate the enigma. He watched the invaders march off with all the loose bricks that were scattered around, and never once complained; but when they began to abstract one end of his licensed premises, he felt himself called upon, as a husband and father, to arise and enter a protest, which he did, pointing out to the Yellow Agony, in graphic and forcible language, the gross wickedness of robbing a struggling man of his house and home, and promising faithfully to "bate" the next lop-eared Child of the Sun whom he "cot shiften' a'er a brick."

"Ye dogs! Wud yez shtale me hotel, so't whin me family go insoide they'll be out in the rain?" he queried, looking hurt and indignant.

The Chinamen said, "No savee." Yet, after this warning, doubtless out of consideration for the feelings of Mr Doyle, they went to great pains and displayed much ingenuity in abstracting bricks without his cognizance. But Mickey was active; he watched them closely, and whenever he caught a Chow in the act, a brief and one-sided conflict raged, and a dismantled Chinaman crawled home with much difficulty.

This violent conduct on the part of the landlord served in time to entirely alienate the Mongolian custom from the Shamrock, and once more Mickey and the Chows spake not when they met. Once more, too, promising young pullets, and other portable valuables, began to go astray, and still the hole in the wall grew till the after-part of the Shamrock looked as if it had suffered recent bombardment. The Chinamen came while Michael slept, and filched his hotel inch by inch. They lost their natural rest, and ran the gauntlet of Mr Doyle's stick and curse— for the sake of a few bricks. At all hours of the night they crept through the gloom, and warily stole a bat or two, getting away unnoticed perhaps, or, mayhap, only disturbing the slumbers of Mrs Doyle, who was a very light sleeper for a woman of her size. In the latter case the lady would awaken her lord by holding his nose— a very effective plan of her own— and, filled to overflowing with the rage which comes of a midnight awakening, Mickey would turn out of doors in his shirt to cope with the marauders, and course them over the paddocks. If he caught a heathen he laid himself out for five minutes' energetic entertainment, which fully repaid him for lost rest and missing hens, and left a Chinaman too heart-sick and sore to steal anything for at least a week. But the Chinamen's friends would come as usual, and the pillage went on.

Michael Doyle puzzled himself to prostration over this insatiable and unreasonable hunger for bricks; such an infatuation on the part of men for cold and unresponsive clay had never before come within the pale of his experience. Times out of mind he threatened to "have the law on the yalla blaggards"; but the law was a long way off, and the Celestial housebreakers continued to elope with scraps of the Shamrock, taking the proprietor's assaults humbly and as a matter of course.

"Why do ye be shtealing me house?" fiercely queried Mr Doyle of a submissive Chow, whom he had taken one night in the act of ambling off with a brick in either hand.

"Me no steal 'em no feah— odder feller, him steal 'em," eplied the quaking pagan.

Mickey was dumb-stricken for the moment by this awful pre- varication; but that did not impair the velocity of his kick— this to his great subsequent regret, for the Chinaman had stowed a third brick away in his pants for convenience of transit, and the landlord struck that brick; then he sat down and repeated aloud all the profanity he knew.

The Chinaman escaped, and had the presence of mind enough to retain his burden of clay.

Month after month the work of devastation went on. Mr Doyle fixed ingenious mechanical contrivances about his house, and turned out at early dawn to see how many Chinamen he had "nailed"— only to find his spring-traps stolen and his hotel yawning more desperately than ever. Then Michael could but lift up his voice and swear— nothing else afforded him any relief.

At last he hit upon a brilliant idea. He commissioned a "cocky" who was journeying into Ballarat to buy him a dog— the largest, fiercest, ugliest, hungriest animal the town afforded; and next day a powerful, ill-tempered canine, almost as big as a pony, and quite as ugly as any nightmare, was duly installed as guardian and night-watch at the Shamrock. Right well the good dog performed his duty. On the following morning he had trophies to show in the shape of a boot, a scrap of blue dungaree trousers, half a pig-tail, a yellow ear, and a large part of a partially-shaved scalp; and just then the nocturnal visits ceased. The Chows spent a week skirmishing around, endeavouring to call the dog off, but he was neither to be begged, borrowed, nor stolen; he was too old-fashioned to eat poisoned meat, and he prevented the smallest approach to familiarity on the part of a Chinaman by snapping off the most serviceable portions of his vestments, and always fetching a scrap of heathen along with them.

This, in time, sorely discouraged the patient Children of the Sun, who drew off to hold congress and give the matter weighty consideration. After deliberating for some days, the yellow settlement appointed a deputation to wait upon Mr Doyle. Mickey saw them coming, and armed himself with a log and unchained his dog. Mrs Doyle ranged up alongside, brandishing her axe-handle, but by humble gestures and a deferential bearing the Celestial deputation signified a truce. So Michael held his dog down, and rested on his arms to await developments. The Chinamen advanced, smiling blandly; they gave Mr and Mrs Doyle fraternal greeting, and squirmed with that wheedling obsequiousness peculiar to "John" when he has something to gain by it. A pock-marked leper placed himself in the van as spokesman.

"Nicee day, Missa Doyle," said the moon-faced gentleman, sweetly.

Then, with a sudden expression of great interest, and nodding towards Mrs Doyle, "How you sissetah?"

"Foind out! Fwhat yer wantin'?" replied the host of the Shamrock, gruffly. "T' shtale more bricks, ye crawlin' blaggards?"

"No, no. Me not steal 'em blick— odder feller; he hide 'em; build big house byem-bye."

"Ye loi, ye screw-faced nayger! I seed ye do it, and if yez don't cut and run I'll lave the dog loose to feed on yer dhirty carcasses."

The dog tried to reach for his favourite hold, Mickey brandished his log, and Mrs Doyle took a fresh grip of her weapon. This demonstration gave the Chows a cold shiver, and brought them promptly down to business.

"We buy 'em hotel; what for you sell 'em— eh?"

"Fwhat! yez buy me hotel? D'ye mane it? Purchis th' primisis and yez can shtale ivery brick at yer laysure. But ye're joakin'. 'Whoop! Look ye here! I'll have th' lot av yez aten up in two minits if yez play yer Choinase thricks on Michael Doyle."

The Chinamen eagerly protested that they were in earnest, and Mickey gave them a judicial hearing. For two years he had been in want of a customer for the Shamrock, and he now hailed the offer of his visitors with secret delight. After haggling for an hour, during which time the ignorant Hi Yup of the contorted countenance displayed his usual business tact, a bargain was struck. The yellow men agreed to give fifty pounds cash for the Shamrock and all buildings appertaining thereto, and the following Monday was the day fixed for Michael to journey into Ballarat with a couple of representative heathens to sign the transfer papers and receive the cash.

The deputation departed smiling, and when it gave the news of its triumph to the other denizens of the camp there was a perfect babel of congratulations in the quaint dialogue of the Mongol. The Chinamen proceeded to make a night of it in their own outlandish way, indulging freely in the seductive opium, and holding high carouse over an extemporized fantan table, proceedings which made it evident that they were getting to windward of Michael Doyle, licensed victualler.

Michael, too, was rejoicing with exceeding great joy, and felicitating himself on being the shrewdest little man who ever left the "ould sod". He had not hoped to get more than a twenty-pound note for the dilapidated old humpy, erected on Crown land, and unlikely to stand the wear and tear of another year. As for the business, it had fallen to zero, and would not have kept a Chinaman in soap. So Mr Doyle plumed himself on his bargain, and expanded till he nearly filled his capacious garments. Still, he was harassed to know what could possibly have attached the Chinese so strongly to the Shamrock. They had taken samples from every part of the establishment, and fully satisfied themselves as to the quality of the bricks, and now they wanted to buy. It was most peculiar. Michael "had never seen anything so quare before, savin' wanst whin his grandfather was a boy".

After the agreement arrived at between the publican and the Chinese, one or two of the latter hung about the hotel nearly all their time, in sentinel fashion. The dog was kept on the chain, and lay in the sun in a state of moody melancholy, narrowly scrutinizing the Mongolians. He was a strongly anti-Chinese dog, and had been educated to regard the almond-eyed invader with mistrust and hate; it was repugnant to his principles to lie low when the heathen was around, and he evinced his resentment by growling ceaselessly.

Sunday dawned. It was a magnificent morning; but the rattle of the Chinamen's cradles and toms sounded from the creek as usual. Three or four suave and civil Asiatics, however, still lingered around the Shamrock, and kept an eye on it in the interest of all, for the purchase of the hotel was to be a joint-stock affair. These "Johns" seemed to imagine they had already taken lawful possession; they sat in the bar most of the time, drinking little, but always affable and genial. Michael suffered them to stay, for he feared that any fractiousness on his part might upset the agreement, and that was a consummation to be avoided above all things. They had told him, with many tender smiles and much gesticulation, that they intended to live in the house when it became theirs; but Mr Doyle was not interested— his fifty pounds was all he thought of.

Michael was in high spirits that morning; he beamed complacently on all and sundry, appointed the day as a time of family rejoicing, and in the excess of his emotion actually slew for dinner a prime young sucking pig, an extravagant luxury indulged in by the Doyles on state occasions. On this particular Sunday the younger members of the Doyle household gathered round the festive board and waited impatiently for the lifting of the lid of the camp-oven. There were nine children in all, ranging in years from fourteen downwards— "foine, shtrappin' childer, with th' clear brain," said the prejudiced Michael. The round, juicy sucker was at last placed upon the table. Mrs Doyle stood prepared to administer her department— serving the vegetables to her hungry brood— and, armed with a formidable knife and fork, Michael, enveloped in savoury steam, hovered over the pig.

But there was one function yet to be performed— a function which came as regularly as Sunday's dinner itself. Never, for years, had the housefather failed to touch up a certain prodigious knife on one particular hard yellow brick in the wall by the door, preparatory to carving the Sunday's meat. Mickey examined the edge of his weapon critically, and found it unsatisfactory. The knife was nearly ground through to the backbone; another "touch-up" and it must surely collapse, but, in view of his changed circumstances, Mr Doyle felt that he might take the risk. The brick, too, was worn an inch deep. A few sharp strokes from Mickey's vigorous right arm were all that was required; but alas! the knife snapped, whereupon Mr Doyle swore at the brick, as if holding it immediately responsible for the mishap, and stabbed at it fiercely with the broken carver.

"Howly Moses! Fwhat's that?"

The brick fell to pieces, and there, embedded in the wall, gleaming in the sunbeam, was a nugget of yellow gold. With feverish haste Mickey tore the brick from its bedding, and smashed the gold-bearing fragment in the hearth. The nugget was a little beauty, smooth, round, and four ounces to a grain.

The sucking pig froze and stiffened in its fat, the "taters" and the cabbage stood neglected on the dishes. The truth had dawned upon Michael, and, whilst the sound of a spirited debate in musical Chinese echoed from the bar, his family were gathered around him, open-mouthed, and Mickey was industriously, but quietly, pounding the sun-dried brick in a digger's mortar. Two bricks, one from either end of the Shamrock, were pulverized, and Michael panned off the dirt in a tub of water which stood in the kitchen. Result: seven grains of waterworn gold. Until now Michael had worked dumbly, in a fit of nervous excitement; now he started up, bristling like a hedgehog.

"Let loose th' dog, Mary Melinda Doyle!" he howled, and uttering a mighty whoop, he bounded into the bar to dust those Chinamen off his premises.

"Gerrout!" he screamed— "Gerrout av me primises, thavin' crawlers!" And he frolicked with the astounded Mongolians like a tornado in full blast, thumping at a shaven occiput whenever one showed out of the struggling crowd. The Chinamen left; they found the dog waiting for them outside, and he encouraged them to greater haste. Like startled fawns the heathens fled, and Mr Doyle followed them, howling:

"Buy the Shamrock, wud yez! Robbers! Thaves! Fitch back th' soide o' me house, or Oil have th' law onto yez all."

The damaged escapees communicated the intelligence of their overthrow to their brethren on the creek, and the news carried consternation, and deep, dark woe to the pagans, who clustered together and ruefully discussed the situation.

Mr Doyle was wildly jubilant. His joy was only tinctured with a spice of bitterness, the result of knowing that the "haythens" had got away with a few hundreds of his precious bricks. He tried to figure out the amount of gold his hotel must contain, but again his ignorance of arithmetic tripped him up, and already in imagination Michael Doyle, licensed victualler, was a millionaire and a J.P.

The Shamrock was really a treasure-house. The dirt of which the bricks were composed had been taken from the banks of the Yellow Creek, years before the outbreak of the rush, by an eccentric German, who had settled on that sylvan spot. The German died and his grotesque structure passed into other hands. Time went on, and then came the rush. The banks of the creek were found to be charged with gold for miles, but never for a moment did it occur to anybody that the clumsy old building by the track, now converted into a hotel, was composed of the same rich dirt; never till years after, when by accident one of the Mongolian fossickers discovered grains of gold in a few bats he had taken to use as hobs. The intelligence was conveyed to his fellows; they got more bricks and more gold— hence the robbery of Mr Doyle's building material and the anxiety of the Mongolians to buy the Shamrock.

Before nightfall Michael summoned half-a-dozen men from "beyant", to help him in protecting his hotel from a possible Chinese invasion. Other bricks were crushed and yielded splendid prospects. The Shamrock's small stock of liquor was drunk, and everybody became hilarious. On the Sunday night, under cover of the darkness, the Chows made a sudden sally on the Shamrock, hoping to get away with plunder. They were violently received, however; they got no bricks, and returned to their camp broken and disconsolate.

Next day the work of demolition was begun. Drays were backed up against the Shamrock, and load by load the precious bricks were carted away to a neighbouring battery. The Chinamen slouched about, watching greedily, but their now half-hearted attempts at interference met with painful reprisal. Mr Doyle sent his family and furniture to Ballarat, and in a week there was not a vestige left to mark the spot where once the Shamrock flourished. Every scrap of its walls went through the mill, and the sum of one thousand nine hundred and eighty-three pounds sterling was cleared out of the ruins of the hostelry. Mr Doyle is now a man of some standing in Victoria, and as a highly respected J.P. has often been pleased to inform a Chinaman that it was "foive pound or a month".

_______________

7: The Third Chair

Edward Dyson

Punch (Melbourne) 27 Dec 17 and 3 Jan 1918

MY DEATH was wholly unforseen. It was the result of miscalculation. The man I intended to kill killed me. I was so intent on killing him that I did not notice he had killed me.

Possibly all people who die are as surprised and incredulous as I was on finding, myself dead and translated into the Ever Ever. Perhaps those sensations are peculiar to certain people who die sudden and unexpected deaths.

I was eventually conscious of great change; yet disbelieved, resisted, refusing to admit that I was finally and forever cut off from my kind. This talk will appear preposterous to people who have never been dead. I can say with authority that quite a number of men and women in every large community have been temporarily dead, and have inhabited the Ever Ever at one time or another, in some cases have a full realisation of the fact.

There was the case of Steven McEvoy, the well-known Irish poet of Australian birth. For seven years Steven insisted that he had onone occasion been absolutely drowned. He had been immersed some time; he had experienced all the pangs of dissolution, during which process his sins had been made manifest to him in a sort of five-reel phantasmagoria. He had come to some understanding with his Maker. His spirit had forsaken the flesh. Only when the rules of expeditious resuscitation had been vigorously operated for three and a-half hours did he show symptoms of returning vitality. Meanwhile he had been in the Ever Ever.

Steven McEvoy, no doubt, entered into a transitionary state reserved for emotional poets. I have felt myself close against such a state and such elements; but in the Ever Ever we are divided by modes of thought, not by distances. I am no poet. I was a school teacher, a creature of routine. It is very likely I have ten thousand years to go before attain-ing that stage to which Steven stepped straight from his mortal shape. He had a fine, kaleidoscopic mind, but was an unqualified rascal. The longer I am dead the more surprised I am at the disproportionate value people put upon mere morals.

On the second evening after my death I found myself entering by the front door of the small shingle house at Clayball at precisely half-past six. During the last five or six months of my life I had gone daily from my living room at the school to this two-roomed shingle hut across the creek to take dinner. I had no longer any need of dinner, but I was still in a large sense a creature of my mortal habits.

When I entered the ugly man and his young wife were already seated. Tommy's head was bent, as if intent on his plate, but through his thick, dark eyebrows, like goblins in ambush, his burning eyes were fixed on Evelina's face. She was looking out of the window towards the path from the schoolroom. Was she expecting me? She was pale and worn, as if with nights of weeping. Her clenched hand on the table had drawn the white cloth into its grip. The atmosphere of a recent horror was over the pair.

It irritated me that I was not noticed. Roughly I clutched at my chair, still by the wall. My hand failed to grasp it. I stood in consternation. Once again I tried. My hand fell upon the back like vapour. I was powerless to lift it. Sudden anger welled in me.

Here was further evidence of my immaterial state. I could have danced with rage, but such conduct must appear very unbecoming in a well, a dematerialised being. I controlled myself, and in cooler moments consciousness of my power came to me. I could not lift the chair; but I commanded a force that might as easily have toppled the house over. The force was not magnetic, it was not the power of the vacuum, but I can bring it no nearer the human understanding than by comparing it with these.

I drew the chair noiselessly from the wall, and set it in my accustomed place at the table. I seated myself in it. There was no revengeful motive in this; I was merely doing a customary action, prompted by a desire t0 be what I had been— to appear the thing I formerly was.

There was cold salt beef on the table. I drew a plate across the cloth, and was reaching for a knife, when I became conscious of the man's thought. He was staring fixedly at the plate, with the agony of a peasant nature in the pre-sence of the inexplicable. He had seen the plate move without beholding the agency that moved it, and immediately supernatural terror pos-sessed what trifling intellect was his.

Wantonly I drew the bread, I broke it, I raised a piece to my mouth. Tommy's attitude was feline ; he suggested a crouching leopard, but an agony of unreasoning fear was substi-tuted for brute ferocity. His eyes went to the chair.

"The chair !" he said. He spoke, out of a dry mouth. He arose, approached the chair, and passed a stretched, quavering hand over the seat, covering his face with his left arm.

Tommy fell back into his seat. The hand he pointed across throbbed on the table, making an audible knocking. "The chair !" he said, fiercely. "The chair! The ch—" Power of articulating left him. He sprawled upon the coarse cloth, his writhing face livid.

"I didn't !" The voice was Evelina's. "It was against the wall. I didn't move it. You did it yourself. You must have. You did! You did !" She screamed at him, beating the hand in her plate, seeking to convince herself.

The man littered a gurgling sound, and worked his chair back into a corner, his arm's covering his face, his body cowering as if from expected blows.

Suddenly the situation struck me as extremely ludicrous. I faced the poor breeder of turkeys. I laughed immoderately till it struck me that an invisible man laughing noiselessly was a crass absurdity itself.

Then I realised. This was the man who killed me. It had seemed of so trifling consequence I had not taken it into account. He it was who beat me to death with a stick among the rocks on the west slope of Little Mt. Long.

The fool thought I was haunting him!

In a spirit of mischievousness almost childish I drew a cup and saucer slowly, silently across the cloth.

Evelina screamed. With a yell Tommy sprang to his feet. "The lamp !" he cried. "The lamp ! Quick, for Good's sake; light the lamp!"

He threw the door wide open, he snatched a long-handled, bush broom from the wall, and began a vigorous sweeping of the room. Hewhirled his broom in a sort of frenzy, making a "shooing" as he did when urging his turkeys. He swept the air and the ceiling. The frantic simpleton was seeking to sweep out the ghost of his victim. He passed through me several times in mad pursuit of the invisible, intangible thing, chanting a childish incantation as he ran :

"Mother, and Father, and Saints of the Host,

Rid us of goblin, and demon and ghost!"

He dashed the crockery from the table, he developed incredibly agility. Not a corner, not a crack must escape his besom:

"Mother, and Father, and Saints of the Host,

Rid us of goblin, and demon, and ghost!"

Having made a final, terrific sweep, he hurled himself against the door, crashing it to and locking it. With the mat of sacking he stopped the crack under the door. With soft bread he plugged the keyhole.

"Mother, and Father, and Saints of the Host—"

From the next room he dragged his bedding. "He'll come down the chimbley!" he said and stuffed the mass up the flue among the thick soot.

"—Rid us of goblin, and demon, and ghost !"

The lamp was now burning brightly upon the table. Tommy turned it higher. He lit two candles. Then he seated himself, still piteously tremulous, his back hard against the plastered stones of the wide fireplace, his ghastly face to the room, his huge, pitted, pendulous nose white as a toadstool.

Tommy watched the furniture with unabated apprehension, his quivering heels beating a tattoo on the hearth. The woman, stated low in the opposite corner, her apron over her head her hands pressing it to her eyes, wept noisily, foolishly.

I had no interest in this woman— her troubles were nothing to me. Yet it was for the sake of her red lips I had undertaken the killing of her husband. It was because of her small breasts that her husband had seized the opportunity, and entered so gladly into the killing of me.

I was seeing this fellow with a new sense— no, longer as a grotesque of God, but as a valuable entity in a well-knit world, a unit with an appointed function which he enacted to perfection, a man extraordinarily skilled in the management of turkeys, one who entered into a finer understanding of turkeys, a kindlier sympathy with turkeys, and a more generous regard for the needs of the turkeys he herded than I had ever entertained for the children herded in my hot school-house every day. I saw Tommy honest in his relations towards his fellow-men. I saw the ramifications of his faithful service extending to a hundred households in faraway places.

I perceived also that perfect knowledge must be wholly destructive to the comic spirit.

Even while sympathy surged towards my murderer, I had done an impish thing. His eyes were upon his wife. For the moment I was not uppermost in his perturbed mind, and I had drawn the third chair forward, and set it between them, as I had done many times when we three lived. I sat facing the fireplace, the woman on my right, the man on my left. I cocked my leg, I reached for a pipe, asserting our common humanity.

She had dropped the apron from her tear-stained face. She first saw the third chair at the ingle, and cried out like a frightened child. The man made no sound, but as he looked his eyes were slow-blinking haunts of horror. He spread his arms against the walls behind him, slowly he drew up his knees, as if dragging the least part of him from this fearful thing. Yet he saw nothing but an empty chair and a wooden pipe suspended in space!

So we remained for I cannot say how long. My conceptions of time had grown hazy. But eventually, in the whiteness and terror of my friend's face, grew a new consternation, another nausea of dread. His mouth worked like that of a man in a paralytic seizure, the awfulness of his eyes took on a tragedy more poignant, more cruel.

He could see me! What shape I took, what menace was in the apparition Almighty knows, but I was visible. The fact gratified me. I felt an impish glee. I was still an object, an item, a man among men. I tried to place the pipe jauntily in my mouth, but it fell to the floor, and broke to piece's on the stones.

With a yell more like the scream of a man beset by flame than any human cry. Tommy rushed across the floor tore open the back door, and precipitated himself into the darkness. The woman was cowering in a heap on the floor, her face pressed into the corner.

I went out from the house. The school-house drew me ; but as I passed the big slab-fenced enclosure I saw a curious thing— Tommy sitting on a low stone, haunched, with his head almost between his knees, in the centre of a flock of turkeys. The still birds stood all about him— a refuge and a rampart.

Wandering about the dark school-house, I was perplexed by pedagogic worries. I sat on the high stool, resenting, as I had done for years, the Sisyphean task of eternally rolling scholastic stones up the same knoll, and ever finding the same stones at the foot again. But I clung to my duties.

Grey day was drifting down the slope of Little Mt. Long, when I found myself speeding along the hillside from Clayball, drawn by a dog-like instinct. Something was happening to me up there— something I feared. Among the larger granite boulders about three miles from the creek a man was working.

A great resentment swelled within me. Here was a final act— a treachery that threatened to cut me off definitely and for ever from companionable and beloved things. I flew at the worker as a valiant mother bird might fly at a trespasser assailing her young, beating my ethereal limbs against his solid body. Again I forgot the power that was mine, and fought, impelled by lingering human instinct, with a strength I no longer possessed.

He was unaware of my presence. But now he dug with a short-handled pick, then cleared away the loose stones, and dirt with the energy and action of a burrowing dog. At hand, standing among the moss-caked, fantastic granite rocks, was a herd of turkeys, as still as the stones themselves.

Once the digger looked up at the coming day. He was wet with the sweat of terror, his eyes were haunted. But he went down desperately to his task again. Close by him something lay huddled on the ground; something I wished to save from the earth, the terrible alchemist; something I fought for, feeling in my struggles like thin smoke blown against the wall.

Tommy dragged the dark mass into the shallow hole he had made, piling little earth and flat stones upon it, and how I felt that here was the end without doubt.

My murderer was burying me.

Ii

I HAD BEEN chief mourner at my own funeral. I had wept by my grave side. There under a small-mound of stones I lay, my resting place marked with a little dead bracken loosely scattered over the fresh-made grave to hide it from the eye of any curious chance wanderer in those solitudes, and down the slope of Little Mount Long, his pick on his shoulder, went a live man, skulking among his turkeys, sweating with fear, yet hugging a sick joy bred of the hope that now he had disposed of his enemy for good and all.

He is a strange man to look upon, this turkey-herd, with his longish, lean legs and short, somewhat misshapen body, his narrow face of such exaggerated length that the chin lies habitually on his chest, his complexion like the inside of a sun-dried lambskin, and his hair that was once dark, but is now the hue of scorched grass, the result of daily hatless ex-cursions on the bleak, or blazing, hills with his herd of mournful birds.

According to accepted ethics, the poor wretch was quite justified in killing me; but he was a simple soul, no more subtle than the turkeys he herded, and lacked the perspicacity to nut the matter in that light to the ghost that haunted him.

Besides nobody argues with ghosts. There is too great a respect for ghosts. If people realised that the spirit plaguing them is in all probability nothing more than a snivelling waif, divided from humanity only because of its inability to incorporate itself with material things, miserably, heltlessly drifting about familiar associations as a foolish cat goes meowing around a burnt house, they would meet the wraith in a rational temper, and something really helpful might be the outcome. But the senseless fear of death has bred this insane dread of the thing beyond death— the deathless thing.

I wished the turkey-herd no ill until he discovered his intention of burying me away from the world. It was thus he hoped to rid himself of the spook besetting-him. There is that belief among men. While the body lies tainting the air the restless spirit will walk the earth. Curiously enough, there was in my case some truth in this seemingly absurd supposition. I hated the thought of being buried. It threw me into a curious state of flurried excitement. I felt passionately resentful; but my anger was accompanied by a more than childish impotence, and now that all was over, I sat on a rounded stone and wept ; while Weegull went off in the morning mists among the huge boulders, gathering his turkeys about him, cowering among them as if to so hide his identity or to share out his guilt.

The day was almost upon us. I sat there,gazing with non-existent eyes at my poor grave, weeping immaterial tears, feeling all the pangs of the flesh where no flesh was. A man who has lost a leg may be troubled by the aches of an old corn or the twinges of his familiar gout. A ghost, it would appear, retains, for some time, at any rate, in a similar vague way the sensations of his discarded flesh. But I knew my loss; I longed for my body; I would not let it lie there in the earth to rot. I merely waited, with sly caution till Weegull should be gone.

Suddenly, as I gazed I felt the presence of a new danger. A great, grey beast came slinking between the boulders, a wraith himself in the dull light of the new day. He stretched his nose and sniffed the air, then went forward, snout to the ground, smelling his way. He came to the grave and pushed his muzzle among the earth, and with a powerful paw raked a stone away.

The brute was a wild dog, mastiff like, one of a number in the hills, escaped from domesticity and returned almost to the wolf. He clawed again, and thrust his nose into the hole, sniffing eagerly. I attempted to use the absent organs of articulation in a cry; I snatched at a stone; but ghostly cries are inaudible, ghostly fingers do, not grasp material things. I stood over the beast, whimpering foolishly for quite a minute, while he scratched at the shallow grave.

Then came the consciousness of my new power, and I laughed as heartily as a poor ghost may. The force I exerted was not unnatural (there are no unnatural forces— there are no unnatural laws), but it came from no source compatible with the dog's instinct. At first, feeling the strain on his hindquarters, he turned and snapped viciously, and endeavoured to resume his digging. Again I drew at him, and again he snapped back right and left. I drew him further and further away. He fought with terrific ferocity, snatching furiously at the thin air, tumbling and rolling in the dirt, biting himself in his passion, tearing his lean flanks, contending with the unseen in a proxysm of ungovernable rage.

Only when on the point of exhaustion did the dog yield, and then he lifted himself painfully on his quavering legs, and stood a moment with heaving sides flecked with froth, bleeding from a dozen wounds, his fangs bared in a hideous snarl, his eyes rolling from side to side, seeding his enemy. He limped away, still snarling, looking to this side and that, and was lost to view among the boulders.

I went to the grave, and sucked the stones from their setting. I scattered the loose earth, and drew my body from the hole, couching it upon the bracken in the full light of day. Crouched by it, I peered into the pale face with a sort of mothering love. I yearned over my own poor flesh, fondly protective. A rust of hair had grown on the chin and thin cheeks in the last few hours ; there was much dirt in the long dark hair, and above the temple a broken wound, black with clotted blood, stood out like a symbol.

A quavering cry interrupted me. Weegul had come back. He was standing off from the corpse, looking down at it in terrible amazement, his almost toothless mouth open, his twitching eyebrows lifted into his wrinkled forehead, his hands clawing against his breast. Presently he began to speak, but only to utter the words, "God!" and "Christ" in frantic whispers. His turkeys stood about him, the sleepy birds making no sound, but craning their necks foolishly, an occasional bird lifting his wings with a curious hint of dull weariness that was almost a yawn.

So the sun found them, falling first on the dead man where he lay, lighting up his palor, making play on the black brand seeming to glide into his thick hair.

"He's up from his grave!" said Weegull. "He's raised hisself. My God ! he's raised his-self." He lifted clenched hands to heaven, and in this attitude he advanced slowly, as if fascinated by his own terrors, the ungainly birds at his heels craning their thin necks after him.

Tommy Weegull bent to the body, and let one hand fall gingerly upon it. "Dead !" he whispered. "Oh, he's dead— he's quite dead !" His eye encountered a paw print in the broken soil. He went upon his knees, peering at the tracks, following them up, his nose almost in the dirt. He arose in an ecstasy, capering like a child.

"Dogs!" he said. "Dogs! Dogs! Dogs!" He made a sort of song of it. His turkeys moved sedately aside, repudiating, his foolish levity. "Dogs! dogs! dogs!" Tommy chortled. He had found an explanation of the disinterment that was simple and natural, one that left open to him still a chance of escaping from his recent terrors, and his sudden glee was apeish, yet pitiful. "We'll bury him deep," he said. "Very deep. We'll pile stones on him to keep him down— big stones. We'll fill his grave with 'em. So many, he'll never comes up again.

Weegull went to the grave, and set to work within it. He toiled upon his knees, using the short pick with extraordinary vigour, clawing the dirt and stones away with his calloused fingers. From a distance I watched him at his strange task, feeling again a fever of trepidation for the fate of my bones, forgetful again for the moment of the force at my command.

The sun hung above Eagle Head, deluging the valley in hot light, and Tommy Weegull had disappeared in the grave he was digging with fearful industry, I saw only the dirt and stones spring up as he threw them from the excavation. Meanwhile the turkeys stood scattered among the boulders, brooding drowsily making no attempt to find sustenance on that arid patch, uttering no sound, yet in some strange way suggesting an eerie sympathy with the digger.

Tommy came up from the grave. He had almost forgotten his terrors in the violence of his energy. He was drenched with perspiration. Pausing not for a moment he ran to and fro, bearing large stones to the edge of the excavation, and piling them there.

Now my murderer was prepared for me. He paused for a moment on hands and knees, gazing at the body. Compunction grew in his face. He looked piteously on trees and sky, seeking a god for the prayer in his heart, and then he crept nearer, and laid a hand on the dead man that was I. I fought with him, holding the slim corpse with superhuman power.

Weegull put forth his strength, and sought to drag the body to him. I resisted with scarcely an effort, and Tommy tried again, putting all his strength into the endeavour. Surprise and consternation sprang into his eyes, and he drew away a moment to rest himself, breathing deeply, staring fixedly at the dead, cold terror creeping back into his heart. I was five feet eight inches only, and lightly built; the turkeyherd had the strength of a fatless athlete, toughened by a hard, open-air life on the steep hills and the exercise of primitive tillage. He rested a full two minutes, and then, taking the body by both angles, he pulled with a steady strain. There was no responsive movement. It was as if all the strength had gone from his limbs, or the weight of the great, grey granite boulders had been given to the dead thing in his hands.

With dry tongue Weegull sought to moisten his cracked lips, and a fearful greyness stole through the tan of his streaming face. Once more he tried to move the body. Again he failed, and, springing to his feet with an anguished cry, he faced the situation in a flare of utter desperation. Standing across the prone figure of William Clint, he grappled it about the waist, and lifted with all his might. I put my force against him, and he failed. A riot of madness seized him, and he struggled ferociously with the dead thing, tearing at it with his iron fingers, blaspheming in a low voice, the blood flowing down his chin from deeply-bitten lips, every thew showing sharply in his tense arms and his rigid neck.

Again he failed to shift the body, and in his wild fury he fell upon it, and taking the dead man's throat in his two hands, he put all that was in him into a frantic endeavour to choke out of the body the uncanny life with which he believed it still to be invested. The murderer was seeking to slay his victim yet again.

I threw my power against him, and forced Weegull to his feet and back from his victim, step by step. He fought me all the way, struggling as if with a tangible foe, straining himself till the blood sprang from his muscles, and cursing all the time in a barking, bestial way. It was only a repetition of the struggle with the wild dog; the man was as blind, he was as irrational. He tore at his clothing, he lacerated his own skin, and from his throat welled guttural sounds of fury such as any brute might make fighting for its life.

Straining forward towards the corpse, Weegull was urged away, striving distractedly till he floundered into the open grave. He no longer resisted, but lay where he had fallen, shrunken together at the bottom of the hole, a quivering, shapeless thing.

I watched, and Weegull grovelled there for many minutes. Presently he appeared from the ground again, peering towards the body. He drew himself out of the hole, and scrambled away, going some yards on hands and knees. Rising to his feet, he fled, with an arm hiding his face, and the turkeys, grouping together, flowed after him, with the mincing gait of dancers, but still impassable and genteel.

There was a fear that he might return, and I stayed with my dead.

Did ever another ghost employ itself as I did during the following hours? I was infused with a pitiful longing to return into my flesh, to feel again the stability of my bones, to have the warmth of blood and the sensations of the body. Have you ever seen a small bird, bred in captivity released from its cage, struggling to get back into its barred prison, fluttering in an agony of apprehension from one side to the other, desisting only when beaten into helplessness by its vain efforts? So I strove about my body, seeking ingress, woefully eager to regain mortality. So I failed. There was no response to my appeal, no way, no hope.

It was an hour after noon when I drifted away down the side of Little Mt. Long, drawn back to humanity.

As I went through the boulders and warped trees like crutchless cripples, a sudden shower struck the range-side, veiling the sun, and set-ting a vivid rainbow astride the valley. The rain was not more than enough to drench the trees, and start the lichen-covered boulders steaming, veiling the near distances in a faint purple vapour.

I came on him unexpectedly. The vision was a curious one. He hung, as it were, silhouetted under the arch of glory, something of the rain-bow's tints filtered into the mists about him— a queer, misshapen object dangling by the neck from the limb of a sprawling gum, suspended on his own waist belt.

On the flinty soil a large flock of turkeys gathered, lifting weary wings, making occasional low, guttural complaints, but loyally awaiting the pleasure of Tommy Weegull, permanently up a tree.

_________________

8: The Great Black

Raoul Whitfield

1896-1945

Cosmopolitan August 1937

THE MOON-FACED Chinese sitting on Jo Gar's right made cheerful gurgling sounds as he slapped yellow palms together. The racially mixed audience in the heat-soaked Manila Theater was enthusiastic; on the stage the famous English magician Hugh Black— The Great Black— bowed gracefully to the clatter of applause and the hum of many tongues.

The ancient curtain of the theater descended slowly, rose with the famous magician still in the center of the stage, bowing. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with black, wavy hair. He had poise, dignity. His movements were rapid and filled with grace.

Gesturing toward a small table near him, he stamped a foot heavily. Smoke rose from the table, there was a flutter of wings. Dozens of pigeons winged out over the audience, circling back to the stage as the curtain again descended.

There were wrinkles of fat in the neck of the aged Chinese seated beside the Island detective. He gurgled up at the winging birds.

The last one circled, dived back toward the lowering curtain, flashed under it. Jo Gar reached for one of his brown-paper cigarettes. The curtain rose again, and The Great Black raised his arms above his head. Still the applause continued.

Jo Gar's gray-blue eyes smiled; he ran brown fingers through his gray hair, half raised his tall, lean body from the uncomfortable seat. And as he lifted himself, he was conscious of the fact that the figure of the magician no longer possessed grace. The Great Black was slumping— slumping downward toward the stage floor, sprawling forward now, toward the footlights!

There was a hush in the theater, and then a sudden babble. Jo Gar stood erect, staring at the motionless lure of the great magician. Two of his assistants were kneeling beside him; they lifted him from the stage floor, moved backstage as the curtain came down. The babble of excitement in the theatre continued. A voice spoke to the Island detective in Tagalog, the native tongue.

"Señor Gar! You saw that. He was struck—" Sadi Ratan, Lieutenant in the Manila police, was in the aisle beside Jo Gar's seat.

The detective said calmly: "You saw something strike the magician, Lieutenant Ratan?"

Sadi Ratan's lips curved downward. His dark eyes were narrow, aggressive. "You think it was a faint, perhaps. Señor?" There was contempt in his tone. "You observed the way he fell? I must hurry to the rear of the theater." He moved along the aisle.

The moon-faced Chinese plucked at Jo Gar's coat. "You see?" he muttered. "The Great Black— he is ill, very ill!"

Jo Gar smiled. "It is so, " he said. "The performer is either very ill, or he has already— ceased to be ill."

A small Filipino attired in dinner clothes appeared before the curtain. He raised a hand and when there was quiet spoke in a shrill, shaken voice.

"The Great Black— the management regrets— it is that the famous one— he is sick. Please— it is regrettable— you will now leave quietly."

Jo Gar sighed. He spoke half to the moon-faced Chinese, half to himself. "I think it is that the famous one— has ceased to be ill."

A bright-eyed mestizo winked at Jo Gar as he moved slowly along the Escolta, main business street of Manila, from the lobby of the theater toward the stage-entrance alley. Behind him the audience spilled into the street. At the stage door an elderly Filipino looked into the detective's slant eyes, frightened.

"Señor Gar, " he breathed, and stepped aside.

"I have come to see Señor Hugh Black. He is in the dressing room?"

The elderly Filipino shivered. "It is so, Señor. If you will go to the light … "

Along a dimly lighted corridor there was an electric bulb over one of the doors. When Jo Gar reached it, he heard the sharp voice of Lieutenant Ratan within the room, which was small and hot. The detective entered; his gray-blue eyes went to the lighted mirror of the dressing table, past photographs of actors and actresses hanging on the walls to the figure stretched on a Spanish-shawled couch.

As he noted the limpness of a dangling hand, he heard Sadi Ratan say, "You are the Princess Vlatchnoff? That is your stage name?"

Jo Gar looked at the woman. She was seated on a small chair at the right of the entrance door. She was very beautiful: her face was oval; her features were delicate, her eyes and hair dark.

"I am the Princess Vlatchnoff— Sonya Vlatchnoff." Her voice was soft and husky. Jo Gar said quietly: "Señor Black— he is dead."

Sadi Ratan smiled, his dark eyes half closed. "I felt that you would come here, Señor Gar. It is good of you. You have often aided the Manila police. This is Doctor Montaloupe." He gestured toward a small dark-faced man. "He was in the audience and came to the stage by way of an entrance behind the boxes. Señor Black was dead when he reached his side. A knife wound in his neck— the base of the brain."

The doctor said: "It is a wound that might have been made by a knife."

The detective looked toward the body. "A thrown knife, doctor?"

The doctor shrugged. "There has been such impact. When I reached the magician's side, he had been carried in here. The weapon is missing." Sadi Ratan spoke sharply, "You recall the Princess Vlatchnoff, Señor Gar? It was she who performed the knife-throwing act just after the intermission."

The detective nodded. His eyes went to the woman's white face, ran over her colorful costume. It was the same costume she had worn on the stage.

The husky voice of the princess broke the silence of the dressing room. "This police lieutenant suspects me of murder, Señor Gar." There was a strange flicker in her eyes, and then they were cold again. "I have heard of you in Shanghai. I should like you to help me."

Sadi Ratan said: "That is very well, but I should like Señor Gar to know that Mr. Hugh Black came to the police two days ago. He feared for his life. He stated that a woman hated him, and that if death came to him it would be by a knife."

The Princess Vlatchnoff's hands were clenched; she was breathing quickly. The police lieutenant went on: "The knife was thrown from behind the magician. He was facing the audience. There were cabinets and mirrors on the stage for the purpose of illusion. The two assistants of The Great Black and two men who work the lights did not see the knife thrown. When I came in here Madame Vlatchnoff was alone with Mr. Black."

The woman looked at Jo Gar and spoke huskily. "My husband was a sportsman who loved swords, knives. It was with him I learned—" She broke off.

Sadi Ratan said: "To throw a knife excellently!"

Her eyes appealed to Jo Gar. "I have not yet been accused of murder, but I am suspected of it. I should like to retain you, Señor Gar. I am not guilty of murdering this man."

"I am not a lawyer, princess," Jo Gar told her, "but if you wish to retain me— if you wish me to seek the murderer—"

She said firmly: "I do."

The detective bowed. Sadi Ratan moved toward the figure on the couch.

"The coroner will be here immediately— and two of my men. Poor devil— he was a great magician, this Black."

"He is a great magician, lieutenant," Sonya Vlatchnoff said quietly.

Sadi Ratan faced her. His voice was hard.

"The princess chooses to doubt that Hugh Black is dead?"

Her dark eyes met Jo Gar's. She spoke in a husky, even tone.

"Yes. I choose to doubt that The Great Black is dead."

The detective said softly, "And your reason for the doubt, Princess Vlatchnoff?"

There was silence. Then the woman said, "The dead man lying there, Señor Gar, is not The Great Black."

Jo Gar pulled on a brown-paper cigarette, his figure lolling in a chair near the dead man. Don Castana, the coroner, was examining the wound; two of the police lieutenant's men stood near the door. Sadi Ratan paced back and forth, talking in a low voice.

"And you say, Madame Vlatchnoff, that after the trick performed by The Great Black about five minutes before the end of the show— the vanishing of a girl from a tank of water— it was the magician's habit to have himself impersonated by this dead man, unknown to the audience. This Richard Janisohn took the applause and did a few simple encore tricks. In the meantime, The Great Black was dressing for the street."

Princess Vlatchnoff nodded. "Yes," she said. "He started it as a whim— he told me once how simple it was to fool an audience. Of course the impersonating make-up is very good. When it worked well, Hugh decided to continue the trick. It allowed him to leave the stage sooner, rest from the strain of his performance."

Jo Gar said: "The entire company knew The Great Black was replaced by Richard Janisohn just before the end of the performance?" The woman shrugged. "Some of us knew— I'm not sure how many.

Janisohn stood in the wings for a few seconds. After the water illusion there was usually much applause. Hugh bowed from the side of the stage, walked off. Janisohn walked on in his place. That was all."

Sadi Ratan frowned. "But not all the persons backstage knew this?"

"Very likely not." The princess' voice was low and calm. "We carry our own lights and operators with us— it is necessary in a performance of illusions. Some of them may never have known; certainly none of the local staff did."

Ratan said: "But you did, Madame?" She nodded. "To an extent."

Jo Gar stared at his cigarette. "You mean that at times The Great Black did finish the performance?"

She said: "That is so, Señor Gar."

Sadi Ratan swore in Tagalog. The coroner straightened up.

"The death was apparently instantaneous," he said. "At the impact of the weapon— a knife or a dagger. The impact point was the base of the brain; the weapon drove in with much force."

Ratan spoke swiftly. "The weapon might have been a thrown knife or dagger?"

Don Castana nodded. "Thrown or in the grip of the murderer, I should say."

The police lieutenant regarded the Princess Vlatchnoff with narrowed eyes. "When this Richard Janisohn substituted for The Great Black tonight he took the bows, made a gesture toward a small table, stamped a foot. Smoke was released. Pigeons flew out over the audience, circled back as the curtain descended. The curtain rose again and Janisohn bowed. Then he fell forward toward the footlights. Where were you, Madame Vlatchnoff, at that time?"

"I was here in this dressing room, seated there." She gestured toward the couch on which the body was lying.

Jo Gar smiled. "You were alone in this room at the time the dead man fell, princess?" he asked.

She said slowly "No, I was not alone. I was there on the couch.

Hugh Black was holding me in his arms."

The lieutenant of police stared at her. "You did not tell us this before."

"You did not ask me where I was or who was with me."

A brown-faced policeman appeared in the dressing-room doorway, spoke to Sadi Ratan in the native tongue.

When the policeman had finished, Ratan turned to the princess. "Mr. Hugh Black has not returned to the Manila Hotel. His clothes are in the closet, and his toilet articles are still there."

For the first time there was fear in the woman's eyes. Ratan's voice crackled at her.

"Why does that frighten you, Madame?"

Her eyes met the police lieutenant's squarely. "Because I think perhaps whoever murdered Richard Janisohn may have discovered the mistake, followed Hugh Black—" Her voice broke.

Jo Gar stood up. "Followed, you say, princess? He left you here, then?"

Her voice was steadier now. "Yes; we quarreled. He left me here. I was here when Crandon and Foxe carried Janisohn in. I was terribly shocked."

Sadi Ratan said: "Crandon and Foxe are The Great Black's assistants?"

She nodded. "Yes. They are English. They ran to Janisohn when he fell."

The Manila lieutenant asked, "If you were down here when Janisohn fell, how do you know that?"

"Crandon told me they did," she said.

The detective smiled at Sadi Ratan. "You see," he breathed.

Sadi Ratan glared at him. "I shall see more when I talk to Crandon and Foxe."

The coroner said: "If you are finished with the body, I shall have my men remove it, lieutenant."

Sadi Ratan nodded.

When the body had been removed Ratan faced the woman. "You quarreled with The Great Black— why?"

Her red lips trembled. Her eyes went to Jo Gar's. He smiled at her. "You do not have to answer," he said. "But it is within the power of the lieutenant to hold you as a material witness. Perhaps if you are frank with him.…"

The woman looked at Sadi Ratan. "It is personal. Please— if you will send your men away—"

They were sent away. After a few seconds she spoke.

"We quarreled— Hugh and I— because he refused to marry me."

Jo Gar said: "And his reason for not wishing to marry you, princess?"

"My family is of the old regime— I am a princess. Hugh's family—" She moved her lovely hands slightly.

Sadi Ratan said with faint amusement: "But all that, Madame, is ended."

Her voice was precise. "All that, lieutenant, never began for you. You would not understand."

The detective spoke gently. "In any case, Hugh Black left you in anger?"

She said: "In a sort of— quiet anger."

Sadi Ratan cleared his throat. "My men are searching for him. He is necessary, of course, to complete your alibi."

"Alibi?" she asked.

The police lieutenant shrugged. "You are an expert in the art of throwing a dagger, a knife. I myself have witnessed your skill. I myself saw the dead man fall forward. I did not see him struck down, but with the stage lighted as it was, a thrown knife might easily have been missed. I saw few of the knives that you threw at the targets, Madame, until they struck. And with the added deception of mirrors—" He broke off, bowed, his smile sardonic. "The dead man is one Richard Janisohn, posing as The Great Black. If it should be that he were hated—"

The woman interrupted. "But I did not hate him."

Jo Gar said: "There are other matters. Your men have found no dagger or knife. The two assistants have not been thoroughly questioned. The Princess Vlatchnoff has stated that she was in this room when Janisohn was struck down. Others were on the stage behind the man who is now dead."

The police lieutenant moved close to the woman, pointed a brown finger at her. "It is true, is it not, that the one who is now dead was in love with you?"

"Yes!" she said quickly.

Ratan's eyes were small. "And it is true, is it not, that you did not love him?"

Again she spoke swiftly, firmly. "Yes!"

The silence following her answer was broken by the murmur of voices in the corridor beyond the dressing room. A police-uniformed Filipino came into the room. He spoke rapidly to Sadi Ratan in Tagalog.

When he had finished Sadi Ratan hurried through the doorway. The woman turned wide dark eyes to the detective's gray-blue ones.

"I do not understand the language."

"The police have found a knife," said Jo Gar. "A knife! Where?"

"In the ceiling of the corridor, princess, less than twenty feet from this door."

The edge of a typhoon breeze was gustily slapping the city of Manila as Jo Gar and Sadi Ratan emerged from the Manila Hotel after escorting the princess to her room there.

The police lieutenant halted near his car, frowned at the detective. "Charming liar," he said. "She will do well under guard until I verify my opinion."

"And your opinion is?" Jo Gar asked.

Sadi Ratan shrugged. "Richard Janisohn was in love with her. He would not give her up. Hugh Black, she states, would not marry her because her family was superior to his. That, I think, is a lie. The Great Black would not marry her because he suspected Janisohn. She knew it, and she feared Janisohn. So—"

A gust of typhoon wind rocked both men. Ratan smiled coldly at Jo Gar.

"You have been retained by her, but I do not conceal my thoughts from you. So— she struck Janisohn down with a perfectly thrown knife. Apparently, someone had attempted to murder The Great Black— that was what she wished the police to believe. But she had knowledge that Richard Janisohn was impersonating The Great Black."

"What of her statement that she was in the dressing room with Hugh Black when Janisohn fell? And where is Black?"

Sadi Ratan's voice was positive. "You have a fine reputation, Señor Gar. The princess"— sarcasm crept into the title—"is your client. But I think that after the princess threw the knife at the man she knew was impersonating The Great Black she went to Black's dressing room. I think he had already departed.

"The doorman is an old Filipino by the name of Vincente Lapa. He thinks that The Great Black left the theater just before the pigeons were released— that is because of the applause he heard. The Great Black had left when Lapa heard it. That applause, you recall, was just before Janisohn fell. Almost immediately after that Madame Vlatchnoff threw her knife, unseen; reached the dressing room unseen. Her story that The Great Black was with her there is a lie.

"As for your second question: Where is The Great Black? What does a man do when he has quarreled with the woman he loves? Does he retire to his hotel room? Perhaps. Or perhaps he walks the city, visits drinking places. The police are searching for him, Señor Gar."

"And when you find him?" Jo Gar asked.

Sadi Ratan raised palms to a flurry of warm rain. "You disagree with my theory, but you too have promised your client only that you will seek the murderer of the dead man. Perhaps, then, when we find this Hugh Black, he will not recall having been in the dressing room with Madame Vlatchnoff at the proper time to establish her alibi. Perhaps he will not recall it in time."

"Perhaps," Jo Gar agreed. "Then there was the knife. Since you believe that Princess Vlatchnoff used it in killing a lover she wished to forget— how did it reach the ceiling near the dress room?"

Sadi Ratan's smile became grimmer. "Two men have come to me, Señor Gar. One was seated in the audience in the third row, another in the first. Each of them saw the knife after it had struck. When the assistants pulled the body behind the curtain, the knife remained in the neck."

Jo Gar whistled. "And after that?"

"We found blood on the knife we withdrew from the corridor ceiling."

Jo Gar nodded. "It is so. Yet The Great Black's assistants who lifted Janisohn's' body must have seen the knife."

Sadi Ratan's voice was mocking. "It is so," he replied. "Yet Madame Vlatchnoff is very beautiful, and it is not beyond possibility that they realized Janisohn was only a lover of hers— a past lover— and one who impersonated a great magician for a few minutes."

Jo Gar whistled again. "And thus the knife was returned to the princess, fingerprints removed from the hilt. And it was she who skillfully tossed it against the corridor ceiling."

"And why not, Señor Gar?"

Jo Gar smiled. "I can think of many reasons, Lieutenant. But the rain and the wind are for younger men— men like yourself. I seek shelter. Adios."

Surprise was in Sadi Ratan's eyes. "Adios, Señor Gar!"

As Jo Gar closed the door of Ling Po's shop, a bell tinkled.

The detective called, "The hour is late, and Jo Gar is regretful."

Ling Po waddled toward Jo Gar, bowing many times. "The hour at which Señor Gar visits me— it is the best," he stated. "You are wet, Señor."

"It does not matter, Ling Po. Tonight I have not come to sip tea and hear wise words. I have come for help. I have been foolish tonight, Ling Po. I have visited many shops. And here in the shop of my good friend—"

His eyes went to a small space on a low shelf holding many objects: dusty Buddhas; fans; strings of wooden beads.

After a few seconds he asked, "Today you sold something from the shelf?"

The wrinkles of Ling Po's yellow skin formed a smile again. "It is as you say Señor," he said. "It was the small lacquer box of very fine workmanship. It brought a good price."

"A lacquer box— and the purchaser did not bargain with you, Ling Po?"

The elderly Chinese looked at the detective with a puzzled expression. "He did not bargain, this one," he stated.

"Some men can afford not to bargain," said Jo Gar. His right hand buried itself in a pocket, withdrew an object, held it beneath Ling Po's eyes. "This is the lacquer box for which the purchaser did not bargain, Ling Po?"

The eyes of the old Chinese widened. He nodded. "It is the box," he muttered. "I do not think that in all Manila there is another—" He stopped. "But Señor Gar, how is it that you—"

Jo Gar smiled and placed the box carefully on a counter. He said, "Please, Ling Po, do not touch the box. You see, there is still dust on a portion of it."

The black eyes of the Chinese held an inscrutable expression. "Since you have not asked me, yet wish to know, Señor Gar— he was a tall one, the purchaser. His shoulders were broad, and he possessed great dignity. His hair was dark and rolling like the China Sea."

Jo Gar smiled. "You perhaps recall the hour of the purchase, Ling Po?"

"It so happens that this one asked me the price of the clock of my ancestors," said Ling Po. "My eyes went to it, and I recall the hour. Within twenty minutes the hour of eleven would strike."

Jo Gar looked at the old clock, glanced at his wrist watch, raised his eyes to the old clock again.

"I told the tall one that the clock was not to be purchased. It has never failed by so much as a minute, Señor Gar. He bowed to me and went away."

The detective nodded. "It is good not to sell things that have served a family well," he said. "And was tonight the first time the purchaser of the lacquer box had come to your shop, Ling Po?"

The elderly Chinese shook his head. "Two mornings ago he visited me, Señor Gar. He did not buy, but he looked at many objects. He asked me then if my shop was open at night, and I answered that my shop was open most hours of the clock and that I slept little."

Jo Gar nodded. "Yet you had been dozing tonight just before the purchaser of the lacquer box entered the shop?"

There was faint surprise in Ling Po's black eyes as he nodded. "It is so. Tonight I was weary. But Señor Gar, how is it that you … " His voice trailed off.

"Tomorrow you shall know many things, Ling Po. But tonight—" Jo Gar lifted the lacquer box from the counter, moved across to the shelf. On the spot where the box had rested there was little dust. Jo Gar fitted the box at the proper angle on the shelf.

He said: "It is almost two. Long ago I should have been home in bed. Kalaa, my assistant, will be waiting up." His gray-blue eyes smiled. "The box rested there before you sold it to the tall one, Ling Po?"

Ling Po nodded. "For many months, Señor Gar. Then it is purchased, and within a few hours you return it."

The detective removed the lacquer box from the shelf, placed it in a coat pocket. He bowed to Ling Po. "And I go now to return it to the owner, Ling Po. Tomorrow I shall visit you again."

The elderly Chinese bowed low. "Good, Señor Gar, for in mystery there is often danger. I do not seek mystery as you do."

"My profession requires that I seek it," said Jo Gar. "It is so also with the profession of— magician." He went from the shop, closing the door behind him.

The automobile Jo Gar hailed rattled along the Escolta, passing sleepy drivers of calesas. When it passed police headquarters the detective called sharply in Tagalog, "Stop! Wait for me here."

Inside the building he went directly to the office of Lieutenant Sadi Ratan.

"You are still up, Señor Gar," the lieutenant observed. "I advise you to return to your house and sleep."

"You are pleased with yourself, Lieutenant— and you offer me advice, May I ask why?"

"It is a pleasure to inform you, Señor Gar. The Great Black left my office only a few minutes ago. His statements did not in any way aid your client, Madame Vlatchnoff. On the contrary, his statements were damaging to her. And he did establish a perfect alibi for himself."

Sadi Ratan was enjoying himself.

"We have established the exact time that Janisohn fell to the stage, the knife in his neck. It was eighteen minutes to eleven. At that hour the princess states that she was in the dressing room in Hugh Black's arms. And yet, Señor Gar, The Great Black states that he left the theater before the applause intended for him and accepted by the dead man, and that at twenty minutes to eleven he was in a shop a half-mile away."

"You have investigated his statement?" Jo Gar asked.

Sadi Ratan shrugged. "Later in the morning, when the shop will be open. But I do not doubt Hugh Black. He came to me of his own accord as soon as he heard of the murder. He tried at first to protect Madame Vlatchnoff. Then, under my questioning, he admitted that he believed she had thrown the knife, knowing Janisohn had taken his place."

"And the reason for the murder?"

"Hugh Black had discovered that she had had an affair with Janisohn. She did not think he knew it. She no longer loved Janisohn and was afraid of him. Black believes it is possible Janisohn was attempting to blackmail her. So"— the police lieutenant shrugged—"she threw the knife, at which she has great skill."

"She lied about being with Hugh Black, thinking that she could reach him before we did, and that he would protect her. Or perhaps she did not think much about Black, believing she would never be suspected. In any case, she murdered Janisohn. I have phoned. She is being brought here now."

Jo Gar glanced at his wristwatch. "How long has Hugh Black been gone from this office?" he asked.

Sadi Ratan said: "About five minutes."

The detective nodded. "You told him you would investigate his statement that he had been in a certain shop at twenty minutes of eleven— after daylight?"

"Yes, Señor Gar."

Jo Gar's voice was soft. "This is the purchase Hugh Black made, Lieutenant." He held the lacquer box toward Sadi Ratan. "The shop was that of Ling Po, who deals in curios of the Orient," Jo Gar went on. "I have talked to Ling Po, and he has said that a man answering the description of the magician purchased this box from him this evening at twenty minutes to eleven. He was aware of the time because the purchaser also questioned him about buying his ancestral clock."

The detective paused. Sadi Ratan was regarding him with suspicion. "How is it that you possess the box?"

Jo Gar smiled. "It was the only object in Hugh Black's room at the Manila Hotel that had not been there before he left for the theater in the evening."

Sadi Ratan frowned. "How do you know that?" he demanded.

"When I accompanied my client and you to the hotel, you recall we went to Hugh Black's room. You talked with the manager outside. The Princess Vlatchnoff informed me that she had left for the theater with Hugh Black and that the box had not been on the table near the window when they departed."

Sadi Ratan continued to frown. "So you took it and traced it to Ling Po's shop. Clever work, Señor Gar!" He laughed nastily. "And all you learned was that Hugh Black was not at the theater at the moment of the crime. In fact, he was merely purchasing the box he placed in his room before we arrived there."

Jo Gar said, "It so happens that I learned more than that." He glanced at his wristwatch again. "Before dawn," he added, "I can turn over to you the murderer of Janisohn."

"The murderess is now under careful guard," Ratan told him.

Jo Gar shook his head. "The princess did not murder Janisohn. My reputation is not a small one in the Islands. Will you come with me, Lieutenant?"

"Where do we go?" asked Sadi Ratan.

"To the shop of Ling Po."

The street of the Three Candles was little more than a narrow, curving alley, the entrance to which was almost directly opposite Ling Po's store. Standing in the darkness of the alley, Sadi Ratan whispered impatiently: "We have been here more than thirty minutes, Señor Gar. I am tired. I shall stay with you only ten minutes—"

Jo Gar's fingers gripped Sadi Ratan's wrist in a signal for silence. There had been no sound of footfalls along the street, but now a bent figure came into sight. It paused before the entrance to Ling Po's store. Shadow moved within shadow, and there was the sound of a door closing.

Jo Gar motioned Sadi Ratan to follow him and hurried across the street. In the doorway of the shop the detective's left hand moved to a hip pocket as his right turned the knob of the door. His automatic shifted to his right hand as he entered the store.

Above the counter a light wavered, left the face of Ling Po's ancestral clock. Even as it swung away, Jo Gar saw that the glass covering the clock's face had been hinged to one side.

The beam from the light struck across Jo Gar's face. Then the beam was gone.

Jo Gar said sharply, "Please stand still."

There was a clicking sound— the beam of Sadi Ratan's flashlight shifted high, dropped. Sadi Ratan swore.

The white light shone full on the face of Hugh Black.

Ling Po called sleepily from the rear of the shop, "What is it that happens?"

Jo Gar said grimly: "Remain quiet, Mr. Black. I have in my hand a weapon that is swifter than a knife."

In the flare of the beam Hugh Black's lips were twitching.

Jo Gar called: "Ling Po, it is Señor Gar. Quickly— make a light for us!"

There was silence for several seconds, and then Ling Po pattered into the room. A switch snapped; light from two bulbs whitened the interior.

Jo Gar raised his automatic, walked toward the magician. As he moved he said slowly, "This, Lieutenant Ratan, is the murderer of Janisohn!"

"You lie!" Hugh Black cried fiercely.

Jo Gar halted near the counter. "I do not lie," he said. "The Princess Vlatchnoff loves you more than you love her, Mr. Black. She tried to protect you, even while defending herself. That is why she said you were with her in her dressing room— when Janisohn collapsed on the stage. But you were not with her."

The Great Black stood motionless.

"You murdered Richard Janisohn," the detective went on, "because you discovered he had had an affair with Princess Vlatchnoff. And I think you had come to hate the princess, Mr. Black. Knowing that she would be suspected, being skilled at throwing a knife—"

"You lie!" Hugh Black's voice was hoarse. "I was not in the theater when Janisohn was murdered. I could not throw a knife if I—"

Jo Gar smiled. "You did not throw a knife, Mr. Black. You struck with it."

"You fool!" The Great Black's words held a smothered fury. "They have told me that he fell in full view of the audience— as he was bowing."

Jo Gar said, "He did not fall in full view of the audience, Mr. Black, It was you who fell! It was you who with your magician's skill produced a knife, clutched at it and the back of your neck as you sprawled to the stage!"

"Madre de Dios!" Sadi Ratan's voice was a whisper.

Jo Gar said, "Your two assistants carried your body to one of the illusion cabinets, Janisohn hurried to you, not knowing what had happened. The assistants had left you. It was then that you pulled Janisohn down, Mr. Black. It was then that you knifed him!"

The ancestral clock ticked against the heavy breathing of Hugh Black and Sadi Ratan. Ling Po made no sound.

Jo Gar said almost tonelessly: "I did not believe the Princess Vlatchnoff's story that you were with her in the dressing room. The stage-door attendant was not positive of the time he had seen you leave. There was blood on the cabinet base— stains that even the careful Lieutenant Ratan did not see.

"I was not positive that Janisohn had taken the applause for you this evening, Mr. Black. The knife found in the corridor ceiling was a trick to confuse. The princess, having murdered, would not have thrown it there. I think one of your assistants placed it there.

"And then there was the matter of the lacquer box, Mr. Black." He watched The Great Black's eyes widen, as fear came into them. "It puzzled me. The box was not in your room when you left with the princess for the theater. Yet it was there after Janisohn's murder. There was still some dust clinging to the box. It had been handled carefully. I thought perhaps you considered the box— important. I was not wrong. I traced the box to this shop."

The great black managed a twisted smile. "You are a fool," he breathed. "I have been told that Janisohn fell to the stage at exactly eighteen minutes to eleven. I was just leaving this shop at twenty minutes to eleven."

Ling Po said slowly: "It is as this one says, Señor Gar. It is so."

Jo Gar spoke calmly. "Why did you come here this morning, Mr. Black? You broke into the shop of Ling Po. Why?"

The Great Black laughed. "I wanted to see if I was clever enough to manage an entrance. I wanted to—"

Jo Gar lifted his gun arm. "Knowing Janisohn was murdered, you tell us you wished to test your skill? Play a game?"

The Great Black's eyes were on the detective's weapon.

Jo Gar went on: "We waited for you, Mr. Black. I knew that you would come here tonight. You came to Ling Po's shop once before you purchased the lacquer box. You looked around carefully.

"This evening you returned. Ling Po had been dozing. You were in the store when he greeted you. You purchased a lacquer box— and because the box was important to you, it was taken to your room. That was a mistake. You should have kept the box with you.

"You were afraid that the Princess Vlatchnoff might accuse you of the murder of Janisohn, so you sought to establish an alibi, Mr. Black. You saw to it that Ling Po noticed that you departed from his shop at twenty minutes of eleven, but you did not depart at twenty minutes of eleven. For while Ling Po was dozing, you had set back the large hand of the clock fifteen minutes! It was actually five minutes to eleven when you left this shop— and you had already murdered Janisohn."

There was silence in the room. The Great Black was swaying.

Jo Gar spoke gently: "I waited for you because I had noticed that the clock was fifteen minutes slow. I knew you would return. It must be set ahead again. It must be an accurate clock."

There was no color in Hugh Black's face. "The damned— box! I might have—"

Jo Gar turned to Sadi Ratan. "He is your prisoner, Lieutenant Ratan."

As Sadi Ratan moved toward the magician, Jo Gar watched The Great Black's eyes. He could not read the expression in them. A confession to come? A defense? Suicide, perhaps, in a small cell? The detective suddenly felt tired.

Ling Po spoke. "Even at this dark hour, Señor Gar, there is the solace of tea."

Jo Gar nodded and, without looking at The Great Black or Sadi Ratan, went slowly toward the rear of the shop.

___________________

9: Where Early Fa's the Dew

Guy Gilpatric

1896-1950

The Saturday Evening Post, 22 March 1941

JUST WEST of where Glasgow's Fennieston Street meets the not-so-bonnie north bank of the Clyde and changes its name to Fennieston Quay, there rears a building as grim as the Bastille, austere as the Papal Palace of Avignon, and vast as the Moscow Kremlin. From that it is not to be concluded that the massive pile follows any particular style of architecture for, quite obviously, the construction of its main body could have involved only a spirit level, four plumb bobs, and sufficient bricks. Surmounting it, however, is what appears from a distance to be a spire, belvedere, or minaret but proves on nearer view to be the gigantic image of a whisky bottle. Upon the label is a picture of a Highland piper and the cockle-warming words:

DUGGAN'S DEW OF KIRKINTILLOCH

Two stories below the bottle and extending full across the citadel's facade is a sign which identifies the premises as Warehouse No. 1, Export Division and Executive Offices of Mackenzie Duggan & Company, Ltd., whose distilleries, as all the world knows, are located in the nearby suburb where falls that fabulous dew which bears its name. Glasgow citizens of a mathematical turn have estimated that the whisky stored in Duggan's Warehouse No. 1, if released and permitted to cascade into the Queens Dock over the way, would fill all three basins to a depth sufficient to float the considerable shipping berthed therein— provided, of course, that the citizens themselves didn't get there first. Actually, the precious product emerges only in neat wooden cases, which are transported by electric tram along Stobcross Quay to vessels waiting to ferry them over the oceans of this thirsty world.

On a winter afternoon not long ago, one of the ships engaged in loading Duggan's Dew was a British tramp called the Inchcliffe Castle. Now, whisky is whisky and man is frail; and so, as the slings laden with cases were hoisted inboard and lowered gently into the holds, the mates kept an eye on the stevedores, the dock police kept an eye on the mates, and certain unobtrusive gentlemen employed by the underwriters kept an eye on the police, the mates, the stevedores, and on one another. It was heartening to find on the ship one man whose lofty spirit soared above such sordidness, suspicion, and distrust. He was the Chief Engineer, Mr. Colin Glencannon, who, less than an hour previously, laboring deep in the bowels of the ship had unbolted but not removed the cover of a manhole in the roof of the shaft tunnel. At a later and auspicious time, when the Inchcliffe Castle should be somewhere between Port Said and Hong Kong, he planned to climb up through the manhole into No. 3 hold and snaffle the whisky stowed therein at his own good leisure and to his heart's content. Now, however, he was seated at the table in the officers' saloon, rapt in the ecstasies of epistolary composition. The letter, anonymous and in disguised handwriting, hinted at a plot to broach the cargo, described Mr. Glencannon's honesty and devotion to duty in laudatory terms but made things distinctly grim for Mr. Montgomery, the Mate. It would, of course, be posted from some distant port to the Inchcliffe's owners in London, before the broaching was discovered but too late to prevent it.

"Haw!" he chuckled as he read over the first page. "As I've stated the circumstontial details, lying willna save him and telling the truth will only involve him deeper. It will cost him his job, his ticket and perhaps e'en a few years in jail! Losh! It's a braw neat pronk, any way ye look at it!"

Once more taking pen in hand, he addressed his efforts to Page Two. He was endeavoring to recall how many Ss occur in "pusillanimous" and had about decided to make it "stinking" instead, when he was interrupted by a knock on the door. Looking up, he saw thrust past the portal's edge a broad, beaming, but unfamiliar face, topped by a black felt hat and based upon a snowy clerical collar. "Ah!" said the face, mellifluously, as though intoning the opening note of a Gregorian chant, "Ah! Did I— ah— do I interrupt, Captain?"

"Both," said Mr. Glencannon. "But dinna let it discourage ye. As one o' the staunchest pillars o' the Scottish Presbyterian Kirk, I am always glod to weelcome a gentlemon o' the cloth, no motter how fallacious his doctrines or unopportune his intrusion. In other wurrds, come in, my reeverend sir, come in!"

"Ah, thank you! I shall be— ah— most happy to do so!"

He entered, bringing with him a suitcase which he placed upon the table. "Permit me to introduce myself, Captain. I am the Reverend Clarence McDill, chaplain and, if I may say so, the amicus humani generis in charge of the Mavisbank Home for Aged and Infirm Seamen."

"Aye? Pray sit ye doon!" Mr. Glencannon invited. "However," his voice and mien took on a dignified austerity, "however, in justice to mysel', I am constrained to infoorm ye, with emphasis, that I am no' the captain o' this ship. If I were, I can assure ye that we'd no be furthering Satan's wurrk by loading yon whusky! Phew!" He shuddered and cupped his hand over his nose, at the same time slipping a peppermint lozenge into his mouth. "Phew! The reek o' the fulthy stuff pollutes the vurra otmosphere!"

"Phew! It does indeed!" agreed the clergyman, warmly. "Alas, to think of the wealth, the fortunes squandered each year in its purchase! If only this money, if only a tithe of it, could be diverted to worthy causes! And that, sir, prompts me to observe that our Home is sorely in need of funds and brings us to the reason for my visit. You see, the institution is not endowed— no, not even to the extent of a single groat! It is supported entirely by our own efforts and by the generosity of upright men who like yourself...."

"Yere ain efforts?" Mr. Glencannon interrupted, hastily and heartily. "Weel, weel, weel, how vurra commendable! I'm always interested in hearin' o' ways to mak' money. Just what do yere efforts consist of, if I micht osk?"

"Why, er, handicraft— the manufacture of knickknacks— you know the sort of things old sailors make. As a matter of fact," he clicked open the suitcase, "as a matter of fact, I have a few bits of our work right here. Now, just consider these face cloths, for instance— all hand-woven and only sixpence apiece. Beautiful craftsmanship, isn't it?"

"Sublime!" said Mr. Glencannon.

"Ah, thank you— you're really very kind! Now, let's see— I've three— five— seven— yes, I've exactly a dozen of them left!"

"Only a dozen?" said Mr. Glencannon, registering keen disappointment. "Weel, I'm afraid we'll have to forget it, then. A dozen face cloths wudna last me any time!"

"No? Too bad! But— ah— perhaps you could use one of these handsome carved bone napkin rings?"

"Only with the utmost difficulty," said Mr. Glencannon. "Ye see, I had the misfortune to be born left-handed."

"Dear, dear! But— ah— would you mind explaining what that's got to do with it?"

"That's exockly where the difficulty comes in," said Mr. Glencannon. "Oh, it's all vurra cumplicated, e'en obscure, as yere ain question omply deemonstrates, But noo, what other clever little knickknocks have ye got?"

From the suitcase the Reverend Mr. McDill produced a bottle within which, embedded in waves of painted plaster, was the beautifully-wrought model of a cargo ship. He set the bottle upon a little stand of varnished wood and proudly waved his hand at it. "There!" he said. "Isn't it a gem— a masterpiece? Think of the skill, the patience, the toil required to construct it, piece by piece, within the narrow confines of that common bottle!"

"Common bottle?" Mr. Glencannon repeated, a trifle tartly. "Why, it's a Duggan's bottle, as the wurrding in the glass plainly indicates!"

"Of course! Just an ordinary, standard whisky bottle— precisely my point! Have you ever seen anything like it?"

"Aye," Mr. Glencannon nodded. "The auld windjammer sailors used to fritter awa' their spare time making them, when they weren't too busy getting flogged, having scurvy, falling overboard south o' Cape Horn, or being trompled on by the bucko mates. How much are ye osking for it, Reeverend?"

"Eighteen shillings. Only eighteen shillings! Come— surely that interests you!"

"Aye, intensely! Ye see, I know a firm in Hong Kong, Chiang Foo and Company, that turns them oot for five sheelings each, and I wanted to check up. It just goes to show the grave danger that confronts us all— namely, the assaults upon our industry by yellow-bellied Oriental competition, made possible through the low standards o' living whuch obtain throughoot their benighted laboring closses. The fault, o 'course, lies squarely in the lap o' this government's ossinine furreign policy."

"Eh? Oh, why, ah, yes, I daresay it does," murmured the Reverend Mr. McDill, perplexed but still polite. He sat silent for a moment. "Well, I— ah— I'm rather afraid that my little visit, though most pleasant, has contributed little to the welfare of the Mavisbank Home. However, in parting, I should like to make a humble contribution to the welfare of this vessel's crew. I have found that most sailors are literally starved for reading matter, poor fellows! These old magazines and periodicals ..." he took a stack of them from his suitcase, "... Would you mind having them distributed among the brave lads in the forecastle?"

"Oh, glodly and with great guid will!" said Mr. Glencannon. "It's always a pleasure to aid in a choritable wurrk."

When the minister had gone, Mr. Glencannon went through the pile of magazines. Selecting a torn copy of the Northern Swine Breeder, he bade the steward take it forward and bestow it upon the crew with his blessing. Then, having arranged the others on the sideboard, he returned to his letter.

When supper was over that evening, Mr. Montgomery strolled to the sideboard for a toothpick and spied the magazines. "My word, 'ere's a bit o' luck!" he exclaimed. "'Ere's the larst month's issue of Beelzebub's Broth, official organ of the International League of Militant Teetotallers, of which I have the honor of being a member of! 'Oo brought orl these 'ere pypers aboard, does anybody know?"

"I know," said Mr. Glencannon. "They were brought by an elderly divine, who was endeavoring to whustle up funds for the Mavisbank Home For Aged And Infeerm Seamen."

"Oh, why that must've been the Reverend Mr. McDill, the Chairman of our Glasgow Council. 'E's an old friend of mine. But, f-f-f!" Mr. Montgomery sneered, "If 'e 'oped to whistle up any funds out of you, Mr. Glencannon, he should 'ave brought along a foghorn and a megaphone!"

"Muster Mate, I think yere remark is uncalled for and unkind," said Mr. Glencannon righteously. "As a matter of fact, the reeverend gentlemon and I passed a vurra pleasant half hour, discussing theology and looking ower the hondiwurrk o' his auld brukken-doon pensioners. But when we got aroond to the subject o' finonce and he started osking exhorbitant prices, lik' eighteen shillings for a toy ship in an empty whusky bottle, I..."

"Eighteen shillings? Only eighteen shillings— for one o' them 'andsome ship-in-a-bottle parlor ornaments? Why, that was a jolly fine bargain, if you arsk me!"

"I didn't osk ye," said Mr. Glencannon, shortly.

"Well, I'm telling you anyway," said Mr. Montgomery. "It's 'ell's own job to build one o' them things, and eighteen bob was dirt cheap. Why, it represents a week's work, at the very least!"

"A week's wurrk, foosh!" snorted Mr. Glencannon. "I cud mak' one o' the sumple little gadgets in eight or ten hours with the greatest o'ease!"

"The 'ell yer could!" scoffed Mr. Montgomery. "In fact, now look, listen, 'ere's wot I'll do with yer!— I'll bet yer five quid in good, 'ard cash that yer can't even do it between now and this time tomorrer night! Now, wot d'yer say to that?"

"Put up yere money!" cried Mr. Glencannon, producing his wallet and counting out five one pound notes. "Here, Captain Ball, I'll osk ye please to witness the bet and hold the stakes, sir!"

"Yus, Captain— you be the stake 'older and referee. Now, 'ere's the bet— let's write it down in my notebook so's there'll be no argument. Er, 'Chauncey Montgomery bets Colin Glencannon five pounds cash that Glencannon cannot build an approximate scale model of a ship'— let's say of this 'ere ship— 'inside of a bottle, by seven o'clock tomorrer night. The finished ship must be in an ordinary empty whisky bottle and not some other kind of a bottle with a wide neck.'— Do yer agree to that?"

"I do!" said Mr. Glencannon. "Moreover, I'll start wurrk richt the noo. Oh, haw, haw, haw, ye puir deluded gowk! Ye micht as weel let Captain Ball hond over the money withoot further ado!"

"'E'll 'and it over when and if yer win it— which yer won't!" chuckled Mr. Montgomery.

Going aft to the poop, where the carpenter's and bosun's shops were located, Mr. Glencannon helped himself to wood, tools, glue, paint and plaster; then, descending to the engine room, he fashioned an assortment of probes, hooks and tweezers of spring steel wire. "There, noo!" he said. "All that remains is to provide an empty bottle, which I shall proceed to do in the comfort and privacy of my ain room."

Now a Duggan's bottle contains four-fifths of a quart of whisky, or enough to fill three water tumblers. Having but one tumbler available, Mr. Glencannon was obliged to fill it, drink it, fill it, drink it again and then fill it a third time before the bottle was adequately prepared. So powerful was the creative urge stirring within him that he accomplished this task with surprising rapidity. "Ah, swith!" he exclaimed, approvingly, "at this rate, I'll have the job finished in no time! Noo, let's see, let's see— what's the next step? H'm!" He slipped a pair of inside calipers down the bottle neck and then applied them to his scale. "Seeven-eighths o' an inch, scontly," he read. "That means I'll have to mak' the hull in two sections. I'll just finish up this whusky, to sharpen my intellect and steady my hond."

Swiftly, deftly and with consummate skill he drained the tumbler dry. "Dom, what progress!" he gloated. "Why, I'm sorry I didna bet him ten pounds that I'd have it finished by bedtime!" As he gauged the bottle's internal depth, it occurred to him that as the work proceeded and the ship took form, he would need another bottle from which to take measurements and to serve as a medium for checkup. Fortunately, he happened to have several more at hand, and though all were full, he was now so entirely in the spirit of his task that he emptied one of them as effortlessly as though building ship models had been his lifelong occupation. It was with pardonable pride that he reviewed the speed of his work thus far.

"Haw, why, it's proctically as guid as finished!" he applauded himself. "Ye've plenty o' time, slathers o' time, so there's no reason to owertax yersel'. Ye really must remember that e'en yere ain extrodinurra powers have a limit. Slow doon, lad— aye, relax yersel' a bit. Sit back for just a minute, do, and give yere puir taut nairves a chonce to untongle! Indeed, if I were you I'd tak' a sowp o' whusky, merely to ease the tension. Ye wud? Aye, if ye want my frank and condid opinion, I wud! Weel, alricht, then, I will, and I thonk ye most sincerely. But only a wee nip, mind— not too much— not too much! Ho, why guid losh, mon, ye've poured me a reegular Second Mate's sun-dooner! Weel—" he raised his glass politely, "as lang as ye're buying this drink, auld mon— as lang as ye've indicated yere disposition to let bygones be bygones and bury auld grudges— a-weel, as I was aboot to say, as lang as— Sh-h-h! Sh-h-h! Noo please, lad, I know ye've been drinking, but dinna interrupt me!— er— as I was aboot to remark, as lang as ye're buying this drink, bygones are bygones, as far as I'm concerned. Pairhops it's a weakness on my part, but somehow— somehow, I canna find it in my heart to harbor a grudge. I'm big-hearted, and my big heart goes oot to ye most heartily! My heart is in the richt place, laddie— dinna let them mislead ye with any song and donce to the contrary!— Song and donce? Ho, splendid! I'll sing while you donce!— Ready?

My heart is in the Hielands

My heart is richt here!

My heart is in the Hielands a-chasing the deer

Auld gir-r-r-l, they singo'— er, wait, oh yes, they

Sing-a-hi, sing-a-lee, sing-a-lo!

— That means I want to go

To Tokyo-ho-ho and a bottle o' rum!

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle o' rum!

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle o' rum!

"Yo-ho-ho and a no, no, no! Dom it mon, ye've said that three times already and it isn't rum anyway! Weel, supposing I have?— That's still no excuse for ye to yawn yo-ho-ho in my face, is it? If ye're feeling sleepy, why dinna ye go hame and sleep it off? Aye, go hame, go on hame— nobody here will miss ye? Foosh, ye've been a wet blanket on the party all evening! And another thing— if ye weren't a common boor, ye'd know enough to cover yere oogly mouth when ye're yawning! Where the heel are yere manners?"

His glass empty, he sat glowering for a moment; then, realizing that nobody seemed inclined to buy a drink, he poured one for himself. "Oh, vurra weel!" he said, loftily. "If that's the way it is, weel, that's the way it is it was!— In other wurrds, and I'm telling ye to yere face, I dinna lik' yere nosty, pairsimonious and truculent ottitude.— Foosh to ye! Foosh, foosh, foosh, I say! Do ye wish me to understond from that that ye're threatening me with physic-ick!— hic! physical violence, richt here in my ain room? Have a care, sir, have a care, I warn ye! Ach! Argh! Ho, so ye wud, wud ye? Weel, then, tak'— THAT!" With a mighty full armed swing of the bottle, he clouted himself over the head and wilted senseless to the floor.

When Mr. Glencannon opened his eyes, the light of dawn was filtering through the porthole. Rising somewhat unsteadily, he looked out and saw the giant bottle on the Duggan Warehouse silhouetted against a paling wintery sky; it served to remind him of the task in hand. "Ah, swith!" he muttered. "Why, I must have been seized with an attack of vertigo.— Losh, how my head aches!" He pressed his hand to the throbbing crown of it and was surprised to feel a lump like half a cricket ball. "Horrors, what's this— Vertigo doesna break oot in loomps! No! I was stricken with an acute attack o' owerexpansion o' the brain, provoked by turning on too much intellectual pressure! Braugh! A little more, only a little more, and my skull wud have been blown to frogments, lik' an exploding boiler! Ho, dom it, Glencannon, ye've had a miraculous escape!"

He turned to the tools and materials spread out upon his bunk, "Noo, let's see, where were we? Oh, yes; I'd just estoblished the fact that the neck o' the bottle measures approximately seven-eights o' an inch. A-weel, it's foortunate I'd made such ropid progress before illness struck me doon, because noo I can add the finishing touches at my leisure.— Strange how weak and shaky a seizure o' that sort leaves a mon! Indeed, under the caircumstances, I think I'd be omply justified in taking a mild stimulant o' some sort."

Suiting the action to the word and by it much refreshed, he fell to work in earnest, only pausing for occasional dollops of the health-giving elixir. For hour after hour, then, he toiled; but, though he made a certain amount of headway, he found himself increasingly beset with knotty problems and vexatious setbacks. Poking the tiny, glue-smeared bits of wood down the bottle neck on lengths of wire and endeavoring to fix them into place was no whit less difficult than repairing a watch while wearing boxing gloves. Perversely, the little pieces came unstuck, adhered to the sides of the bottle or even to its bottom. His fingers became sticky, then stickier, and so did his glass, until finally he was obliged to work with only one hand. It was all most fatiguing.

To make matters worse, he was not feeling well. His malady was peculiar in that it was characterized by two distinct but diametrically opposing symptoms. In plain, nonmedical language he felt as though he were drunk and had a hangover at the same time. He could account for neither condition per se and as the two together were in flat contradiction, he could only conclude that he was the victim of some new, obscure, but in any case grave affliction. As he sat wondering what he should do about it, his gaze drifted to a bottle of whisky which happened to be on the washstand at the other end of the room. "A-weel," he said, "it's a lang way off and I dinna feel lik' taking much exercise, but pairhaps a little whusky is exockly what I need. It's a Spartan reemedy, o' course, but the emeergency leaves me no choice. But— what's this? Ach! Horrors! I— I canna stond up!— I'm helpless!— I'm p-p-parolyzed! Ah, cruel heaven, what have I done to desairve a fate lik' this?" He clapped one hand to his brow and the other to his poor, useless limbs, discovering as he did so that he had sat in a puddle of glue and that the seat of his trousers was firmly cemented to the chair. The discovery eased his mind but not his situation. Although he loosened his belt and undid his buttons, his trousers and the chair had become so inseparably one that, struggle as he would, he could not work clear of them. His efforts involved much thumping, banging, and bad language. Mr. Swales, in the next room, pounded on the bulkhead. "Oh, for the love of Gord, you chaps!" he complained. "I'm trying to study!"

Mr. Glencannon was too deeply occupied to retort. At length, toppling sideways to the floor, trousers, chair and all, he succeeded in squirming his way to freedom. Battered as to body and tattered as to drawers, he took a drink and another chair and doggedly returned to work.

It was well along in the afternoon when he was ready to perform the most delicate operation of all— the raising and stepping of the masts. Now, the entire science of building ships in bottles consists in the trick by which this feat is accomplished. When the hull is inserted in the bottle, the masts are laid flat, or nearly so, their steps being grooved to the rear to permit the sticks to swing backward; the single continuous thread which will become the fore, triatic and after stays has been made fast to the stern and to both mastheads and passed through a tiny hole in the bow, its end left dangling from the bottle neck. If this has been done according to the rules of art, all that remains is to pull on the free end until the masts rise into place, to dab a drop of glue on the thread where it passes through the hole, to snip off the surplus and lo! the trick is done. In the present case, however, the thread had worked itself into the bottle and Mr. Glencannon was obliged to fish for it with his tweezers. Though he succeeded several times in nipping hold of it, it slipped from his tweezers before he could pull it out of the bottle. It was tantalizing, exasperating! At length, judging it to be within reach of his little finger, he thrust that digit down the bottle neck, pressed it firmly upon the refractory cordage and then endeavored to withdraw it. To his chagrin and dismay, he found his finger caught as in a trap.

"Ah, dom and foosheroo!" he growled, tugging until his joints cracked. "Ow! Ouch! Noo, here's a pretty kettle o' fish! There must have been some glue on my finger, or pairhops it swelled while I was groping aroond with it. A-weel," he stood up, "I'll just hold it above my head for a minute or so, to reduce the blood circulation and the swelling, and then ..."

With a resounding crash, the bottle shattered against a deckhead girder and rained in fragments upon him. For an instant he stood stunned; then red rage engulfed him and he gave it full expression.

"'Ere, 'ere, now!" Mr. Swales's voice came plaintively from the next room. "I'm going up for my Master's exams next Chewsday, and 'ow in 'ell can I study? If you chaps don't cut it out in there I'll bleddy well come in and lick the three of yer!"

Mr. Glencannon surveyed the wreckage and then consulted his watch. "Five o'clock p.m.!" he gasped. "Five o'clock— already! Two hours more and I'll be oot five pounds— unless I can accomplish a miracle!" On hands and knees he gathered up the pieces, took another bottle and went feverishly to work.

He worked like a Trojan, He worked like a horse. He worked like a horseful of Trojans.

At two minutes to seven, jaded, bloodshot, but triumphant, he staggered into the saloon. "Hoot!" he cried. "Here I am— and here it is!"

"Eh? Er, oh, yes!" said Captain Ball. "There you are, Mr. Glencannon, there you are, indeed! But, ga-hapf, I mean to say, where are they?— Your trousers, I mean!"

Mr. Glencannon ignored the question. "Here it is, Muster Montgomery! Tak' a look at it!— Aye, tak' a guid look, a five poond look— because that's exackly what it costs ye!"

Mr. Montgomery smirked and rubbed his hands. "Well, well, well!" he said, unctuously, "Wot's this yer've got— a ship in a bottle? Oh, so yer've built a ship in a bottle, 'ave yer? H'm, well, yer've made a ruddy neat job of it, I must say! Captain Ball, I'll thank you please to pay me my winnings!"

"Yere winnings?" scoffed Mr. Glencannon. "Ho, what do ye mean, yere winnings? Hoorns o' the deevil, mon, dinna ye see that it's I— I who have won the bet?"

"— You? Oh, yus? Well, now, please just listen to this!" The Mate opened his notebook, cleared his throat impressively, and read, "'The finished ship must be in an ordinary empty whisky bottle and not some other kind of a bottle with a wide neck'.— Now, did yer agree to that or didn't yer? Speak up!"

"Aye!" said Mr. Glencannon. "O' coorse I did! I not only agreed to it— I've deleevered it!"

"Like 'ell yer 'ave!" cried Mr. Montgomery, victoriously. "That there whisky bottle's not an empty whisky bottle! It's not empty because it's got a ship inside of it! Oh, ho! ho! ho!" he roared, stamping his feet and slapping his thighs. "Oh, good lawks! To think of a canny old bloke like you falling for a simple old gag like that!— Or perhaps I should put it the other way round!"

"— What?" Mr. Glencannon swayed against the table and grasped its edge for support. "D-d-d'ye mean to say this whole bet was a deliberate swundle— a cheap play on wurrds?"

"Why, of course it was!— Gor-blyme, I 'ope yer don't think I'm barmy enough to bet with you on the level, do yer?"

"Ho, but this is iniquitous! Captain! Captain Ball, sir!" Mr. Glencannon turned to the shipmaster, "I appeal to ye as referee! I demond fair play! I demond sumple justice! Surely, surely ye dinna mean to stond by and see me victimized, mulcted, robbed by yon nosty scheming snirk!"

"Well, ga-hapf, ker-hem, er, really, now, Mr. Glencannon, I really don't see that you have been. No! You agreed to that agreement with your eyes open and you can certainly see with your own eyes now that this bottle isn't empty! Now, is it? Can't you? Ker-huff, I mean to say, no, no, of course it isn't!"

With a plaintive moan, Mr. Glencannon took up the bottle and lurched toward the door, a sick and broken man.

*****

The following day found Mr. Glencannon suffering a severe but natural reaction. As soon as he had managed to choke down his breakfast, he selected a number of magazines from the pile on the sideboard, returned to his room and lay reading in his bunk, belching seismically. The little ship in its bottle reposed upon the dresser opposite. Every time his eye encountered it he shuddered and looked away. "Ho, ye dom, useless bauble!" he addressed it, finally. "Instead o' making me five pounds the richer, ye've robbed me no' only o' that much cash but o' my priceless health besides!"

He was glumly scanning the pages of Fawcett's Illustrated Monthly when his attention was caught by the headlines—

YOUR IDEAS ARE YOUR FORTUNE!

Learn How You Can Earn Big Money

In Your Spare Time— Right in

Your Own Home!

Now, as Mr. Glencannon had confessed to the Reverend Mr. McDill, making money was a subject which interested him greatly— nay, it intrigued him, fascinated him, and had been his secondary hobby for more years than he cared to count. Hence, he perused the announcement avidly. It read—

Today, as never before, industry is geared up to produce goods and merchandise of all descriptions, in quantities which literally STAGGER the imagination! The greatest problem which confronts the manufacturer is HOW TO SELL these goods. The answer is— ADVERTISING! But successful advertising is built upon CLEVER IDEAS!— Ideas for SLOGANS. Ideas for POSTERS. Ideas for DISPLAYS. IDEAS— IDEAS— IDEAS for all the thousand-and-one departments of this great, modern selling force! Naturally, these ideas are worth big money— and, whether you realize it or not, YOU HAVE CLEVER IDEAS!

After a certain amount of rhetorical backing and filling, the advertisement went on to say that merely HAVING clever ideas wasn't enough; the trick was to FIT the ideas to specific products and then to SELL THEM. The signatory revealed himself as not only willing but eager to send, ABSOLUTELY post FREE, his BIG NEW BOOK TELLING HOW! With commendable altruism, all he asked in return was the purely nominal sum of five shillings to help defray the costs of packing, addressing, and handling.

"A-weel," nodded Mr. Glencannon, approvingly, "at five shillings a copy, this grosping bondit has undootedly solved the prublem o' how to mak' money oot o' advertising— as far as he, pairsonally, is concerned. But above and beyond that, there's more than a modicum o' truth in what he says! Aye, losh! When ye think o' all the merchandise produced in cities lik' Birmingham, Monchester, Leeds, Sheffield, and richt here in Glesga, the imogination not only stoggers— it reels, trips, falls, and goes to sleep in the gutter! Think, for example, o' the whusky in the great Duggan warehouse, yonder! Think o' the thoosands o' cases o' it noo being stowed in this vurra ship, to be tronsported over the seas to furreign lands where it will have to be sold in competition with cheaper domestic bronds! But, o' coorse, oot yonder, The Dew o' Kirkintilloch ronks as 'imported'— and for some reason there's always a peculiar magic in the wurrd 'imported.' Weel, if Duggan's cud only discover a neat way to symbolize 'imported' they cud ... Ho! Ha! Great swith!" he leaped from the bunk. "A ship in a bottle!— With the Duggan label showing on the backside o' it— and on the inner side o' the label a picture postcard o' Duggan's Warehouse and the Glesga waterfront! 'Twill look exactly as though the little ship were steaming doon the Clyde! And then, on the wooden stand, some slogan lik' DUGGAN'S DEW— FROM SCOTLAND TO YOU, or something equally clever! Why, there shud be such a bottle displayed behind every bar in the wurrld— aye, and posters with pictures o' it plostered up on all the hoardings! Hoot, Glencannon, yere foortune's made!"

Some time later, perspiring, breathless, and bearing the paper-wrapped bottle, he was ushered into the office of the Duggan advertising manager, a Mr. Watson. Baring his teeth in a magnetic, salesman's smile and fixing Mr. Watson with a compelling eye, "Guid afternoon, sir!" he declaimed. "Today, as ne'er before, industry is geared up to produce goods and meerchandise in quantities whuch literally STOGGER the imogination!" He banged his fist upon the desk. "The greatest prublem o' the monufacturer is HOW TO SELL these goods! The onswer is ADVERTISING! But successful Advertising is built upon IDEAS!— Ideas for...."

"Pardon me!" interrupted Mr. Watson, an officious, petulant little man with a pocketful of patent pencils but very little chin. "I've only held down this job for twenty-six years but I fancy I know the fundamentals of advertising. Is there anything else you'd care to talk about?— If not...."

"Aye, this!" cried Mr. Glencannon, with a dramatic gesture whisking the paper from the bottle and setting it in its stand on the desk. "This! Look at it, sir! Exomine it! Odmire it! Feast yere eyes on it! It is THE FINAL SOLUTION O' YERE SALES PRUBLEMS! Ye can readily see for yersel' what it is, so I willna insoolt yere inteeligence by pointing oot that it's a guid idea— a grond idea— a mognificent idea— a...."

Mr. Watson raised his eyebrows. "Yes, yes— it's all of that! Quite! In fact," he continued, drily, "I thought so highly of it when I first saw it, yesterday, that I signed a contract for a thousand of them."

"Eh?" gasped Mr. Glencannon. "W-what's that ye say?"

"What you heard me say. One thousand of them.— At one pound apiece.— To be delivered in time for distribution next Christmas. Eh?— You don't believe me? Well, here's the sample, on which I gave the order." From his desk drawer he produced the bottle— the Reverend Mr. McDill's bottle— which had caused so much torment, turmoil and strife. "There! You can see for yourself that it's practically identical with yours, so you needn't waste any more time trying to peddle your stolen ideas around here!"

"But— but— ah, foosh, sir! I— I didn't steal the idea! No! It came to me spuntaneously, lik' a flosh in the pan! I was reading an advertisement in an auld mogazine when...."

"Of course— in an old magazine! That's exactly how the other fellow thought of it! I don't suppose it was Fawcett's Illustrated Monthly, by any chance?"

"Yes!" cried Mr. Glencannon, his fists clenched. "And noo, noo I see it all! And I warn ye that despicht his sonctimoonious monner, his teetotal pretensions and his clerical garb, yon McDill is naught but a smug auld hypocrite!"

"What in the world are you talking about? His name's Montgomery and he's a seafaring chap, like yourself.— A bit soberer, perhaps, but...."

"Montgomery?" Mr. Glencannon rasped, his rage soaring to new heights, "Montgomery? Ho, so they're in cahoots, then! It's plain as day! Weel, Muster Watson, if you value yere job, ye'd better be careful! What wud yere Board o' Directors say if they knew that one thoosand poonds o' Mackenzie Duggan and Company's guid money was being honded ower to the International League o' Militant Teetotallers— to be used in their compaign to put this and every other distillery oot o' business?"

"— You mean to say...?"

"Exockly! I mean that auld snivelling McDill is Chairmon o' its Glesga Council— and that yere odious friend Montgomery is one of its leading lichts!"

"Oh, good heavens!" Mr. Watson paled. "If— if what you say is true I— er, well, I'm afraid I'd find myself in a most embarrassing position with our Directors! The League has caused us a great deal of trouble, there's no denying it. But— what can I do? I've signed the contract!"

"Dinna let that worrit ye! I'll see that ye're released— provided, o' coorse, that ye'll buy the bottles from me under the same terms. I'll guarontee the wurrk will be a dom sicht better than either o' these somples!"

"— Will you?— Will you? Ah, well," and Mr. Watson was evidently much relieved, "under those conditions, I'd certainly be happy to do business with you!"

"Guid!" said Mr. Glencannon, snatching up his cap. "I'll be back to see ye later!"

*****

"Ah!" The Reverend Mr. Clarence McDill looked up from the sermon he was preparing and beamed in surprise and welcome. "Ah! A very good day to you, sir! Do you know, I was planning to make another call on you? You see, ah, we have just finished five dozen more of those beautiful hand-woven face cloths that you were kind enough to admire and...."

"Keep them!" thundered Mr. Glencannon. "Use them to wash yere black heart with— if ye can reach doon far enough to reach it! Shame on ye! Aye, fie and for shame on ye and Montgomery and all yere League o' so-called Teetotallers!— Accept a thousand poonds to advertise the hell brew o' the biggest distillers in Scotland, wud ye? Foosh, what a howling scondol!"

"But— my dear sir!— What's all this? Come, come, calm yourself!— I assure you that you've been sadly misinformed!— A thousand pounds?— From distillers? Never! Never! Faugh, fellow, you don't know what you're saying!"

"I do! I'm saying that Montgomery has got ye an order for a thoosand ships in bottles from Mackenzie Duggan and Company, Limited— and what's more I can prove it!"

"From— from Mackenzie Duggan and Company? From those— those poisoners? Ridiculous! Mr. Montgomery got the order from one of the big department stores for delivery late next autumn!"

"Pairhops that's what he told ye, but I'm telling ye different! If ye dinna believe me, ye've the telephone there at yere elbow! Call Muster Watson, Duggan's advertising mon!— Call Major Duggan himsel'! Osk them!— I dare ye!"

The Reverend Mr. McDill gasped and wilted in his chair. "I— I'm dazed!" he said, and he looked it. "I— I— Oh, good heavens! This must not, this cannot be! But— I understand that there's a formal, binding contract which...."

"— Contract? Foosh to the contract!" said Mr. Glencannon, reassuringly. "Indeed, sir, noo that I realize, as I shud have realized from the ootset, that ye've been misled by a scoondrel, I'll mak' it my duty to see that ye come off free and clear o' law suits and all such. I beg o' ye to accept my most hoomble apologies. But just what are the terms o' the agreement?"

"Well," Mr. McDill mopped his bald spot, "Mr. Montgomery said that the store would pay only ten shillings apiece for them. As they cost us seven to make, it didn't leave us much of a profit. But because the Mavisbank Home is so sorely in need of funds, even...."

"There! Pray say no more, sir! I not only guarontee to foorce yon dom distiller to tear up the contract but I'll see that ye dinna lose a penny on this whole tronsaction! Look! I'll write ye oot my pairsonal check, richt here and noo, for a hoonderd and fufty poonds— the exoct sum ye'd have earned to help support yere chorities if the thing had gone through. There!"

"But my dear— er, Mr. Glencannon!— You overwhelm me! My gratitude is heartfelt and beyond my poor words to express! Can I depend upon you to join me in exposing this Montgomery— this Judas, this, this monster— to the High Council of our League? Can I count upon your testimony, that he may be scourged with rods, humiliated and cast forth?"

"A-weel, fronkly, no," said Mr. Glencannon. "Much as I'd relish being there to applaud the spectacle and to lead in an appropriate hymn or two, ye'll have to monnage that part by yersel'. Ye see, despicht my sympathy with yere great crusade, I'm not a meember o' the League. After lang meditation, I finally concluded that I cud do more to abolish liquor, wurrking as a free lance, than I cud if I were affiliated with any o' the teemperance organizations."

"Well, sir!" the clergyman's voice broke as he wrung his benefactor's hand, "You've struck a lusty blow for us, today!"

"Aye, and I'll strike many another in the vurra near future, never fear!" Mr. Glencannon assured him as he took his leave.

On his way back to Duggan's Warehouse, "Weel, noo, let's see!" he mused. "As soon as Muster Watson signs the contract, I'll cable Chiang Foo and Company to get started making the parts for the ships. In view o' the size o' the order and the fact that I'll furnish Chiang Foo with the bottles when I get to Hong Kong, I'll offer him four shillings apiece.— Weel, let's say three shillings. So e'en with the hoonderd and fufty poonds I've just noo donated to the Reeverend Muster McDill's auld sailors, I'll come oot o' the deal with a profit o' seeven hoonderd quid. But no!" his face fell, "No! I'd almost forgotten that five poond bet I lost to Montgomery!— A-weel, never mind, never mind! Before he loses his job and is thrown into jail for stealing that whusky I'm plonning to steal oot o' No. 3 hold, I'll get square with the dom crook somehow!"

_________________

10: The Bank Clerk's Love Story

Headon Hill

Francis Edward Grainger, 1854-1927

Border Watch (Mount Gambier) 8 May 1897

WHEN I, Edward Spencer, was promoted from the "walk" to the pay in counter at the head office of the London and Suburban Bank in Lombard-street, Saturday mornings began to have a special attraction to me. The reason was that, on that particular morning, Miss Muriel Carnegie came to cash her mother's weekly cheque.

I can remember, as though it were yesterday, what an impression the dainty figure in the trim walking-dress made upon me as she tripped up to my desk and presented the order to pay Mrs Muriel Carnegie "or order," the sum of five pounds, the signature at the foot being in bold letters, "Prescott Lestrange." The cheque was dated the previous Thursday, and so I found afterwards was always the case.

I was new to the work, and, in my anxiety not to make mistakes, after verifying the signature and scrutinising the endorsement, I took the precaution to ask:

"You are Mrs Muriel Carnegie, I presume?"

"I am Muriel Carnegie," was the smiling reply, " but not 'Mrs.' The cheque is payable to my mother, and it is she who has endorsed it."

"It is all right, Spencer," whispered my neighbor at the next desk; "she's here every week."

I am quite aware that it is very wrong of a bank cashier to experience the sensations of ordinary flesh and blood, but somehow, as I shovelled over the five sovereigns, I felt glad, not only that it was "all right," but that the young lady was Muriel Carnegie with out the " Mrs."

After that, as I say, I began to look forward to these transactions, and as the weeks went by we glided into little chats not connected with business. Though there were five other cashiers at the counter she always came to me. From a few words on the weather we gradually slid into broader subjects, till the discovery that she was devoted to music gave us a common bond of interest, and we used to exchange opinions on events in the musical world. But one day when I made a remark about a play that was running at one of the popular houses she drew herself up and said quite coldly:

"I  never go to theatres; I abominate the stage, and everything connected with it."

It would have been presumption to have inquired the reason for such a singular speech, especially as from her manner I judged it to spring from something more personal than mere distaste, and of Miss Muriel Carnegie's private affairs I was profoundly ignorant. All I knew was that Mr Prescott Lestrange, the drawer of the cheques which she cashed, was one of the bank's oldest and wealthiest customers, that he had retired from business as a stockbroker, and that he lived at Notting Hill. Whether he had to pay Mrs Carnegie five pounds a week as a trustee, or whether it was a voluntary allowance to her as a relation or friend, was no business of mine.

Mr Lestrange very seldom came to the bank, but on the few occasions when I saw him there he struck me as being a bit of an eccentric, and very short tempered. He dressed in a curious old-fashioned style, and if he was kept waiting at the counter he had a habit of tapping the floor with his gold-headed cane, muttering to himself all the time, till he was attended to. He was curt in his manner to the clerks, and never addressed us except on the matter in hand.

One rooming about a year after my promotion and consequent acquaintance with Miss Carnegie, I was travelling to the city by way of the "underground," when I saw in my newspaper the not uncommon head-line, "Fatal Fire at the West End." Reading on I found that it was the house of our customer, Mr Prescott Lestrange, that had been burned down with the loss of four lives,

"The fire was so destructive," ran the report, "that some difficulty has been experienced in identifying the bodies found in the debris. Three of them have now been satisfactorily accounted for as the butler and two maids, but some-doubt exists about the fourth— a male— who, it is supposed, must have been a friend visiting the butler. At first it was feared that the remains were those of the master of the house, but, after the fire had raged two hours, Mr Lestrange himself appeared on the scene, having, luckily, been dining out. The two maid-servants and the butler were the only authorised inmates of the house at the time of the outbreak, and so complete is the destruction that it is impossible to ascertain if the victims had retired to rest."

News so intimately affecting such a prominent customer was naturally much discussed at the bank, and we wondered whether the old gentleman's temper would be affected by the disaster. In the early editions of the evening papers it was stated that the fourth victim remained unidentified, but that Mr Lestrange, in his evidence at the inquest, had said that the butler frequently had visitors, and that doubtless the other man was one of these.

About an hour before closing time I was busily attending to a string of customers, when a tapping sound in front of the counter caused me to raise my eyes, and there, fourth in the line from my desk, whom should I see but Mr Lestrange himself, He was awaiting his turn with his usual impatience, rapping the floor with his stick, and indulging to a marked degree in his other characteristics of muttering and mumbling.

"The old boy has been shaken by the affair at his house-and no wonder," I said to myself,

At last it was his turn to present himself at the desk,

"What is the amount of my balance!'' he asked sharply.

To ascertain this I had to refer to the ledger department, and when I returned the old man was mouthing and grimacing horribly at the delay.

"Your balance stands at £11,749 8s 2d," I said.

"Give me a cheque form, please," he snapped out, "My cheque-book was destroyed in the fire at my house,"

I handed him a form, and he proceeded to fill it in, muttering all the time. When he had finished he retained the cheque in his hand, but held it for me to read.

"You had better see this," he growled, "Then, when it comes forward for payment, you will know it is in order."

To my astonishment he had drawn a cheque, payable to self or order, for the whole of his balance, even to the odd twopence. It was crossed with the name of a rival bank—the "District and Metropolitan— so that be evidently didn't mean to take the cash with him, but it could only mean one thing,

"You are closing your account with us, Mr Lestrange?" I stammered,

"That's it," he granted. "I am now going to open an account at the Metropolitan and District with this cheque," and, placing the document in his pocketbook, he began to move away.

"One moment, sir," I said, "Will you not see the manager? It is rather unusual to close an account of such long standing without a word of explanation."

"No explanation is called for. You hold my money, and are bound to dispose of it as I direct," was the brusque reply.

I was obliged to recognise the force of his argument, and again he was moving towards the door, when I remembered with a thrill of dismay that one effect of the old fellow's act would be to deprive me of Miss Muriel Carnegie's Saturday calls. That interesting young lady would be cashing her mother's cheques at the Metropolitan and District in future. This thought at the same time suggested a question which, in the ordinary course of my duty, I ought to put to him. He had nearly got to the door when once more I called after him.

"Pardon me," I said when he came reluctantly back; "I presume you have no outstanding cheques, Mr Lestrange? If any such were presented we should have to refuse payment now that you have closed the account,"

"Quite so; mark them 'refer to drawer,' 'no funds' anything you like," he snarled, and walked straight out of the bank.

I gathered from this that he had not drawn the usual cheque upon us for Mrs. Carnegie on the previous day, as he would hardly be likely to inflict upon a lady the unpleasantness of presenting a cheque certain to be dishonoured. I [ could only sadly conclude that Miss Muriel had already paid her last visit to the London and Suburban, and that we were not to meet again.

Our general manager, Narracot, was in a terrible way over the removal of the account— or, rather over the manner of it— for, of course, considerable as was the sum, it made no difference to a bank of our standing. The big cheque came through in the ordinary course next morning, and there was nothing else for us to do but to pay and look pleasant.

I was worrying much more about Miss Muriel than about the departure of old Lestrange's shekels from our custody, and though I really did not expect to see her that Saturday, I could not help watching the swing doors as usual for the familiar figure. And while watching for her I really hoped she would not come, seeing that it would be on a fruitless errand.

But it is the unexpected that happens. About her customary time Miss Carnegie entered the bank and made straight for my desk, cheque in hand. A glance at her face sufficed to tell me that something had happened-so worried and anxious was she looking.

"Good morning, Mr Spencer," she said, handing me the cheque, and I was conscious that she was nervously scanning my face as I looked at the signature. The cheque was make out just as usual for five pounds, and signed " Prescott Lestrange."

"I am very sorry, but we can't pay this, Miss Carnegie," I said, when I bad mechanically returned her "good morning." "We have no funds to meet it. I must refer you to the drawer— to Mr Lestrange— for an explanation."

She turned so white that I feared she was about to faint. " I, that is, we— my mother and I— half thought there might be something of the kind," she murmured faintly, passing her hand over her brow.

"I really don't know what we shall do, We hoped Mr Lestrange would not stop a cheque he had already given, whatever he might intend in the future."

"He did not stop this particular cheque," I said. " He came here yesterday and removed all his funds— he no longer banks with us."

"Thank you," she said simply, "I don't know what we shall do, We are entirely dependent on this allowance, and Mr Lestrange quarrelled with us so unexpectedly yesterday that we have hardly a penny in the house. However, there is nothing more for me to do here, so good-bye Mr Spencer, and thank you for all your kindness."

The sight of the poor girl's pathetic face, and disgust that she and her mother should be plunged into sudden want by Lestrange's singular behaviour, prompted me to a pious fraud, I still held the cheque in my hand, and, as if moved by an after thought, I said

"If you will wait a moment I will speak to the manager, It is just possible he may find a way out of the difficulty, so far as this cheque is concerned, Perhaps some stray money may have come into Mr Lestrange's credit since yesterday, and in that case we might be justified in honouring this cheque,"

Of course I knew that nothing of the kind was possible, but I retired to the back of the bank, took five sovereigns of my own from my pocket, and, after waiting long enough to lend colour to the fiction, returned and handed her the money. Her quick smile of relief amply repaid me there and then.

"So you are all light for this Saturday," I said, " and perhaps by next week Mr Lestrange may have relented. There was something very unusual— I can hardly call it irregular— about his proceeding here yesterday. Would it be impertinent if I asked if the fire at his house unhinged him? Believe me, I am not influenced with curiosity, but by a sincere interest. Since I know how you are situated you might be glad of my advice as a business friend—if I might be offer myself."

To my delight she did exactly what I had hoped but scarcely dared to expect.

"If you would call on my mother this afternoon at 84, Murchison Road, Bayswater, I am sure she would be pleased to tell you what she knows of Mr Lestrange's conduct, and to thank you for putting matters light for us this morning."

THREE hours later I was shown into the Carnegies' miniature drawing-room, to be welcomed with friendly cordiality by a sweet-faced elderly woman, who, there was no need of her self introduction to tell me, could be none other than the mother of my Muriel. This young lady joined us immediately, and from the two of them I learned the following particulars about Mr Lestrange.

Mrs Carnegie, it seemed, was the widow bf the old gentleman's half-brother. The latter had died, leaving her penniless, many years before, and ever since, Mr Lestrange had made her an allowance of five pounds a week, which he paid by open cheques posted on Thursdays. He had an objection to having his cheques negotiated by tradesmen, and therefore stipulated that either Mrs Carnegie or her daughter should present them at the bank and draw the cash. Though the cheques came regularly to hand by first post on Fridays, it suited Muriel's musical studies to go into the City on Saturdays, and so that came to be the day for her weekly pilgrimage.

Mr Lestrange, though always reserved in manner and eccentric in his habits, had been invariably kind to the two otherwise friendless women, and genuinely fond of Muriel, who, he made no secret of it, was to inherit his money. His only son, Vincent Lestrange, had been out off with the proverbial shilling after forging his father's name and leading a life of such depravity that no decent folk would countenance him. This young man, who from Mrs Carnegie's showing, appeared to have been about as bad as they were made, and had the hardihood to aspire to marry Muriel, but Mr Lestrange had fully shared in the girl's horror of such a proposal, For over two years nothing had been known of Vincent Lestrange, except that he had gone on the stage, and that his name figured occasionally on the bills of minor theatres.

Imagine then the dismay of Mrs Carnegie, when, on the previous day— it must have been about an hour before his call at the bank— Mr Lestrange made his appearance, labouring under great excitement and demanding that Muriel should marry his son forthwith, He had become reconciled to Vincent, he said. He made the instant consent of Mrs Carnegie and her daughter the absolute condition of the continuance of the allowance. On being met with an unqualified refusal, he brutally remarked that he knew how to "put on the screw," and took his departure, saying he would call on Monday evening to see if they had altered their minds.

"The only cause I could think of was, that he had become demented by the destruction of his house and the terrible death of his old servants," concluded Mrs Carnegie, "I had just been reading the account when he called."

"Did he allude to the fire, or show that there was any connection between it and this sudden reconciliation with his son?" I asked.

"No ; he began abruptly about the marriage when he came in, and talked of nothing else but that and the stopping of the allowance."

"In reading the account of the fire did anything strike you as odd— anything, I mean, not in accordance with what you know of the ways of Mr Lestrange's household?"

"I really know so little, and saw my brother-in-law so seldom, that I am hardly qualified to judge," replied Mrs Carnegie, thoughtfully.

"There was one thing, you know, mother, that seemed strange," put in Muriel, "that Uncle Prescott should have been out at dinner when the fire broke out. He was always so careful not to be out after dark because of his bronchitis, and we had never heard of his dining away from home before. He had very few acquaintances, and no intimate friends."

For the space of a minute there was silence in the room, and one of the three, I can vouch for it, spent that pause in thinking hard. I felt sure there was a mystery connecting the fire with the old man's sudden cruelty to unoffending relations, to whom he had been so uniformly kind. One point especially indicated this: He had signed and posted the cheque to Mrs Carnegie in accordance with his habit on the Thursday, thus proving no disposition then to alter his conduct towards her. On that same night the fire had occurred; he must have been occupied all Friday morning at the inquest, and as soon as he was free he must have gone straight to his sister-in-law with his preposterous demand. I was unable to fit it all in— that is to say, I could not see when he found the time for his reconciliation with his son.

Vincent Lestrange himself has not been to see you in respect to his father's proposal?" I asked at length,

"Oh dear no," was the reply from both ladies in a breath. "He knows very well he would not be admitted."

"Have you seen his name in any theatrical advertisements?"

"Not for two months or more," replied Muriel, "But he may have been acting in the provinces,"

"Would you mind telling me what you know of his forgery on Mr Lestrange?" I pursued. Somehow the introduction of this black sheep into the business drew me like a magnet; but though I fully believed him to be the influence which had wrought the mischief, I could not for the life of me see how he could have worked upon his father in the time since the drawing of the weekly cheque.

It was Mrs Carnegie who answered the question.

"Vincent put Mr Lestrange's name to a cheque for £100 on your bank and got the money," she said, "I can't remember the date, but it was in April two years ago. My brother-in-law, when he made the discovery from his pass book, kept quiet about it, so that the bank never knew that it had paid a forgery. In his eagerness to hush the matter up he never even asked to see the cheque. It is not his custom, as you doubtless know, to have cancelled cheques returned to him by the bank unless he specially asks for them."

When I left the little house in Bayswater I think the germ that was to bear fruit was already working in my mind, but it was not till I was pondering the business over a pipe in my diggings that night that I fairly saw daylight.

"That's it, by George!" I mentally exclaimed, after a long whistle. "The fourth unclaimed body! That explains it!"

I had to contain myself as best I could next day, it being Sunday ; but on Monday morning, as soon as I reached the bank, I lost no time in making two searches— one for the last cheque drawn over the signature of Prescott Lestrange, with which the account was removed; the other for the cheque forged by Vincent, which had caused the old man to disinherit him. I also fortified myself with a few other of Mr Lestrange's cheques and made a careful comparison with this startling result:

Not only was I convinced that the two year old cheque was a very clever forgery, but that so was the big one, which I had seen drawn and signed before my very eyes at the counter.

The obvious deduction was that the man who had signed that cheque, withdrawing the account and transferring it to another bank, was not Prescott Lestrange. I felt as sure as could be that it was the actor, Vincent Lestrange, made up to resemble his father, and using his powers of mimicry to aid and abet his facility with the pen. In all probability he had carried out the first successful forgery for the smaller sum in the same way— by personating his father at the bank, and allaying suspicion by signing the cheque in front of the I cashier. And where was Prescott Lestrange? That question would have to be silently answered by the fourth body found in the burned ruins of Prescott Lestrange's house,

I went to the manager at once and laid my theory before him, showing him the cheques and confiding to him what I knew of the Carnegies.

"No fault attaches to you, Mr, Spencer," I was relieved to hear him say. "Not only is the forgery a clever one, but it was signed in your presence by what purported to be the customer himself. I will go over to the Metropolitan and District Bank and make matters right there, then we will telephone for a detective. Mr Lestrange, or rather his counterfeit, as we believe, said that he would call at the Carnegies this evening. Good; that should simplify the affair,"

THAT EVENING at six o'clock, with an inspector and sergeant of the city police, I took up a position at the corner of the Murchison Road, whence we had a view of Mrs Carnegie's house. One of the officers had paid the ladies a visit and prepared them for what was to come, but it was not till half-past seven that our quarry mounted the steps and rang the bell.

"Now, Mr Spencer, said the inspector, when the visitor had been admitted, "it is for you to lead off the programme."

We approached the house and were silently admitted by the servant, who had been coached in her part.

The detectives remained in the passage, but I was shown into the drawing room, and found myself face to face with— to all appearances— Mr Prescott Lestrange, The ladies were not present.

"Good evening, Mr Lestrange," I said, "I was told I should find you here, Mr Narracot, of the London and Suburban Bank, desires to have your signature to this cheque verified, as it is not quite like your usual hand. He has notified the Metropolitan and District Bank of an irregularity in the cheque that transferred the account."

He uttered an angry snarl, but, disregarding it, I went close up and pretended to show him the cheque. There, sure enough, as I stood at his side, I saw what I was looking for— the join in the grey wig that completed his disguise. It was all I wanted. I coughed twice— the policeman entered, and Vincent Lestrange was in custody.

THERE WERE not wanting many who believed Vincent to have caused the fire by which his father and the three servants lost their lives, but the police failed to bring home to him the graver charge. His own version was that he had chanced to pass at the time, and that, seeing the house and all in it were doomed, he had hurried to his lodgings and after making himself up to resemble his father, he had returned to the scene.

His idea was to get possession of the ready money in the bank in any case, and also, if possible, to force Muriel to marry him by threatening Mrs Carnegie, in the character of his father, with the stoppage of her income. Once married to Muriel, he would have confessed to her what he had done, relying on her not prosecuting her husband for the fraud and forgery, Thus he hoped to share the fortune which she would inherit as soon as it was known that Mr Lestrange was dead.

He nearly succeeded in the money part of the scheme, but that he would have succeeded in the other part, Muriel, my wife, assures me was impossible. She and her mother would have starved first— and I quite believe her.

_____________

11: The "Artemis" Mystery

Headon Hill

Express and Telegraph (Adelaide) 23 Nov 1907

[The Story-teller Nov 1907]

I PUSHED open the door of the chartroom and confronted the captain and the young Scotch surgeon, who were sitting on opposite sides of the table, regarding one another with the frowns of puzzled men.

"Look here, Captain Smithers," I said, "if I can be of any use to you, my services are at your disposal. The other passengers have been good enough to place me as a solicitors' managing clerk, and I have not thought it worth while to enlighten them, but that card describes me officially."

I handed the captain the slip of pasteboard and had the pleasure of seeing his eyes dilate as he read:—

INSPECTOR FORRESTER,

Criminal Investigation Department

New Scotland Yard.

Passing the card across to the surgeon, he signalled an ocular request for advice. The Scotchman cast upon me the searchlight of a pair of shrewd grey eyes, and remarked laconically:— "He seems to have dropped from the clouds, sir. This is a bit of all right."

"Our trouble, as you may have guessed," said Captain Smithers, turning to-me, "is whether to bury Mr. Dean at sea or to take the body home for examination by experts. "Doctor Macintyre says that, from the purely professional point of view, the remains ought to be disposed of long before the five days will have elapsed which it will take us to reach the Thames."

"Entirely on sanitary grounds, due to the climatic conditions of these latitudes," said the doctor, with an emphasis on the first word, which, in conjunction with the look he gave me, made the remark pregnant with meaning.

"Which means, gentlemen, that you do not altogether accept the theory of suicide," I said: adding, as the two honest faces cleared at my voicing what they had shrunk from voicing themselves:— "It was because I thought that you might be in that difficulty that I introduced myself."

Captain Smithers pushed his chair back with a clatter. "Come and have a look at the cabin," he said. "I gave orders that nothing should be touched till Macintyre and I had had our palaver."

LET ME HERE set forth the initial stages of the occurrence which not an hour before I had sent a thrill of horror through the ship.

Even a detective must have a holiday sometimes, and I had elected to spend mine in a three weeks' cruise on one of the numerous ocean liners which during the summer months are detached from their regular service to take people on circular pleasure-trips. I selected the Artemis for two reasons. She was one of the largest steamers engaged in the business, promising, therefore, greater comfort; and the projected voyage, embracing visits to many Mediterranean ports and a run home via the Canaries, covered a part of the world to which my professional duties had never taken me.

I have chased many a fugitive from justice across the Atlantic, and the "Channel passage" is almost a weekly incident with me, but the balmy airs and calm waters of the southern seas promised new delights untainted with the sordid associations of my calling. For three glorious weeks I wanted to forget that I was a detective, to enjoy the luxury of life without feeling that I was hunting some wretched fellow creature to well-merited punishment, and for once in a way to mix with people upon whom, neither as culprits nor as avengers, rested the shadow of crime.

Yet here I was, with five days of the cruise still unexpired, volunteering to aid the captain of the Artemis and his very capable surgeon under circumstances reeking with the commonplace of that daily round which I had hoped for a short time to escape. One cannot, however, escape one's instincts, and though I suspected no one, I may say thus early that I was aware of something that might lead to suspicion.

It fell out in this way— the cause of my self-sacrifice on the altar of instinct. That morning Mr. Harold Dean, one of our most notable passengers, had been found by his bedroom steward dead in his cabin, with a ghastly gash in his throat and the cruel steel grasped in his stiff right hand. So much and no more of the dreadful news had been allowed to leak out; but it was enough to set all my senses tingling to throw myself into the heart of this tragedy of the sea.

Mr. Dean had from the first excited my interest, because, when he came on board at Gravesend, I happened to witness the curious chance meeting between him and his old friend, Vincent Sandecotes, the latter, in common with the majority of the passengers, having commenced his voyage at the London Docks. Mr. Sandecotes was leaning over the rail next to me, watching the new arrivals— a tall, fair man, with gentle blue eyes and a long, wavy moustache. Although he had only been on the ship a few hours, he had made himself known to everyone, and had already earned golden opinions by his genial good-nature.

I had not been acquainted with him five minutes when be informed me that he was a Birmingham merchant, carrying on an extensive foreign trade in patent padlocks.

When the electric launch of the Artemis came fussing alongside with the late contingent of health-seekers, Mr. Sandecotes suddenly laid his hand on my arm, pointing ,with the other at the little craft.

"By Jove, but this is too good to be true!" he cried. "See that wizened little monkey of a man in the stern of the launch— the one with the soft white hat? That is Harold Dean, the American railway magnate, and one of my best friends. I haven't seen him for five years, and he'll be as much surprised as I am."

His guiding finger was hardly necessary, so tersely complete had been his description. A more forbidding little creature than Mr. Harold Dean I had never set eyes on, and his appearance certainly made for the truth of the Darwin theory. His face was distinctly of the simian type, except that apes are seldom furnished with such sombrely malevolent eyes.

There came, however, a gleam of human emotion into the railway magnate's face when he found Sandecotes waiting with outstretched hand to greet him at the gangway. There was no question but that he was pleased at the meeting. His skinny fingers closed heartily, even if they were suggestive of the talons of a vulture, on Mr. Sandecotes' plump hand, and the pair walked aside, celebrating the reunion with much earnest talk.

After that it was but natural that they should be much together during the succeeding days while the Artemis ran southwards over summer seas. From the first it became evident that the American millionaire , and the Birmingham merchant meant to make the best of the chance that had thrown them into each other's society, after their long separation. As Mr. Sandecotes was at pains to explain, there were many mutual memories to be revived, and scenes of the past to be lived over again.

But intimate as were the two men with each other, their attitude towards the other passengers differed as widely as the poles. Mr. Dean was as morosely taciturn as Mr. Sandecotes was affable and good-tempered. The former carefully avoided all intercourse with the ladies on board; the latter, when not in familiar converse with his friend, was never so happy as when playing the squire of dames; and by the time we passed the Straits of Gibraltar Mr. Vincent Sandecotes had singled out one fair passenger in particular as the object of his gallantries.

This was Miss Daisy Arabin, a sprightly, laughing girl fresh from school, who was travelling under the wing of her mother. There was an old copy of "County Families" in the smoking-room, and I identified them as the Sussex Arabins— people of importance and large acreage, residing in an ancient grange near Horsham.

So much for the persons who were destined to be the principal factors in the puzzle I was so unexpectedly called on to unravel— unless I add young Cecil Croyde. Mr. Croyde was a smooth-cheeked Oxford undergraduate, who was making the trip under medical advice, and who quite early in it lost his heart in a ludicrously obvious manner to Daisy Arabin. As a student of human nature, I was interested in the inexperienced girl's cleverness in playing off one admirer against the other. So clever was she, indeed, in according and withdrawing her favors that up to the time of the tragedy I had come to no conclusion as to which of the two she preferred.

One night she would be promenading the deck in the moonlight with young Croyde, and the very next morning I would come upon her talking intimately to Mr. Sandecotes in that time-honored home of maritime flirtation, the space behind the aft wheel-house.

AS AN American plutocrat, Mr. Dean might have been expected to have bespoken the best state-room in the noble range on the upper deck. On the contrary, he occupied the smallest and least desirable cabin on the main deck, reached by an alley leading out of the dining saloon and wedged in between a steward's pantry and a bathroom. There were several excited groups of passengers in the saloon as we passed through, and many nods and winks were exchanged at sight of me in company with the captain and the doctor. There would be more of them presently, I thought grimly, when these good folk learned that I was a Scotland Yard official.

"You have allowed no one inside, Barker?" said the skipper to the steward whom he had placed on guard at the cabin door.

"Nobody has been near, sir," was the reply.

So we three entered the little compartment where the gruesome deed had been done, and where the dead man was still meaning back in the chair before the hinged bracket that did duty for a writing table. There is no need to dwell on the sight that met our gaze, and which to anyone but a policeman or a doctor would have been too horrible. Suffice it to say that I verified all of the report that was material to the main issue— the direction of the fatal wound, and the clutch of the stiffened right hand on the haft of the American "bowie" knife that had sent the shrunken little figure in the chair to his last account.

"It is suicide on the face of it, doctor," I said, after my brief but exhaustive examination. "What made you jib at the idea of burying him off-hand at sea?"

"Two things— a matter of sentiment and a technical point," replied Macintyre, searching my face for a clue to my thoughts. "The sentiment was contained in the urgent appeal of the deceased's friend, Mr. Sandecotes, to have the body taken home for decent burial. The technical point is that the weapon is in the position it must have been in immediately after Dean inflicted the fatal wound on himself— presuming that he did so. By all the rules of the game the knife should have fallen from his nerveless fingers the moment life was extinct."

"Then," said I, looking at him hard, "this must be the exception that proves the rule, doctor?"

"I suppose so," he admitted uneasily. "Unless—"

"Unless it is not a case of suicide," I supplied the saving clause which he was reluctant to utter. 'And that," I added, lowering my voice as I glanced from the captain to the doctor, "is exactly what it is not. This is murder, gentlemen, — subtle, but none the less convincing. Let us go back to the chartroom to discuss the position, and in the meanwhile, Captain Smithers, I hope that the guard at the door will not relax his vigilance."

The two ship's officers, half-stunned by the gravity of my announcement, passed out of the cabin, and I was following when I noticed the edge of a sheet of notepaper sticking out of the blotting-pad that lay on the table in front of the dead- man. This I secured quietly, and, without looking at it then, thrust it into my breast-pocket before I, too, quitted the cabin. The groups in the saloon regarded my companions and myself with increased interest as we filed through, and one lady, bolder than the rest, tried to stop the captain with some foolish questions. Waving her aside, he led the way to the upper deck, where, as we were entering the chartroom, Mr. Vincent Sandecotes met us, his eyes full of grave concern.

"Have you settled anything?" he asked in a hushed voice.

"Not definitely," Macintyre took upon himself to answer; "but, at any rate, the burial will not take place to-day."

The enquirer passed on with bowed head, and Captain Smithers kicked the chartroom door shut and locked it.

"So you say it's murder?" he blurted out at me. "That is a serious allegation unless you have good grounds to go on."

"I have the best of grounds," I replied. "I had them as soon as ever I heard the rumor that Mr. Dean had killed himself with a knife that had been found in his right hand. But, excuse me for a moment."

Drawing out the sheet of paper which I had secured from the blotting-pad, I ran my eye over it.

"This considerably narrows the enquiry," I said, handing the paper to the captain. "It enables me to state, with tolerable confidence in my accuracy, that one of two men whom I can name killed Dean."

The words on the paper ran:—"The writer wishes to warn Miss Ar—" and broke off abruptly in the middle of the last word.

Old Smithers, after perusing the document, thrust his weather-beaten face forward almost fiercely. "How does that help you?" he demanded, fighting for the honor of his ship; "I can't smell murder in that."

"That is because a good seaman is not necessarily a good detective," I said. "To me that paper is a clear indication that this crime was committed either by "Mr. Cecil Croyde or by Mr. Vincent Sandecotes. Stay!" I added, noting the amazement that was about to burst into speech that might be overheard. "There is no wizardry in this. It is all very simple and easy. There is only one lady passenger— Miss Arabin— whose name begins with the two letters clipped short on that paper. The two male passengers whom I mentioned have been paying her marked attention. Very well. I maintain that the dead man knew something to the detriment of one of these two admirers, and that lie was killed because lie was about to impart his knowledge to the young lady."

The doctor nodded comprehension, bus the skipper, with more at stake, was harder to convince. "Where did you get that paper?" he asked.

I told him, and added that in all probability Dean had been writing it when the murderer entered his cabin, and had only time to slip the sheet into the blotting-pad before he was attacked from behind, had his head dragged back, and the fatal wound inflicted.

"That means." said the captain, with rugged simplicity, "that the assassin was aware that Dean was about to warn the girl?"

"That point is the pivot of the whole case, captain." I rejoined shortly; and the doctor, whose keen insight was from tae first to the last of the greatest use to me, and who must have seen that I was not yet prepared to be more specific, adroitly steered the subject back to the portion of the case that was to him professionally most absorbing.

"But the knife, Mr. Forrester,' he interposed. "Is it too soon to expect you to explain how the deceased came to be grasping the knife which had been used upon him by another man with instantly fatal effect?"

"I should prefer to wait a little before going into details, hut a simple contrivance was used, of which traces remain," I replied. "This much I can tell you at once, however— that if Dean and intended to cut his throat himself he wouldn't have done it with the hand that clutches the weapon. He was a left-handed man. It was the certainty of that fact, acquired by playing deck quoits with him a few days ago, that made me disclose myself to you directly I heard it stated that the weapon was held in the right hand."

Even the captain was convinced at last.

"A bad business," he several times repeated. shaking his head, and adding at last—"Well, sir, I am not going to hush up a murder for the benefit of the owners. You can count on me to take the scoundrel home in irons when you have satisfied me that there is prima facie evidence. What do you propose to do?"

"Loaf about on deck and gossip with the passengers: they'll be after me like flies round a honey pot through my having been seen in consultation with you," I answered. "I do not think it will be long before I have news for you."

Leaving the two perplexed officers together, I commenced my programme by sauntering to and fro on the hurricane deck, and quickly found my expectations realised in being approached by a succession of passengers, who all put "fishing" questions as to my expedition to Dean's cabin under the auspices of the captain and the doctor. To one and all I made the same evasive reply, on the strength of my presumed calling of a lawyer's clerk, that there were legal technicalities connected with a death at sea on which the ship's officers wanted my advice.

But presently I was questioned in a more direct way. I felt the sensation which I had so often administered to others— that of being tapped on the shoulder. Wheeling sharply round I found myself looking into the pale and quivering face of young Cecil Crowde.

"I say, Mr. Forrester, you are a detective, are you not?": he began to falter. "I —I saw you go along to Dean's cabin with old Smithers and Macintyre, and I looked up your name in 'Whitaker's Almanack.' "

"Well, what if I am a detective?" I snapped sternly.

The boy stammered more painfully still. "I— I have a sort of— in fact, a kind of confession— I might call it that—to make," he went on; and had got so far when lie stopped dead, a guilty blush suffusing the pallor that had been there a moment before. Following the direction of his eyes, I saw that they rested wistfully on Miss Daisy Arabin, who, with Mr. Vincent Sandecotes, had just emerged from that convenient nook behind the wheelhouse. Sandecotes was bending towards the girl, who was looking up at him and listening earnestly. As they passed us I observed that she cast a glance at my agitated companion, but Sandecotes went by without appearing to notice us, his long fair moustache waving in the breeze.

For some reason the sight seemed to have paralysed young Croyde. He showed no disposition to resume where he had broken off.

"Come! what of that confession?" I persisted.

But he had waxed sullenly reticent, and neither by threats nor cajolery could I induce him to unburden himself. "I was going to act like a cad," was all I could get from him, muttered over and over again.

MY trump card was yet to play, however, and the playing of it demanded that I should find Miss Daisy Arabin alone— no easy matter in the case of the belle of the ship, who was monopolised by two open admirers besides being in general request. It was not till nearly the luncheon hour that I succeeded in running her to ground as she was entering her upper-deck cabin to preen herself for the meal. As a middle-aged fogey I had been outside her immediate circle, though on one or two occasions we had been partners at shuffle-board or deck quoits.

"I wonder. Miss Arabin, if you can come to-the rescue of a poor grass-widower who is in trouble through not having his women folk about," I said, putting on a paternal air.

She opened her babyish-blue eyes very, wide, then laughed a little. "You look quite tragic, Mr. Forrester," she said. "What do you want me to do—sew on a button for you?"

"Not a bad guess," I smiled; "Only if you will supply the material I will do the job myself. I was going to ask you for some black thread, if you happen to have any with you."

"Oh, yes, I can help you there," she replied, with a gleam of her white teeth. "But I shall have to set up shop and make a charge if any one else applies, for yours is the second request for black thread in two days. It was only yesterday that Mr. Sandecotes came bothering for some."

She dived into her state-room and reappeared with a half-used reel, which she handed to me with a charming little bow.

"Mr. Sandecotes hasn't left you very much," she said. "I hope there'll be enough for your purpose."

I bore off my prize, my trained features showing nothing of the grim thought in my mind— that there was plenty of thread for my purpose, which, after what she had told me, was to hang Mr. Vincent Sandecotes. For my examination in Dean's cabin had shown me that the knife had been placed in the dead man's hand and kept in position till rigor mortis set in by strands of black thread, which had later been almost, but not entirely, removed by fire. The murder must have been committed early in the night, and the body arranged to simulate suicide; then in the grey dawn the assassin must have stolen back and, lighting a wax match, burned off the thread that had held the knife till the stiff fingers could hold it themselves.

I had met with a speedier success than I had looked for in Miss Arabin's voluntary statement that she had supplied Sandecotes with thread. I had expected to have to establish that, after I had satisfied myself that the thread used by the murderer came from that reel. I had, in fact, been in doubt whether Croyde or Sandecotes was the guilty party, and even now I could not understand the young Oxonian's suddenly checked confidence.

It only remained only to compare the black I thread on the reel with the tiny filaments adhering to Dean's coat sleeve and the haft of the knife. In the presence of the captain and doctor I made the comparison, removing the last vestige of doubt from their minds.

"The next thing is to tackle the murderer." said I. "You don't want him to sit down with honest folk."

"Not much!" returned Smithers. "But as little fuss as possible, please."

There was no fuss at all. We three went straight to Sandecotes' state-room and found him brushing his hair. His face when he saw us was a study in impassive bravado, though I think "he guessed what was coming.

"Mr. Vincent Sandecotes, let me introduce myself— Inspector Forrester, of New Scotland Yard," I said suavely. "At the request of Captain Smithers I have been investigating the cause of the death of Mr Dean."

"Yes. Have you discovered anything new about the poor chap," he drawled.

"Nothing new to me, but something new to you, or you would not have overlooked it." I rejoined. "Mr. Dean was left-handed. The man who killed him ought to have exercised his ingenuity with Miss Arabin's thread on his victim's left hand."

The silver-backed hair-brushes fell clattering to the cabin floor.

THE IMPOSTOR calling himself Vincent Sandecotes duly paid the penalty of his crime, and the preliminaries that followed the return of the Artemis to port were en trusted to me. A little routine work showed that both the murdered lean and his assailant were not what they represented themselves, being, in fact, a couple of professional criminals who had quarrelled over the spoils of a recent fraud. To escape disgorging a fair share. Sandecotes had taken passage on the Artemis, but Dean had traced him and caught him up at Gravesend.

On the steamer the more specious scoundrel had conceived the notion of marrying the flighty little schoolgirl, and his whilom companions had threatened to expose him if not squared. Hence the crime, which might have succeeded had not a practised eye been at hand to notice the criminal's oversight.

All the sordid details fell into line with due precision except one—the half-disclosed confidence of Cecil Croyde. I made bold to call upon him at his home in London to clear up the point. He gave me a hearty welcome.

"Well, you see, Mr. Forrester." he said sheepishly, "I am engaged to Miss Arabin now, so I don't mind telling you. I had been going to inform you that I was in the back of one of those dark shops at Gibraltar when the ship called there, and that I heard Sandecotes enquiring for an American bowie knife. I relented because I didn't want to make her unhappy if she really liked the fellow. I was so awfully gone on her that I though it would be a mean trick to try to upset her apple-cart over a thing that might have nothing in it."

Whereat I asked the boy to allow me the privilege of shaking him by the hand and wishing him happiness.

I shall always remember this case by the cunning of the criminal in advocating the conveyance of the body home— a course which he had relied on the ship's doctor to forbid.

___________________

12: Limping Justice

Headon Hill

Saturday Journal (Adelaide) 1 Sep 1928

WOULD the rain never stop? Paul Gryswold had been wandering up and down the earth for three years. He had been in places which took a strange pride in their rainfall records— so many inches in so many hours. But he had never known such rain as this cold incisive stuff that was almost hail, yet missed hail's redeeming quality of bouncing off without wetting fine to the skin.

As he had endured this pestilent downpour throughout his trudge from the railway station, now four miles behind him— four miles along which his father's Daimler used to whisk him in about that number of minutes. It really did not matter now whether the rain stopped or not. For he could not get any wetter—and if it had been daylight be would have been within sight of his old home.

Even as he sought solace from that conclusion he came to the entrance gates and passed into the long winding drive that led to the mansion. Between the dripping trees he caught glimpses of lighted windows, yielding promise of warmth and shelter. There was a chance— a million to one against it chance, Paul comforted himself— that the warmth and shelter would be denied him. But, putting that contingency from him as too horrible to contemplate, he went squelching up the drive as fast as his tired legs would carry him. The sooner he reached the shining haven the sooner would the faint breath of suspense cease to flutter at his heart.

He was a nervous man, this Paul Gryswold, for suddenly he uttered a little cry and nearly jumped out of his rainsoaked skin. Then he laughed at himself, realizing that his fright had been caused by a small animal which had run into him— probably a rabbit. But a rabbit would not cuddle up against his legs as this creature was doing. At the first contact it would have side-stepped into the shrubbery that skirted the drive. He stooped down and laughed again, his sense of touch telling him that he had been terrified by a three-months fox terrier puppy which was more terrified than he had been. He picked the little beast up and, soothing it with crooning words. carried it in cradled arms towards the big house ahead.

"This must be one of Vixens pups," he muttered. "Looks as if Sally wasn't married yet, if she and her old bitch are still under the paternal roof. But what rot!" he pulled up sharply. "Vixen would be about 18 years old and past producing puppies in the improbable event of her being still alive. This waif must be the offspring of a successor to the spirited terrier lady who used to chew my boots."

Further surmise was cut short by another collision— this time- with a far larger body which bumped into him as he tinned a corner in the drive.

"Oh, I am sorry!" came a cry of feminine distress from the darkness. "I was looking for my puppy. He ran out when the front door was opened."

"You are not Sally?" said Paul in a tone of doubt.

"Certainly not, though I believe we have a housemaid of that name." replied the unseen with an access of noticeable coldness.

"I was referring to my sister, Miss Sarah Gryswold," Paul corrected the obvious impression. "Let me reassure you about the pup, however. I have him tucked away here, warm and comfortable. A jolly little chap, he seems. I was bringing him up to the house, but perhaps you would like to take him yourself now?"

There was a short silence.

"Were you coming up to the house?" the girl asked, as if trying to adjust her mental focus.

"I was," said Paul. "You see. I used to live here— with my people. I suppose you are staying with them?"

The conversation continued to keep up its disjointed character.

"Yes, please do carry my doggie," the puppy's owner reverted to the previous question. "He must have taken a fancy to you or he would never have let you trick him up."

They walked on together towards the row of shining windows, scarcely exchanging a word, and that only on the vileness of the weather. Paul guessed that he stood on the brink of a dread discovery, and he suspected that his invisible companion's nervous silence was due to a knowledge of the blow that was about to fall on him.

When they reached the great nail-studded doors she flitted in front, and ushering him into the brilliantly lighted entrance hall, broke thereby the news she had shrunk from imparting by word of mouth.

For Paul, glancing round the once familiar scene, saw that it was no longer familiar. Nothing but the four walls and lofty ceiling remained. The furniture was as tasteful and costly as in the days of his youth, but it was not the same.

He turned to the girl in the dripping oilskins, who was regarding him with apprehensive pity. A mist swain before his eyes, nut he saw that she was tall and of a' winsome beauty.

"My folks don't live here any more?" he faltered.

She took the puppy from his yielding arms.

"No." she replied softly. "I hate to tell you, but it will be best to get it over. Mr. and Mrs. Gryswold died some years aeo. My father bought the place from the executors."

Worn out, wet, and it must be confessed hungry, Paul Gryswold, though the blow had been so gently dealt, sank into a chair and buried his face .in his hands.

The girl touched a bell and a butler came from a door at the end of the hall. She met the servant as he hurried towards her. and. after whispering to him. she disappeared into one of the many doors giving on the hall— to return in less than a minute, just as Paul raised his stricken face.

"Dennis will take you upstairs, Mr. Gryswold," she said. "You must change into dry things at once. There are plenty of my brother's things which will fit you. My father will not hear of your going, away to-night. He would come and welcome you himself if he wasn't chained to his chair by gout. He will see you as soon as you have been made comfortable."

The next hour passed like a fantastic dream for Paul Gryswoid. The butler, Dennis, to whom something of his tragedy had evidently been imparted, ministered to him with silent sympathy, helping him with his toilet and setting food and drink before him in the dining room, where he looked instinctively, but in vain, for the family portraits that had once graced its walls.

Gradually the shock and grief gave place to gratitude. These people who had stepped into his old home, doubtless with every legal right, were being very kind to him. He wondered who they were.

"I think you have been told who I am," he said, as Dennis, placing a decanter of port before him. prepared to leave the room. "But I have no idea to whom I am indebted for this generous hospitality."

"My master is Sir James Addington, sir," the butler replied, with the reverence of a faithful servant for a distinguished employer. "The young lady who brought you in is his daughter, Miss Sybil. When you have finished your wine, sir. if you will be good enough to ring I will command take you to Sir James in the library."

"Addington?" murmured Paul when he was left alone. "The name seems to recall something vaguely unpleasant, but there have been so many things that have been unpleasant without being vague. Anyhow, if my worthy host can supply the elusive link with my past I shall soon find myself out in the rain again."

The reflection was conceived in bitterness, and well it might be.

The past to which Paul Gryswoid muttered allusion comprised as complete a disaster as ever left a human derelict stranded on the rocks of evil fate. Tried and sentenced to seven year's penal servitude for forgery,. he had tried to lose himself wandering about the earth, and he had now come home to find that the parents from whom he had concealed the disgrace by being tried in a false name, were dead, that the place which had known them was in the hands of strangers, and that his sister was yet to seek.

And through the terrible years of his anguish he had been sometimes uplifted, sometimes goaded to despair, by the consciousness that he was innocent of the crime for which he had been punished. He had filled his glass and, draining it at a gulp, he now rose and touched the bell. The butler entered and conducted him across the hall to the library, softly closing the door when he announced him.

It was a pretty picture-that met has haggard eyes as he stood within the doorway. The only light in the room came from a shaded. reading lamp on a small table by the fireside. In the mellow circle cast by it Paul saw the girl who had met him in the drive kneeling on the hearthrug, looking up into the face of a stately old man who lay back in a great leather chair, with one bandaged foot on a stool. But this was only a glimpse.

At the sound of the butler's voice the picture changed instantly. The girl rose to her feet, smiling at her protegé, and the old man's cultured voice begged Paul to draw near the fire.

"I will go and see if Pickle has been properly dried," said Miss Addington, and passing her hand over her father's grey head she left the room.

"Do sit down in that chair opposite me. Mr. Gryswoid," said Sir James as Paul came forward. "I am afraid that you have had a terrible shock to-night. Now you must allow us to make what amends we can for usurping— for being, in fact where we are, here in the house of your ancestors— by asking you to consider it your home as long as may be convenient."

Murmuring his thanks, Paul took the seat indicated, and tried to remember why it was that the strangely clipped yet ponderous phrasing had a familiar ring. For a few minutes the memory eluded him. Then, as he glanced across at the fine old face beaming at him from its halo of lamplight, he knew the massively domed forehead, the clear-cut, ascetic mouth, and the pink, clean shaven cheeks as the salient features of the Judge who had pronounced sentence on him all those weary years ago.

At that dreadful time the name of the be-wigged and ermined tyrant who in a few words of polished insult had consigned him to a living tomb had not seemed to matter. Throughout his age he had thought of him as "that cruel devil," only vaguely recalling now that in the dock he had heard him referred to as Mr. Justice Addington. The butler's mention of Sir James Addington that night had touched no chord of memory.

"I can assure you, Mr. Gryswold," the silvery tones proceeded, "that the sympathy of my daughter Sybil and myself is youre in the sad infliction so intensified by the manner of its revelation. You cannot, however, fail to acquit us of blame for the— er— slings and arrows of outrageous fortune which have struck you down."

"Of course'," Paul replied dully. The pedantic periods of the old Judge, the tones of a man who loved the sound of his own voice, filled him with hatred and reminiscent horror. On changing into dry clothes provided he had slipped into the breast pocket of the dinner jacket a small revolver which had been the companion of his wanderings. He found himself feeling the butt of the weapon as he gazed across the hearthrug at his host's benevolent face.

"On my retirement from the Bench." Sir James continued, taking it for granted that his identity would be known to the hearer, "I bought this place from the executors of your late father, who. I was given to understand, had succeeded in getting the entail owing to the legally presumed death of his only son. That wiil have been you, Mr. Gryswold, and I trust that you will take an old lawyer's advice and not cause trouble by trying to revive the entail. Believe me,  since the Court has pronounced you dead, it woud be futile for you to come to life again for the purpose of disposessing me. You would not have a leg to stand on— I mean from the viewpoint of the law. I paid a heavy price for the estate, and that doubtless you will be able to recover."

Paul stirred uneasily under the mental and physical strain. How he longed to hurl a bullet into the mass of selfish self-righteousness confronting him. His fingers tightened on the pistol, then wilh an effort he withdrew them.

"Do you know where my sister is?" he asked, and in his own ears his voice sounded far away. "If she is alive she is my only relative."

Sir James emitted a sardonic but musical laugh.

"No, unfortunately, I do not know what became of Miss Gryswoid when her home was broken up. I quite see your point, though, and it is a sound one. You infer that your sister is in possession of the proceeds of the sale, and you mean her to disgorge at least a fair share. There ought to he no difficulty about enforcing restitution. You can take it from me— er, not a bad authority, perhaps— that any one of my late brethren of the High Court would pronounce judgment in your favour "

Paul's dry lips failed to frame an answer. He was beginning to wonder if he was not in the throes of seme fantastic nightmare— whether the words dropped out by the callous worldling opposite, as though they were pearls of wisdom, were not the products of his own delirious ravings.

Under the assault of the torrential rain he might have sought shelter in a ditch at the roadside, to sink into a feverish slumber that was giving birth to preposterous dreams. For it was preposterous that that handsome old image, or any other ia-.ase. old or young of human flesh and blood, should suggest that dear little Sally would refuse him his share in his birthright. Still less was it conceivable that if she should refuse he would set the law in motion against her— the merciless machine, which had ground to powder and flung him to the winds of heaven. Under the lash of such treatment, which was only thinkable if his sister had fallen uudey the duress of a mercenary Husband, he would rather go into the darkness again, outcast for evermore.

Wrenching his gaze from the cameo-like face opposite, he half-turned his own to the fire, and in the flickering flames sought to conjure up a picture of Sally as she had been in the happy days when she had romped with him in the drive along which he had dragged his tired feet an hour ago. The slight movement brought the profile of his features into a fuller light from the fire.

In trying to reconstruct his sister in the glowing coals he was unconscious that the eyes of Sir James Addington had lost their benevolence, and were concentrated on him in stern enquiry.

At last Paul succeeded in recovering the sunny-haired maiden with the twin pigtails, and he turned once move to his host. The sinister gaze that had fastened on him he attributed to his delay in answering the egotist's brutal definition of his legal rights.

A moment later he knew that it was due to another cause. The ex-Judge was speaking.

"Young man," he said. "This is not our first meeting. I can no longer remember names readily, but I never forget a face that has confronted me from the dock. Would you be so good as to satisfy professional curiosity by informing me whether you are an out-and-out impostor, or whether the late Mr. Philip Gryswold's son really had the misfortune to claim my judicial attention?"

The Derringer in his breast pocket acted on Paul's fingers like a magnet on steel. A juster judge, exalted in the ineffable heights beyond all appeal, had delivered this worn-out husk of a man-made magistrate into his hands. He would scatter the mouthing mountebank's brains on the carpet, thereby wiping out to-night's insults along with the greater injury those silly brains had wrought him years ago.

Paul's fingers crept cautiously towards his pocket, for Sir James was watching hiin closely— not as if he feared violence, but with the impassive regard of a psychologist who strives to read a human document. Best get it over quickly, Paul thought, before those inscrutable eyes unnerved him. His hand dived for the pistol, but before he could withdraw it there arrived an anticlimax in the shape of Dennis, the butler.

The servant opened the door and, with a muttered apology, was holding it and whistling softly. Into the room darted the puppy which Paul had encountered in the drive and carried to the house. Yapping with joy the little animal came wriggling and squirming towards the fire.

"I beg your pardon, sir," the butler explained. "I thought that Miss Sybil was here. Shall I take the dog away?"

With a wave of dismissal Sir James intimated that there was no harm done, and that the puppy might stay. Indeed Pickle had already settled the matter himself. Having ascertained that his mistress was not present, he jumped on to Paul's lap and, nestling down with a contented sigh, incidently settled a matter of graver import.  For Paul needed his hand to caress the dumb beast, who evidently looked upon him as a friend, and had taken the only means in its power to tell him so. Of necessity the revolver tarried in the recesses of the dinner jacket.

The interlude past, Paul glanced at his host again. The old man's gaze was still fixed upon him, but, though he could not be sure, Paul thought that it had lost some of its sternness. Singularly enough it was to the dinner jacket that Sir James made reference when, after an appreciable interval, next he spoke.

"That coat you are wearing. Mr. Gryswold," he said. "It belonged to my son— my only son— Herbert. A wild young spark, but he died a soldier's, death, very bravely, in the last days of the war. I am afraid thee coat covered a multitude of sins when my boy wore it, and yet I don't know. I ought to have made allowance for the hot blood of youth, perhaps. After all what is sin? When it is defined by the law and interpreted by judge and jury it is very often no sin at all. When it is alleged by a private individual against a fellow-creature it is frequently a stone cast by the— er— denizen of a glass house."

The pedantic sentences ceased, and Paul saw that the face opposite had taken the semblance of an ivory mask. The eyes were closed, and the pink cheeks had grown ghastly in their pallor. The puppy must have noticed these changes too, for it began to whimper. Paul was about to press the bell button at his side and summon help, for if Sir James Addington was dead so was his quarrel with him.

Suddenly the eyes opened and a faint colour flushed the waxen features. And, stranger still, the eyes which in turn had been kindly and almost fierce, were now twinkling with dry humour.

"Pardon the lapse of an invalid," the cultured voice resumed. "I am not the man I was, and I fear I was on the brink of a seizure. Let me see. We were talking about sin and dinner jackets, Mr. Gryswold. It is odd that to-night my dear son's jacket should again be covering a contemplated sin. I beg of you, Mr. Gryswold, that on this occasion it may also be a sin accomplished. Why don't you pull out that pistol instead of fumbling for it?"

So, Paul told himself, this old devil, who in the panoply of his scarlet robes had pronounced doom on 'thousands of poor wretches,' had read his inmost soul. The uncanny instinct of the former judge had divined his purpose. And yet, somehow, that, last utterance was rather melancholy than accusing. Paul pounced on the word that seemed pregnant with mystery— the only one on which the speaker had broken from the level judicial tones to lay a noticeable stress.

Paul repeated the word.

"Again?" he said softly, making it a question.

"Yes, again, sir," Sir James took up the challenge, his voice vibrant and masterful.  "A month before my son went to France, never to return, he sat in that chair you are sitting in, wearing the coat you are wearing, and in the pocket of the coat was a pistol with which he meant to shoot me— just as you are itching to shoot me now. I wish to God he had. I should have deserved it— for not making allowances. But I was too many for him in dialectics, and he spared my life, Mr. Gryswold, and himself that crime which I am trusting you to complete. Just as a matter of professional interest, though, I should take it kindly if you would just tell me how and when I incurred your emnity. The date and the name you were tried in, with the nature of the charge, might help."

"I was tried for forgery at the October sessions of the Central Criminal Court in 1910 in the name of Ambrose Harland," Paul replied. "The sentence was seven years penal servitude."

He was surprised at himself for so discussing his great wrong with the man who had wrought it. This would never do. He must not allow this cunning old spider to weaken with a pitiful tale, an intention which only an evil mind could have penetrated. The cruel eyes had closed again, suggesting that the details furnished were being sought for in the pigeon-holes of that formidable brain.

A point which had escaped Paul now occurred to him. Sir James must have divined his intention before Dennis came to the library. Had he so desired be could then have claimed the butler's aid. He must really be wishing for the death he had taken no steps to avoid. Well, he had asked for it and he should have it, richly merited as it was. He had lived by battening on evil motives, sometimes falsely attributed and sometimes truly. To him it had not mattered a jot. He had even taken it for granted that dear, generous Sally would scheme and fight for sordid pelf.

Paul's hand stole towards the pistol, but once more he was prevented. The little dog in his lap sat up and licked his hand. At the same moment wonderful things began to happen at the other side of the hearth. Roused from his stupor, Sir James broke into harsh laughter as distinct from his natural tone as is a corncrake's note from a skylark's. And the old man was behaving oddly towards his own afflicted body. Raising his swathed foot from the rest, he prodded at the bandages with the stick kept handy beside his chair. Evidently his infirmity was the object of his derision.

"Limping justice!" he chuckled, "Taena pede claudo! Believe me, Mr Gryswold, of all the wheezes to be delved from the classics that is the truest. Here am I the living embodiment of it, with my game leg as a symbol, and I am thankful that tarda podagra has kept me limping long enough to set you right with the world. I remember your case well. There was a hostile witness against you, was there not— a sly, plausible fellow?"

"Ralph Fenniker?" murmured Paul. He was shaking like a leaf.

"That was the name. Well, Mr. Fenniker stood the cross-examination of your able counsel like a stone wall, and he gammoned the jury, but he ought to have been in the dock instead of the witness box. You will give me credit for summing up in your favour, Mr. Gryswold? You weren't following me closely? Tut, tut! Waiting for the verdict. I suppose, but it is a blow to one's self-esteem to learn that prisoners can be so inattentive to a functionary who, more often than not, is their best friend. I fear it is the sentence that rankles, Mr. Gryswold, and I can understand that by giving effect to the jury's pronouncement I have incurred our animus. I am willing and eager to atone, but before you play the executioner just one hint. Mind you, I watched the case narrowly and took notes which are still in existence. Seek Fenniker and violently assault him."

"What good will that do?" Paul enquired feebly.

"The good is obvious." Sir James joined the tips of his fingers. "You will be charged with the assault, and by pleading justification you can get the old case reopened, calling me as the Judge who tried you to give evidence in your favour. I shall tell the Magistrate that, though I was bound by the verdict, you were a scapegoat for the principal witness against you. I shall give my reasons— reasons which escaped your counsel— and even if you are convicted of the assault your character as an honest man will be vindicated."

Paul turned to the dancing flames for inspiration and slowly it came to him. The cunning old lawyer, with the only weapons he could wield, a subtle brain and a persuasive tongue, was fighting for his life. If his suggestion were adopted, the speedy death for which Sir James had professed such readiness would not overtake him. The human life which he, Paul Gryswold, above all others, would wish to preserve would be that of the man who could restore to him his honour, and there would be no shooting in the library that night.

Wouldn't there! The subtlety of this highly placed humbug should not prevail. For the third time Paul's hand, brushing aside the fawning puppy, went to his pocket, and ithis time it came out with the pistol in his grip. He aimed it at the grey head in the opposite chair— the grey head of the old man who cowered back with despairing groan. And then once again Providence, which had taken Paul into his keeping, stepped in.

For the old man was sitting up again, smiling at the doorway, where stood his daughter, not apparently alarmed but looking from one side of the fireplace to the other in honest bewilderment. Pickle jumped off Paul's knee and danced around her, barking joyously.

"It is all right, Sybil," the ex-judge reassured her, his voice low and. resonant, "Things are not always what they seem. Mr. Gryswold has had some amazing adventures in Western America, and he was giving an illustration of how he dealt with his enemies. Most interesting. You most get him to repeat the performance for your benefit. In the meanwhile, as I am rather tired, I must claim the privilege of age and infirmity and betake myself to bed. Will you ring for Dennis, dear, and entertain Mr. Gryswold till he, too, feels inclined, to seek his couch."

The butler appeared and gave his master his arm. The bandaged foot made progress slow, but at the door Sir James turned and waved his hand.

"Good night, Mr. Gryswold," he said courteously. "I am not much of a host, but my daughter will make up for deficiencies. Now, Dennis, be so good as to be very careful. Mr. Gryswold's exciting yarns of the Wild West have rendered me rather shaky."

With the closing of the door the silver tones ceased, and so well did Sybil Addington acquit herself as her father's deputy that it was past midnight when Paul, in the florid language of his absent host, sought his couch.

FOR MANY days he made his headquarters in his boyhood's home, and by the third day, knowing himself for a welcome guest, he had no compunction in accepting hospitality from the judge who had sentenced him.  Sir James never referred to their mutual confidences across the hearth on the first evening, and Paul's resentment quickly faded under the influence of kinder emotions— the delight of finding his sister after the briefest quest, and the turmoil of a courtship nearly as brief.

It was on the wedding day, while Paul was waiting in the hall for his bride to come downstairs in her going-away dress that Sir James hobbled up to him with the aid of an ebony stick. The beautiful complexion of the newly made father-in-law was slightly flushed.

"I shall suffer for those two glasses of champagne," the old man grumbled: "But just a word with you, my boy, about that night when we sat and glared at each other in the library. I am so glad you didn't adopt my advice and hunt up the hostile witness. It was tendered in self-defence against your very plain intention to indulge in what I believe the Americans call gun-play. I hadn't the ghost of a notion what you were talking about. I had forgotten your trial and everything to do with it, except that you had once faced me from the dock. Here comes Sybil, radiant as the morning, And I would rather trust a woman's heart than the verdict of a jury."

"Never mind, sir," Paul made answer. "Justice may limp, but it has got there this time."'

__________________

13: The Dining-Car Clue

Headon Hill

Express and Telegraph (Adelaide) 13 July 1907

"THE CHIEF wants to see you, Inspector Grantham," said a messenger, coming into the room at New Scotland Yard, where I was spending an idle half-hour over the album of criminal celebrities.

I went at once to the Chief Superintendent's office and was received by my superior officer with a friendly nod.

"Good news for you, Grantham," he said. "Someone has fairly given Brady away.  Read that letter and look at that photo."

First I ran my eye over the letter which he handed me. It was undated and unsigned, though the postmark showed it to have been posted in the E.C. district early that morning. It was in these words:—

"Brady, the banknote forger, intends to break cover this afternoon and' make a bolt for the States. He will leave Euston for Liverpool by the 5.30 corridor express, accompanied by his female accomplice, named Daisy Gilbart. Brady is certain to be disguised, but he has not divulged his proposed make-up to anyone, and it is therefore impossible to communicate it. The writer, however, encloses a photograph of Daisy Gilbart, who, not being as yet known to the police, may possibly travel in propria persona."

The photograph was that of a bold, saucy eyed young woman, with a profusion of light hair, and very showily attired in evening dress. A mark on the neck attracted my attention.

"Ah, you've spotted that mole!" exclaimed the chief, as I reached for the magtifying-glass on his desk. "She'd have to be pretty thickly faked to escape notice with a blemish like that."

"One would have thought that a woman cf that type would have got the photographer to retouch the mark out of the picture." I said. "What do you make of it all, sir— a split in the camp?"

"It points to that. There is a woman in the case, you see, Grantham, and the chances are that jealousy of this person Gilbart prompted the information."

I could not gainsay the chief's view, for by all the rules of the game he had solid grounds for it. In nine cases out of ten the anonymous letters that lead to the capture of important criminals are due to feminine spite. And yet there seemed .to my mind an element of doubt in this case. We had a very wily customer to deal with: There was the chance that the friendly letter; might be a "plant."

The warrant for Joe Brady— "the King of, the Bank-smashers" was his sobriquet— had been in my hands for six weeks, and I had hunted high and low for him without any result. Several times I had been hot on his scent, now in fashionable West-End lodgings and again in Whitechapel slums, but he had always flitted just before my arrival. The only credit I could so far take was that my pursuit had been so keen that he had not dared to come out into the open and make a bolt for it. I had felt fairly certain that he was still in London, and the letter confirmed that view.

I glanced at the clock. It was nearly three, and I had two hours and a half to make arrangements for the capture. I mentioned the names of the plain-clothes men whom I desired to support me, and look my departure, the chief firing after me the unnecessary advice that, as Brady knew me by sight, I had better adopt some effective make-up.

So it was that at-five o'clock I drove up in a hansom to the terminus, carefully dressed in the garments of a bishop, and with my face altered from all semblance to the original. To be in keeping with my assumed character, in the probable event of Brady having confederates on the watch, I went into the booking-office and took a first-class ticket for Liverpool, after which I strolled out on to the platform, just as the handsome train of "vestibule" cars was backing into position.

Early as it was, my two subordinates had by my direction preceded me to the station, though they were not to openly communicate with me till the supreme moment. One of them, a smart young sergeant named Parker, who was got up as a bluejacket, contrived to whisper in my ear as I stood at the bookstall—

"The girl is here, apparently alone— Came ten minutes ago. Took two firsts to Liverpool. Now in the ladies' waiting room."

Parker and his colleague had, of course, had a sight of the photograph. His information was welcome, as proving that at any rate the letter received at the Yard had some foundation, and was not, as I had half feared, a practical joke designed to lead us on a wild-goose chase.

The other man, Swayne—a sporting farmer for the time being— found occasion to report to me as I was washing my hands in the lavatory. He had by my instructions warned the detectives on ordinary duty at the terminus, who would in any case have been on the lookout for Brady, in common with other escaping criminals, of what was in the wind.

I went back to the platform and sat down on a bench opposite the dining car to await developments. A bishop is a common object nowadays, and my laced hat and gaiters attracted but little attention. I was able to look over the top of the "Church Times," which I had purchased, and so watch the arrival of passengers. They began to throng in quickly.

The hands of the great clock pointed to 6.15, and all was bustle and confusion. Another five minutes passed, and a score of people had taken their seats in the dining car, but not one of them, allowing for the most elaboate disguise, could I identify as Joe Brady They were mostly unmistakable Americans returning to their native land in parties of threes and fours.

Suddenly an incident occurred which at the time caused me great uneasiness. Sergeant Parker's voice reached me, raised in tones of expostulation.

"No, I don't want a drink, mate, and by the same token you seem to have had a full dose already," he was saying.

A little way-along the platform my assistant had been accosted by a half-tipsy bluejacket, who was trying to pull him into the buffet. To my annoyance the sailor's cap proclaimed that he belonged to the same ship as that which Parker's disguise denoted— the Majestic. To my relief the man seemed to be too muddled to perceive that the sergeant was no ship-mate of his. but staggered off, dropping his bundle once or twice, to the front of the train.

The sailor had hardly disappeared when the original of the photograph came out of the waiting-room and crossed the platform to the dining-car. She was wearing a well cut serge costume, and had made no attempt at disguise, even the mark on her neck being distinctly visible above the collar of her dress. Instead of a desire for concealment she evinced all the little self-conscious tricks of a good-looking woman by no means loth to attract attention.

But where was the redoubtable Brady? It was 5.25 now, and there were no signs of Miss or Mrs. Daisy Gilbart's intended travelling companion. The same question was plainly beginning to agitate the lady. She quitted the seat which she had secured and stood on the platform of the car, gazing anxiously towards the entrance from the booking-office. Still no one joined her.

The warning bell rang and it became necessary to revise my plans. I decided on no account to lose sight of the fair Daisy. If the person she was expecting did not come and she went on in the train, I would go, too. If she got out and abandoned the journey I and my assistants would shadow her wherever she went. I knew it was quite possible that she was playing a carefully-prepared part, and that Brady was already in the car— ready to join her and have the laugh of us as soon as the train started.

Contriving a word with Parker I hastily sketched my intentions, and bade him go forward to the third-class carriages, into one of which he was to jump at the last minute if he saw me board the dining-car.

My whispered instructions were hardly spoken when the guard raised his whistle.

A moment later I had taken my seat in the car, for Gilbart, after one last distracted gaze to the station entrance, had decided to pursue her journey. As the. train gathered speed I settled down to- the task of watching for signs of her fraternising with one of the other passengers, but nothing of the sort occurred. She sat looking out of the window, and presently a tear stole down her cheek—only one, but a genuine tear.

Moved by a sudden impulse, I changed my seat and took the place opposite to her at the white-draped table. My episcopal garb warranted, I thought, the proffer of consolation, in the course of which the pumping process might be administered.

Imagine, then, my astonishment when my Overtures were received with—

"What's the use talking like that? You're the 'tec that's after Joe Brady, ain't you?" '

A denial would certainly not have been believed, so I nodded admission.

"I spotted you as the likely party when you were sitting on that bench opposite the car," she went on. "When you boarded the train at the last moment I was sure of you. You've had your trouble for nothing. I'm afraid. He must have got word of that letter and kept out of the way."

"The letter!" I exclaimed in bewilderment. "You know of that, then?"

"I ought to, since I wrote it myself," replied the girl. "I wanted him caught, you see— don't ask why, it's a woman's reason. But he's too cunning for me, and now I suppose he'll kill me some time!"

Her answer took my breath away, though after a while it seemed just as natural that Brady should have been rounded on by her as by anybody else. The ice being broken, she poured forth a flood of recriminations against her last associate, affirming that she had no idea-of his true character, and giving me the address of his hiding place in Battersea.

"We, don't stop till Crewe, but you'd better wire to your people from there to arrest him, or at any rate shadow him till you get hack," she advised. !

I had already decided to do so, but I was still not quite satisfied. Why had she gone on in the train after findintr that her communication to the police had been abortive? One would have thought that if her story was true she would never have contemplated taking the journey at all.

In order to extract an explanation without showing doubts of her I ordered dinner — an example which she quickly followed. During the meal she herself volunteered the information which I wanted. Her home was in New York, and having her passage ticket taken she wished to use it and cut herself adrift from evil associates.i

So the train rushed northwards, the other passengers in the car soon, ceasing to be amused by the friendship struck up between the elderly bishop and the solitary traveller. My companion laid the color on to Brady's character with no niggardly hand, enlightening me not only as to his past deeds, but giving frank hints as to the projects for the future. At last the train ran into Crewe station, and as I rose she put out her well-gloved hand—

"Goodbye, Mr. Grantham. I do hope you'll catch him," she said. "My life won't be sale until he's under lock and key."

"But this is not good-bye. I am only going to send off the wire," I said. "I am going on with you to Liverpool to see you safe on board the steamer."

It was a chance shot, but it went home. She turned ashy pale, and I knew that she had been trying to humbug me— that she had been working with the object of getting rid of me at Crewe. But where was Brady?

The question was answered by Daisy Bilbart herself in the anguished cry of "My father. Oh! my father!"  Following her gaze to the platform, I saw, outside the car window, two sailors of the Majestic, with linked arms. One of them was handcuffed.

"I've got him, sir," said Parker. "By luck I travelled down in the same compartment and laid a few conversational traps for him. He had neglected to sufficiently post himself in details about our fine old craft. I smelt a rat before we'd gone twenty miles."

"Daisy, Gilbert" was, indeed, Brady's daughter, and I could not help being sorry for her. She had made a bold bid to hoodwink us by concentrating the attention of our combined forces on the dining-car while her father travelled in another part of the train. She had hoped to make us think by her demeanor at Euston that Brady had missed the train, and that we should remain behind, to wait for him. When I got in with her she played up, as a clever afterthought, to get rid of me at Crewe, but she hardly allowed for the caution of an experienced officer.

Though the denouement was hastened by the coincidence of the similar disguises, Brady's capture became a certainty from the moment of my decision not to lose sight of "the bird in hand."

________________

14: Cat or Devil.

Percy James Brebner

1864-1922

Telegraph (Brisbane) 24 Dec 1920

THE LAST cottage in the village was Father Garnier's. Any morning when the sun shone the passer-by might see the priest sitting in his little garden, his great grey cat beside him: or in Winter in the little front room they sat, close to the stove— the priest in his capacious chair, the cat on a little wooden stool beside him. They were inseparables at home, and often the cat followed him through the street. There was even a likeness between them, so the people of Tourmaine thought. Both were fat, both looked out upon their little world with contentment, both seemed to have a wide capacity for enjoyment.  Some people added that they were both extremely lazy; but then at Tourmaine there were many who cared little for the Church. It is easy to find fault with a priest if you do not like his office.

Yet the great grey cat was not all he seemed. Stroke him, and he would purr loudly, but his back arched easily, and often his tail stiffened for no apparent cause. He was no favourite with the other cats in Tourmaine. They made a hasty retreat to shelter when he appeared. More than one cat he had caught and killed, or mauled so grievously that it had to be put out of its misery; and the road-mender had sworn that he would break the beast's head if he ever got the chance— which he never did. The grey cat seemed to know what was in the road-mender's mind.

Children who possessed cats hated the priest's cat— it was natural, in their terror for their pets— and one or two of the parents had complained to Father Garnier.

"Cats will fight," said the priest, smiling and spreading out his fat hands to show how helpless he was. "My cassock gives me no authority over a grey grimalkin. Call me to plead with men and women. I am at your service. Alas!  here in Tourmaine you will not use me a you might. I have many idle hours, but I may not waste them on a cat."

Father Garnier was genial and sympathetic, and what more could these complainants say? After all, no sensible man or woman would quarrel over a cat. But the children said angrily, "Wicked animal!" whenever they saw the grey cat, and were not as pleased as they ought to have been when Father Garnier patted their heads in silent benediction. His grey cat lost him some of the affection which might have been his.

Those who took no notice of the church went so far as to copy the children and say, "Wicked animal" when they saw the priest himself in the village street. Paris was at no great distance, and there had been scoffing at the priests in the capital. Some in Tourmaine thought it was a sign of cleverness and manly freedom to do the same.

Of these enemies Father Garnier took no notice. He was very comfortable, and the idle hours he spoke of never seemed irksome. But he read no books —even the few volumes which comprised his small library, were seldom taken from the shelf. All his learning he had acquired years since, and modern thought and progress were snares of the devil, he said.

He was content to do the little work required of him. and to sleep the idle hours away. In his little garden when the sun shone, or besides the stove in winter, he easily fell asleep, snoring unmusically at times. He dreamed, too, dreams which made his face twitch— Unpleasant dreams which caused him to wake with a cry and a start, struggling up from his deep chair while the beads of perspiration gathered on his forehead. Whenever the priest awoke in this fashion the cat seemed to share his fear, and sprang from the wooden stool to crouch in a far corner of the room.

Out of sq.ch a dream he awoke one afternoon; trembling in every limb, the perspiration heavy on his brow. The cat sprang hastily from the stool, but it -was another movement which caught Father Garnier's quick ear, and he turned to see a woman standing in the doorway. For a few moments he stared at her, his fat body bent forward as though he were ready to defend himself from this sudden attack.

"What are you doing here? What Is your business?" he asked sharply.

"I — I — you were dreaming, father."

"Yes, yes, and .talking in my sleep, eh? Was I talking?"

"No, father."

"Are you sure ? Are you quite sure?"

And the priest crossed the room so quickly that the woman shrank back from him.

She was an old woman, older than her actual years. Toil in the fields had permanently rounded her back; all kinds of weather had scored deep wrinkles in her face; her neck was thin, rutty, and shapeless, and her hair a grizzled, untidy mass. Yet there were men in Tourmaine who remembered the time when she passed for the beauty of the village.

"Why, it is Mere Bardot," said the priest, as he mopped his face with a large handkerchief and smiled. "Only Mere Bardot, and I thought— aye, but I am only just awake. Until this moment you were part of my dream. It is foolish to go to sleep so close to the stove, Mere Bardot— the blood gets hot and inflames the brain, and you dream. Ah, how one dreams! Come in, Mere Bardot. Sit down. What brings you here?"

The woman entered the room, and the cat crept out of the corner and went back to the wooden stool.

"My son," said the woman. "My son is worse, much worse. I thought—" and then she stopped, her watery eyes fixed upon the priest. Paul Bardot, a man grown, had the mind of a child— a foolish child. He was Mere Bardot's only treasure In the world— an idiot.

"Paul is worse, is he " said the priest in a level, unsympathetic tone which gave the Impression that he was thinking of something else.

"Much worse, it came suddenly— yesterday. He was sitting at the table playing with a toy, talking and smiling to himself as usual. Without any warning he brought his clenched fist down upon tho toy, smashing it to pieces, swearing the while, and there was a look in his face I have never seen there before. He is no longer just simple, father— he is dangerous."

"You are afraid of him ?"

"For myself, no," the woman answered. "I .don't suppose ho would harm me; and, Indeed, I am past caring for myself, but for the others, for the children— I am afraid for them; he has played so much with the children."

"I am sorry, very sorry. We must find some place for him where he will be taken care of; we must "

"I didn't come for that, father. It isn't a doctor I want, but you."

The priest looked at her in astonishment.

"It is the devil that is in him," the woman went on earnestly. "He is possessed, that's the truth, father. I've not been a good Catholic; life has gone hard with me, and that makes some of us careless. But I know what is right. I know what is the only thing that will help my boy. You won't refuse just because I haven't been all I ought to be?"

"Refuse! Refuse what?"

"I have faith," said the woman, bending eagerly towards him. "I have great faith, and that counts for much. Come to my boy, father, and rebuke the evil spirit that is in him. It is the only way to help Paul."

Father Garnier had small learning. He had never probed beneath the surface into anything, not even into his religion, and his beliefs were superficial, with no progression in them. Once, no doubt, miracles had happened; but the age of miracles was past, or at any rate, they were not to be accomplished through such an ordinary person as he was. He looked upon the faith of his small flock with a mild cynicism, and considered it nothing better than superstition. It served its purpose, had nothing harmful in it, and fitted the workaday world of Tourmaine very well.

Faith such as Mere Bardot's so definitely expressed, so unquestioning, was new to him, quite beyond his appreciation. He did not believe that a few prayers said over her afflicted son would work any change in him, but they could do no harm, and the woman would be satisfied. It was just possible that superstition might convince the villagers that good had been done.

"Such faith may do much," he said, as though he were repeating a formula.

"Then you will come to my boy?"

"Yes, I will come."

So through the village that afternoon went Father Garnier. Unobserved by him his cat went too, following him even into Mere Bardot's cottage and creeping silently into a comer. The grey cat was the only living entity present in the little room besides the mother and her son and the priest.

Mere Bardot's belief was a very real and personal thing with her, not something for which it was necessary to call her friends and relatives together. Father Garnier was convinced that it was an absurd thing he was doing, yet his voice and face were solemn, and the sensation of fear still possessed him.

The silence to him was full of strange voices, and the stuffy little room seemed crowded with movement. It was an unaccustomed thing he was doing— that was the reason; a foolish thing to satisfy a superstitious woman, perchance an unholy thing.

It was a relief to some out Into the village street again to see the sun sinking to his setting— to be in touch with real things once more. Father Garnier expanded his lungs with a few deep draughts of wholesale air and felt better. He did not notice the cat until he entered the cottage.

"Our afternoon has been disturbed, grimalkin," he said. "It has not been a pleasant afternoon."

The cat mewed in answer, and its tall swished from side to side for a few seconds.

"Ah, no; you do not like being disturbed, either, but you must not get angry. You must stay quietly indoors and not chase other cats. Whenever you get angry, grimalkin, you get me into trouble."

In her trouble Mere Bardot had wanted no sympathisers, but she had no wish to rejoice alone; she would have all friends and neighbours share in her gladness.

A wonderful thing had happened. A great change had come to Paul. Not only had his sudden and dangerous madness gone, but much of his foolishness had departed, too. He no longer wanted to play with toys, nor was he so eager to enter into the games of the little ones. With a kind shyness he listened to the talk of men, watched them at their work, and began to show anxiety to do as they did. He asked his mother why he had never worked, and when she said it was because lie had not been strong enough he looked at his muscular limbs and laughed. That was surely a strange fancy for his mother to have. He would soon show her that he was as able to work as any other man in the village.

The news of this change in Paul Bardot was quickly known in Tourmaine, and even in the neighbouring villages. How had .it happened? Here was a. miracle.

Mere Bardot was only too ready to tell, stating the bare facts plainly, but saying little of her own faith; that was a personal thing she could not talk about. So it happened, not unnaturally, that these simple folk thought, the change entirely due to, the priest himself rather than his office. If he had worked one miracle, they argued, he could work others if he willed. Father Garnier was a wonderful man, and until now they had not realised it. It would be wise for them to conciliate him, to show him more respect than they had done, for there was no telling what he might not be able to do, for them in the future.

Such popularity as the priest suddenly experienced might have pleased many men, not for themselves, but on account of the power it gave them for doing good; but Father Garnier experienced only a greater sense of fear. He was in curious touch with something he did not understand, something which he dreaded. Against his own convictions he had wielded a power which had had a strange effect on the idiot, Paul Bardot. Why had such power been allotted to him— to him, of all men?  He was afraid, and shrank from the publicity which came to him. He hated to see the people open the gate and come up the garden path to his cottage door.

The grey cat seemed to hate the publicity, too, and whenever a visitor appeared it arched Its back and spat at him furiously. Even the priest had difficulty in quieting his companion. For a week or more there was not a single afternoon when the priest could draw up his spacious chair to the stove and sleep.

Once or twice he had made preparation for a quiet rest, but interruption came. The cat seemed to know it was coming, for it made no attempt to settle itself on the wooden stool.

"You are wiser than I, grimalkin," said the priest when he heard the garden gate. "I wish I had never seen Paul Bardot."

It was a thought that had been in his mind for days, but until now he had not put it into words.

Then came a day of storm and biting wind. From early morning the rain came down In torrents, honeycombing all the earth in the garden and transforming the road into a muddy river. No sensible person would venture out in such weather, not even to talk to a man who had performed a miracle. The cat took possession of the wooden stool that afternoon and blinked contentedly at the stove.

"Ah! then you think we shall be left alone, eh, grimalkin?" said Garnier as he arranged his chair. "We will take a little precaution. We will fasten the door— so."

Garnier was awake for a little while. His brain was active, thinking of Paul Bardot. The idiot's face as he had seen it the day he went to Mere Bardot's cottage seemed to be looking steadfastly into his, when presently the warmth of the stove brought slumber.

It was deep sleep for the time, but afterwards the priest grew restless in his chair. He was dreaming, and the twitching of his face showed they were no pleasant dreams. Paris the great city, was in his dream; the business of it, the roar of it was in his ears. The life of it seemed to fascinate and hold him spellbound. All his soul was listening to the light laughter, to the subtle music, to the whispering temptations, and conscience became numb and silent.

He was no longer an elderly priest in a little village, but a young man wondering why faith had made him priest at all. His world was here where pleasure and laughter reigned and ridiculed everything that was thoughtful or grey in colouring. It was surely a vision of the past, not a dream. He was reliving his life.

Once more he stepped into the vortex of dissipation; again he allowed every desire in him to run riot; again he clothed the satyr in the cloak of a priest. This was life and happiness; all else was a living death. The present was his; what mattered the future? There was something piquant, too, in the wickedness of a young priest; it greatly amused his righteous companions; and against those who might suspect him there was protection in his cloth. A priest might go, seeking to draw good out of evil, where others dared not venture.

So with subtle cleverness he lived his double life, no one hindering him, and he felt secure. Then one night came the awakening— not repentance, but discovery. A man who had trusted him, who had been so deceived as to look up to him, found him out. Righteous was this man's wrath and indignation. The world must know of the young priest's infamy; it was the only way, the only retribution possible.

Garnier listened as he spoke, standing stiffly, his face unmoved, but his brain on fire. They were alone. This man was tho only one who knew, and no he would serve to deceive him any more. Somehow he must be silenced. How? What If he died tonight? That was the best way, the only certain way. The priest's brain was on fire, working rapidly, calculating everything, looking forward. If he died to-night, to-morrow he would be found. Almost certainly another man would be suspected of the crime— a man the priest hated. If oblivion should come to this also, what could be better? Two enemies would be cast from his path. Nobody know he was here to-night, and presently he would go and let things take their course.

The fire in his brain ran through the limbs. Even while the man accused him the priest flung himself upon him, and they were gripping at each other's throats, the one to murder, tho other to save himself. So Father Garnier had often dreamed, he knew what the Issue of that struggle had been; he always woke just when his fingers had tightened once more to make sure that death had come to his adversary.

But to-day he did not wake so promptly. The struggle was prolonged, was more desperate, and victory was more difficult—

Indeed, the issue seemed uncertain. The enemy's fingers were still fastened upon his throat, much strength in them— devilish strength. He was struggling for life— not his enemy! There came into Father Garnier's brain the thought that this was only a dream— the same horrible dream which had troubled him times without number.

He was waking. He was conscious of his capacious chair for a moment, knew he was in his cottage at Tourmaine— not alone with that man in Paris— and then it seemed for one moment that the face of Paul Bardot, the idiot, was close to his— a horrible face. Inhuman and full of dangerous malignity.

Father Garnier was awake, feeling helpless, unable to move. It was not Bardot, It was the cat! The great grey cat had sprung upon him while he slept, was upon his chest, and—

With a cry the priest began to fight, tearing at the cat with one hand, raising himself from the chair with the other. The brute's teeth sharp as razors, met in his throat; the great claws were buried In his cheeks, one close to his eye, buried deep and dragging all the time. An angry, rasping sound came with every movement the animal made. It clung closer, never loosing its hold, snapping its teeth more firmly and deeper.

Father Garnier struggled to his feet, whining in his terror, fighting to drag the beast away and fling it from him. He rushed about the little room whining and fighting, but in vain. The cat's strength seemed to increase ; his own to grow weaker every second. They fell against the stove, then against the table, driving it to the wall; then across the big chair; but the cat held on, biting deeper, clawing more fiercely, making that strange rasping sound all the while. Across the chair they fell, bringing it to the ground, and the priest could fight no more.

For two days it rained, then the sun shone again, and people came to see Father Garnier. His door was shut, and only the mewing of the oat answered their knocks. The Father was ill surely, and they broke open the door. As they entered the great grey cat sprang out, rushed across the garden like a mad thing, over the field to the woods beyond, and was seen no more in Tourmaine. The priest was lying on the floor of his room, horrible to look at— his face torn, his throat bitten, his wide open eyes full of terror.

"Don't touch him. This is the devil's work, beyond our understanding. Come out in the sunlight. Shut the door. You, Pierre who can run so fast, run to the next village for a priest. This is work for him, not for us."

So they whispered one to another, and crept out into the roadway.

The priest who came to bury Father Garnier listened to all the village had to tell. He heard Mere Bardot's story. He shook his head, it was beyond his understanding; but here was Paul Bardot able to work, and Father Garnier had died horribly— an unheard of death. He was a good old man, this priest, and he crossed himself as he muttered a prayer.

The devil takes strange shapes; he did of old, why not now? Cast out of Paul Bardot, he might have entered into the cat; and if in the past Father Garnier had been a bad man unrepentant, a man—

"Ah! Who can tell the power of the devil when the good God gives him leave?" said the old priest, and he crossed himself again.

LONG AFTERWARDS there came a man to Tourmaine asking for Father Garnier.

"He is dead," they said, and they told him how he had died.

"I hoped to find him alive, so that I might kill him," was the astonishing answer; and he told them of a strange tale of murder in Paris long ago, and how he, an innocent man, had suffered many years' imprisonment for the crime which the priest had committed.

The villagers listened awestruck.

"It is a good thing he is dead," said the man, and he walked out of Tourmaine back along the road which leads to Paris.

______________

15: The Outcast

Beatrice Heron-Maxwell

1859-1927

World's News (Sydney) 23 Aug 1919

"IF anything should stop me getting back before dark you must lock up and bar the shutters," said Rance Hethcote.

"But I hope nothing will," Margaret  answered wistfully.

"Frightened. Meg?"

"No. Lonely, Ran, that's all."

She put one arm round his neck, and he took a long look into a pair of eyes that seemed to him now, after two years of fond possession, as wonderful as they did on the first day he encountered their gaze.

They always reminded him of deep state pools under a moonlit sky, such as he was used to in the Cumberland stretches of his home country.

Out here in this oversea dominion, with the limitless horizon of unflecked blue, and the prodigal colors of nature in her flaunting mood, Margaret's eyes seemed limpid wells of truth and love in which to slake a man's soul-thirst and keep his life sweet and sane and sound.

"I'll get back the first instant I can," he said. "I'm only telling you to keep snug as soon as it's dusk, in ease anything unforeseen makes me late— just as one takes an umbrella if one doesn't want it to rain. I wouldn't leave you, Meggie, if it wasn't that this inter-view may mean good business for us, nor even then if you hadn't Poor One to look after you."

Poor One, sitting with his nose on his paws and his eyes watchful, pricked his ears at the sound of his name.

Did it mean that he was to have the fifty odd miles run after the bicycle, of did it mean he was to loaf round the homestead and watch out?

He loved to stretch his long legs and work the stiffness away from the one where a bullet had once injured a muscle. But he loved Margaret also, with the devotion of one whose life has been saved by a woman's tender ministrations, and who yields glad service thereafter unto death.

"Oh, I'm right enough with him," she said, throwing an affectionate glance at the dog; "and, besides, what could happen out here? One is safer than in a crowded town."

Rance was silent as he looked to his cycle lamp and made ready to start. He was debating whether he would give her a more definite warning or not. It was a pity to make her nervous, yet the words of a "sundowner" who had spent the night before with them and had gone on at daybreak, came back to him with tiresome insistence.

"That wife of yours is a real beauty; ain't much doubt about her looks! If Slouchy Sam drifts this way, don't let him catch sight of her. He was always dead nuts on pretty girls, they say."

"Who's he?"' Rance had questioned curtly, not caring for any bandying of words about his wife, even in complimentary fashion.

"Don't rightly know. Heard tell of him three nights ago where I stopped. Seems to have been a kind of Ishmael at one time in these parts— his hand against every man, and every man's against him. Used to hold up farms and levy toll from 'em at the end of a gun. They made a combine against him at Oldtree Sticks and winged him, but he got past 'em all to the woods. Some think he died there, others say he had nine lives, and has started his second one by cropping up again of late. Or else his ghost's walking."

And with a laugh the tramp guest had gone on his way.

"What are you pondering about, Ran?" Margaret demanded.

She had been watching him quietly while he threshed his mental problem out.

He looked back at her, took in again the whole delightful picture of this girl-wife of his, anathematised Slouchers of every kind, and decided not to disturb her sweet serenity with travellers' tales.

"Wondering what made you throw over everything and everybody at home and come out here with me," he answered laughingly.

"Why, don't you know, Ran?"

She was laughing, too, the little shadow of having to part with him for a few tours gone.

"Not I," he said; "don't know how I had the cheek to ask you, even. What made you do it?"

"You!" she said, and he caught her to him and kissed her.

"Look after your missis, Poor One," he said, as he passed the dog and mounted his bicycle.

The huge beast answered him by rising and going to Margaret, into whose drooping hand he thrust his nose.

"He understands," she said. "He would tear anyone to pieces who came marauding here."

She watched Rance on his journey until his figure dwindled to nothing on the far ridge, and then went singing about her work. There was always plenty to do. and she had learnt how to use her hands and limbs and brain as a land-girl, before she fell in love and took on the job of making a good home for a lonely man in the Western world.

The free, open life, the varied mutual toil, sweetened by a marriage that included real comradeship in its bonds, contented her ut-terly, and she had never known a listless or regretful moment since they settled.

Once or twice, as the shadows lengthened, she stepped outside and scanned the distance for a sign of Rance; and Poor One, following her, sniffed the air, as though it wafted to him some interesting hint, and louped round and about in a curious way, his tail drooping and his ears alternately pricked and laid back.

It attracted Margaret's attention at last, and she knelt down and put her arms round his shaggy neck. "What's the matter, Doggins, dear?" she asked. "Can you hear the bicycle, or is it another sundowner?"

Poor One gazed at her and then at the orchard that bounded the home strip of land.

But Margaret at that moment heard her kettle boiling over, and went inside to lift it off, busying herself again with preparing the evening meal.

Presently, as the sunset flared across the sky, she recalled Rance's injunctions, and, whistling Poor One in, proceeded to put up the shutters of the kitchen and bedroom, coming last to the living-room, which looked towards the orchard.

Poor One, standing in the centre of it, lifted his head and gave a long, low howl.

Margaret, who had just thrown the window open to pull the shutter close, started violently, and ran to him, stooping to caress and quieten him. But he evaded her touch, and, throwing his head up once more, was about to howl again when he broke off short and crouched, with a low whine, his eyes fixed on the window space. Her gaze followed his, and she stood transfixed, her heart seeming to lose a beat with the violence of the shock.

For, on a corner of the sill a revolver rested, and above it a man's face, fixed and lowering, confronted her.

The revolver was covering the dog, and the man's face revealed his intentions to her— to shoot her protector, and then—?

It was a rugged, scarred face, with deep furrows on his forehead and between the thick eyebrows overhanging a pair of fierce, hungry, ruthless, shameless eyes. But, as the first flash of horrible fear for herself passed, Margaret's pluck, and the motherly instinct that makes a courageous nature de-fend the weak, asserted themselves. She understood why the dog was failing her in her moment of desperate need. He had been shot before and his nerve was gone. She flung herself on her knees in front of him, stretching her arms out wide.

"Don't shoot my Poor One," she said; "he won't harm you, and I love him so. You wouldn't be such a coward as to kill a dog in cold blood, when he isn't even attacking you."

The man did not move as he said, "Whose dog is he? Where'd you get him?"

"He strayed in here one day when we first came— so starved, and ill, and miserable? I took care of him and got his wound to heal. He'd been shot— a long time ago, and the bullet had festered in. My husband took it out."

Her mouth was dry and her pulses hammered, while she felt as if she should suffocate, but she wanted to gain time by parleying, praying that Rance might yet come and save her.

"Where's your husband?"

The speech was rough, yet somehow the man's voice was more reassuring than his glit-tering eyes.

"Not far off. He's gone to see a friend. If you want supper and a shakedown we can let you have it."

The dog had crept back into the farthest corner of the room, and was whimpering oddly.

"Call the dog to you," commanded the man. "Here, Poor One," she obeyed; "don't be frightened, Dogsie— no one's going to hurt you. Come to Missis, then?"

She held out her hand to him, and Poor One stole forward in uncertain trepidation. Margaret encircled him with her arms and kissed the great head. Then a strange thing happened.

The man withdrew his revolver and, with a smile hovering on his hard face, whistled. It was a soft, melodious whistle of sweet quality.

Like a streak of light the dog bounded forward, leapt over the window sill, and, putting his paws up on the man's shoulders, licked his face.

"See," said the intruder, as Margaret watched in amazement. "He knows me, doesn't he? He was my dog. I called him Barkis. What made you call him Poor One?"

"Because he was so unhappy," she said. "But, of course, if he is your dog he must go back to his old name and his old master."

The man pushed the dog down, and it fawned round him while he leant once more over the sill and studied Margaret.

"I didn't know there were women like you." he said. "Strong and sweet, and fit to keep a dog. If I had I mightn't have been such riff-raff. All the women I came up against deserved any harm they got from me, and more. I'm an outcast— a thing to hunt and kill, just as Barkis was when we were chums together. I was shot, too, and I'm hungry and miserable enough to be called a Poor One. Besides, I came here to get food and drink and— other things. I was going to shoot the dog— first— you were right about that. I couldn't believe it was Barkis himself. Thought it was just another of his breed. Well— you've earned him. He would not be happy away from you now, I doubt. So long!"

But Margaret had seen the wolf look as he eyed the table spread for supper; and her fear of him had all departed.

Whatever his career had been, it had started well, she felt sure, until mischance had made him a derelict.

"Won't you," she said, going towards him, "come in and have a cup of tea with me and Poor One? When my husband gets back you can—"

The man started and gave a strangled oath, as a challenge, in Rance's voice, rang out.

The bicycle was within a hundred yards and had traversed them in an instant, but the man lifted his revolver as Rance flung forward, and then recoiled.

Margaret was at the window simultaneously. "It's all right, Ran," she cried; "it's Poor One's master come to fetch him."

"Then what does that mean?" stammered Rance hoarsely, with a gesture towards the revolver.

"Force of habit," answered the other, dropping his revolver into his pocket. "I'm Sam Clarity, known as Slouchy Sam, and there's a price set on my head round about these parts; you can earn it if you like, on condition you hand it over to her— it's all I can give her for taking care of my dog."

Rance's color had returned, and his breath had come back. That last mile in view of his home and of the sinister figure outside it had been enough to drain away both.

"We don't want any money earned that way," he said. "Come in, and we'll talk."

It was a talk indeed. It lasted on through supper and into the small hours. For Sam had a story to tell that was an illustration of a straight man's downfall and utter deterioration when he is condemned for another man's crime and unable to prove his innocence. He had come out from serving an unjust sentence maddened and embittered, and his Ishmael days had been a natural sequence.

"I came back here to punish them for having winged me and Barkis," he confessed, "I was going to give them hell for it; but all the savor seems to have gone out of that idea somehow."

"Why not turn to and work your way on?" suggested Rance, "and when you've enough money, set yourself to find the guilty man and prove your innocence."

"Work! Who'd give me work?" Sam made a gesture of self-contempt at his own ragged, unkempt condition.

"I would," Rance answered. "I've got a man coming in with me as partner here, and we shall want help! You're welcome to the first billet. Start to-morrow morning if you like."

Poor One had been staring from one to the other with earnest, comprehending eyes, and Margaret, at whose feet he had been lying, stooped now, and, putting her hand through his collar, pulled him up and gave him a little push towards Sam. He moved across to Sam and put a paw on his knee.

The Sloucher's face worked, the rugged lines deepened, the feverish eyes grew strangely soft. Then suddenly he put his arms on the table and let his head fall on them, shaking with great, soundless sobs.

The days of his bitter vagabondage were over; kindness had broken through the crust at last.

Margaret glanced at her husband, and, saying quietly, "I'll put the shed ready for him," went away.

After a few minutes, while Rance smoked silently, Sam pulled himself together and said brokenly, "God bless her!"

"Amen to that!" her husband answered reverently.

_________________

16: Joan Dark

F. Frankfort Moore

1855-1931

World's News (Sydney) 29 Sep 1917

WHEN Winfred Bowers first suggested that the children's Christmas party at the Grange should be a fancy dress affair there were a good many people who shook their heads. Some of them were people who had not the least idea of what was meant by fancy dress, and others were people who fancied they knew only too well what it meant, having spent pounds and pounds (as they explained) over their costumes when such entertainments took place in London. But Winifred was not the person to abandon a scheme on which she had set her heart, because of such critics, and her father, Sir Wallace Bowers, Bart., had ample confidence in her powers to make a success out of anything with which she was associated.

Lady Bowers was not quite so confident, but, after a consultation with her daughter, she gave her sanction to the innovation. All that remained was to obtain the goodwill of the Archdeacon, who was Hector of Roodholme. It was understood that he liked to have a finger in every pie in the parish, and it was well known that when he had his wish, no pie was ever over-cooked, so to speak, nor were his fingers ever burnt. Five minutes' talk, over tea and muffins, such as the Churchman loved in a secular way, were sufficient to obtain from him a promise of his heartiest co-operation.

"So far from its being expensive, the sort of thing I propose will really be the cheapest for everyone concerned," Winifred explained, when the Archdeacon wondered if it would be possible for the fathers and mothers of the neighborhood to provide their offspring with the necessary "rig-out," as he called it.

"You see, the flimsiest of materials make the most effective dresses. What does it cost to make up a snow-queen? I will promise to do it for a bob— a shilling, I mean."

(She forgot for the moment that she was speaking to a dignitary of the Church; yet she needn't have been at the trouble of correcting herself; the Archdeacon knew perfectly well what a bob was, and how few of them, alas, found their way into the collecting bags at Roodholme Church).

"Then there's a sweep— I could make a perfect sweep or an effective nigger with no more expenditure than the cost of half a cork, burnt at one end. As for the Pierrots and Pierrettes— but I'm sure you see that half the fun is in doing the thing cheaply."

"I see that clearly, my dear. We shall have no Gainsborough's Duchesses or the like," said the Archdeacon.

"Of course not," she assented, "but it's not only on the score of its cheapness that, I want it, but because I know that there's no such leveller of all classes as a fancy dress. I've seen what heartburnings there have been at some of our Christmas parties because some of the girls wore dyed dresses; and the overbearing attitude of those who got new frocks for the occasion. Now, you'll find that there will be nothing of the sort if the thing is a fancy dress affair. Then agin, the boys are always the awkward squad— with their hair 'pomatumed' and brushed so that it looks like carved marble, and their blessed Sunday suits! The worst of village boys is that they put on their Sunday manner with their Sunday suits, and so the whole thing is as boring to them as church— that is— I mean, of course, that—"

The Archdeacon roared with laughter.

"You mean just what you said, my dear Winifred," he cried. "I know what bores are boys— I was once a boy myself. Even now, I confess that I've now and again, felt bored in church— yes, and what's worse, I've felt that I'm boring people after I have been in the pulpit for five minutes. Say no more. You've only to tell me how I can help you in your party, and I'll be with you heart and— and— mind."

He was going to say "heart and soul," but checked himself in good time.

So the fancy dress party came off, and it was even more successful than Miss Bowers had promised it should be. There was a ball-room at the Grange, and in this spacious apartment the Christmas entertainment to the people of the village owned by Sir Wallace Bowers took place. Lady Bowers and her daughter had the happy faculty of making people feel at home upon these occasions, so that even the boys (after the first hour, and the fourth ice) did not seem in the least bored. The farmers, who always smoked in the evenings at home, were provided with pipes and cigars in an ante-room, and the mothers, who liked to be apart from their husbands now and again, watched the frames and the dancing from their seats in the big room.

But upon this occasion the fancy dress was such an attractive element that the "grandfers," as well as the "feythers," remained for nearly an hour in the big room. The scene was like a big, ever-moving puzzle to most of them, the fun being to "spot" their own children and grandchildren beneath the disguises of their fancy dress.

"If so be that on'y the feythers what knows their own child'en be wise, dang me if we beant a foine pack o' fules in this plaice this blessed noight," remarked, Parmer Hotblack, as he found his way to the smoking-room.

"Ay, it be summat o' a puzzle to us weak heads," assented his neighbor, Jonas Hurst, the wheelwright.

And the best of it was that half-a-crown was enough to meet all the out-of-pocket expenses for even the most expensive costume. Miss Bowers saw to that. She was determined that there should be no heart-burnings or heart-breakings. The pride in wealth had no chance of asserting itself through the medium of bead trimmings at twopence-halfpenny a yard, or a profusion of artificial flowers at a shilling a bunch. There was scarcely a costume in which she had not a hand, and her hand was firmly pressed down upon those well-to-do mothers who declared that they would not grudge an outlay of even so much as five shillings to make their daughters "look nice." She showed them that "looking nice" was quite independent of the outlay, and the result proved that she was right. There was plenty of muslin and "mercerised" material; but on the whole the most potent factor in solving the problem of "looking nice" was gold and silver foil. These made the moon and stars for the "Queen of Night," and the helmets for the gallant "St. George," as well as the long, trail ing tail of the "Dragon," and the glass slipper of "Cinderella."

"I say," said "Walter Bowers, when his sister had organised her procession and marched it pst the dais where her father and mother were seated. "I say, Winnie, who is that girl with the beautiful hair and the helmet? She should take off the helmet, I think."

"Isn't she splendid?" cried Winifred. "I knew she would be. She is Joan Dark, the daughter of Mrs. Dark, who has the post-office now. When I heard what her name was I knew at once what a hit she would make coming as her namesake."

"Her namesake?"

"Yes, Joan d'Arc— Joan of Arc— Joan Dark— can't you see that the two are the same? I saw what a chance I had. It's things like this that make a fancy dress a success."

"She's a ripping girl," said Walter. It was clear that he was more appreciative of the girl than of the cleverness of his sister in choosing the dress.

Undoubtedly Joan Dark was an extremely pretty child. She seemed to be about twelve years of age. Her hair was of a peculiar shade of chestnut, light rather than deep, and her eyes were large and blue as forget-me-nots. She marched past in the procession without looking at anyone; but it required a more critical observer than Walter to perceive how that dreamy expression on her face suggested the vision-seeing Maid of Orleans. The Archdeacon perceived this, however, and congratulated Winifred on her choice of costume. It was the hit of the evening, he affirmed.

But if Walter was lacking on such a point of discrimination, he was by no means deficient in his appreciation of the charm of the girl. He was greatly struck by her, keeping his eyes fixed upon her, and showing a certain uneasiness when some of the boys asked her to dance. She danced beautifully, he saw, and he hated to see one of those louts with an arm about her waist; but all the same he did not ask her to dance with him until quite late in the evening, and then he did so in the most awkward manner, actually blushing and stammering and pulling at his glove in such a way as sent the button flying almost into her face.

And when the music struck up it was a long time before he ventured to put his hand on her waist and start. His shyness was unaccountable even to himself. He had by no means the reputation of being a shy boy— just the contrary. He was sixteen years of age, and at Eton. There were some who were ready to call him cheeky. He had never shown any shyness when there was any fighting to be done, either at football or in the fields.

Of course, when he had screwed up sufficient courage to start he found that he could dance as well as usual— and he was a good dancer— but all through the polka he was speechless.

So, for that matter, was his partner; but then, she was only a village maiden, while he was the son of the great house. It would have been accounted pert or forward on her part if she had done more than reply to him. She could only reply to his silence with silence. He felt that she must think him a fearful lout. He had seen his elder brother, Reggie, dancing with her, and he had chatted and made fun with her all the time. Reggie was eighteen and was at Oxford, and this naturally gave him confidence in himself, but even sixteen and Eton should not mean loutishness and self-consciousness. He could not understand what was the matter with him.

All that he knew was that he had never felt in the same way in the presence of any other girl, and that he would be quite ready at a moment's notice to punch the head of any one— man or boy— should Miss Joan Dark ask him to do so.

It was when they were sitting together in a room off the corridor oppposite to the smoking-room, after this dance, that he broke the silence.

"You are Joan Dark, are you not?" he said.

"Yes, Mr. Bowers," she replied.

Then there was a long interval before he said another word, and then he knew that he had not meant to say what he did. He was looking at her, and suddenly remarked:—

"You are a long way the prettiest girl in the room."

She did not blush; she only looked at him in a surprised way, then gave a laugh, saying:—

"Yes, Mr. Bowers, that's quite true."

She glanced round the empty room and laughed again.

He blushed furiously.

"What a fool I am," he said. "I meant in the big room, of course. Don't you know that I meant the big room?"

"Yes, I knew that; but you only said 'the room,' " she replied.

"I didn't mean to say up to your face that I thought you pretty," said he. "It's a foolish thing to say to a girl— especially a girl like you."

"Is It really?" she asked innocently,

"Of course it is. You see, it's the sort of thing any fool might say to a girl, whether she is pretty or not."

"Is it? Then why did you say it?"

"I was looking at your face, and somehow I said it because I was thinking It so deeply that I couldn't help it. People's thoughts sometimes get so strong that they must speak them out, no matter what happens."

"Oh! Is that so?"

"It is indeed. I felt that I had never in all my born days seen any girl so really— really— ripping."

"That's what mother says."

"Well, she's right."

"She is. She says it when I do something that tears the trimming off my frock— 'ripping,' you know."

"Oh, that's not what I mean. It's the other sort of ripping—beautiful—lovely, and that sort or thing. I think I would love to look at you for ever."

"And I think that you're very nice. But mother told me that I must never listen to anyone that wanted to flatter me, and that I should above all things never let any boy suspect that I liked him."

"That's right as a general rule, but there are exceptions; the exception is when you do really like them. Do you feel that you really like me, Joan Dark."

"I know that I do."

"Great Admiral! Why?"

"I don't know; but I'm sure that I do. I suppose it is because you're so nice."

"And would you let me kiss you if I wanted to badly?"

"I think I would." He looked at her, and her lovely blue eyes were fixed on his face.

"That's all right," he said. "I want to kiss you badly, but I won't do it. You're too— too— somehow I'm sure it wouldn't be honorable, tint I'll tell you what I'll do. If you promise to marry me some day, I'll promise to marry you. Now, will you agree to that?"

"Oh, yes, I should like that. Do you know, I'm glad that you didn't ask me to kiss you. I would have done it, but I feel that I would have been sorry."

"That's the proper way to feel. It's the proper thing to do to get married, and then it will be all right. You won't forget it. Wait! I should give you some present now that; we're engaged, but I haven't anything— wait! I'll tell you what I'll do. You see two gold studs in my shirt front? Well, I've a third a little lower down; my waistcoat hides it, so it's no use. I'll give you that one."

He unfastened a button of his white waist-coat, and removed the stud that it concealed, and it was a beautiful little thing with a tiny diamond in the centre of a gold ring.

"There you are. Now, that makes it sure, you know. You'll marry me, and I'll marry you."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Bowers."

"You mustn't say 'Mister'— say Walter or Watty."

"Walter," she said. "I think Walter is nicest."

"And now that's settled, we'll go to the ices. I hope you like ices. I do awfully. I think them just ripping."

That was the beginning of the affair, and it must be admitted that it was a very promising start between the young man of sixteen and the young woman of twelve. Of course, there was no concealing his passion. It was made the object of many a jest in the household, and of many a grin with an elbow into the nearest ribs, in the village. The Archdeacon had his joke about it.

And this went on for three years, with vary-ing degrees of intensity, until the Archdeacon thought that the spirit of the joke had evaporated. Walter was nineteen and Joan was approaching sixteen, and hoping to qualify one day as a school teacher. The Archdeacon thought that she would be better suited for such a position than for the post-office clerkship her mother favored. He went to Sir Wallace one day just after Walter had gone to Oxford, and told him that Mrs. Dark was becoming uneasy at the fidelity of the young man, and she was afraid that it might not be regarded in the village as such a jest as it had seemed to the people at the Grange.

"It was all very well when Walter was a boy and Joan a child," he said." "But it's quite another thing, now that he's grown up. He was in the habit of walking home from school with her certainly three times a week during the past month, and that should be put a stop to, for the girl's sake as well as his own. I hope that you'll agree with me, Bowers?"

Sir Wallace laughed. "I find it hard to take the affair seriously," he said, "Walter's a good boy, and I don't think, that that sort of calf love should alarm anyone. We all know that that sort of thing fades away, leaving no trace of its existence."

"I'm thinking more of the girl than of Walter," said the Archdeacon "I know that ho is a first-rate chap, without the least vice in his nature; but you know what people of such a village as ours are, and you know that a breath of scandal, however unfounded, is sufficient to wreck the prospects of a girl who has to earn her own living."

"I daresay you're right," replied Sir Wallace. "I'll have a talk with Walter when he comes here in the spring."

"I'm sure that it would be wise," said the Archdeacon. "If Walter gets into the Indian Civil it will be all right. But he'll have got over this little romance of his long before then, I hope."

Lady Bowers quite agreed with the Archdeacon, and so did Winifred. The girl liked Joan immensely, and did not hesitate to give her the best advice that a girl in the position of Joan could get.

Winifred knew that the best reason she could submit to induce Joan to refuse to allow Walter to walk, front school with her was the effect that any gossip might have upon Walter's prospects; and Sir Wallace knew that he had only to point out to Walter how his intimacy with the girl would be most prejudicial to her future to induce him to take a reasonable and honorable view of the situation. The result was that when Walter came home at Easter he never once went into the village, lest he should chance to meet Joan; and when he returned in the autumn he learned that Joan had gone to a training college to qualify for the post of teacher.

He had not ceased to love her, but he had become a man, and while he was ready to be-moan the rotten state of a society that was ready to call a mesalliance a marriage! be-tween persons in different "spheres," he felt that he must accept the inevitable, and de-vote himself entirely to his work. He passed a first-class examination for the Indian Civil Service, and in due course received an appointment in Lucknow.

Within four years he had become engaged to a really nice girl at his own station in the Presidency and in his own station of life. She was Flora, daughter of Sir Edward Hastings, K.C.B., the General in Command.

And it was all due to a fancied likeness that she bore to Joan Dark! He had been startled by the likeness the first time he met her, which happened to be at the races; and when by chance he heard that she had been badly treated by a man to whom she had been engaged the previous year, he felt irresisti-bly attracted to her. He felt as if the wrong had been done to Joan Dark, and that it was left to him to right it. The man was in the army, and in a crack cavalry regiment. He had allowed it to be taken, for granted that he had large means; but within a month of their engagement the General discovered that he was over head and ears in debt; the crash came; he had to send in his papers; and, of course, the engagement was broken off.

No one suggested to Walter Bowers that the girl had accepted him on the impulse known in certain quarters as "the rebound." When a girl nas been treated badly by a man she usually feels impelled to show the world that the wound inflicted has not disfigured her so as to make her less attractive to other men. But Flora was a nice girl, people said, and deserved so nice a man as Walter Bowers.

This was in July, 1914. They were to be married in October, when he would be taking his year's leave. But an event occurred which somewhat upset their plans, and the plans of a good many other people throughout the world —the war.

The call for men reached every part of the Empire, and among the hundreds of thousands of England's sons who responded to it was Walter Bowers. He got attached to one of the regiments of the Indian Army that were sent to France before the end of the year, and with them he took part in the stubborn fighting against overwhelming odds which held the Germans back from Paris. He was wounded in one of those "minor engagements" which in any other campaign would have been thought a great battle, and for three days he lay unconscious in a hospital at Rouen. The first words of which he was conscious were exchanged by the two surgeons who were sitting by his bedside. One of them had evidently just come out from England, and was doping to have a chance of seeing France.

"I'm glad that I was sent here," he was saying. "Rouen is the place that of all others I was anxious to see, on account of its associations with Joan of Arc. I've been reading a lot about their Joan d'Arc."

"I beg your pardon," saw the nurse, who was at the other side of the bed.

"What is it, sister?" said the other surgeon, glancing across at her.

"I fancied I was being spoken to," she replied. My name happens to be Joan Dark."

The surgeons laughed. "A delightful coincidence!" said one. But before he could make another remark, the nurse put her fingers on her lips and pointed to their patient.

"I guessed he would be conscious within two hours," said one surgeon. "He's going to give us a chance after all."

Walter did give them their chance, and they availed themselves of it. He recovered; but, as they assured him when the danger was past, he had not to thank them, but his nurse. It was she, they affirmed, whose devotion had pulled him out of the jaws of death.

And he had recognised her from the first.

There was no change in her, except that from a lovely child she had grown into a lovely woman.

And her collar was fastened with the little stud that he had given her ten years before. He recognised her at once, and at the same moment he knew that his love for her had not changed.

But as he progressed toward convalescence, he almost wished that he had never recovered consciousness. What was he to do in order to avert misery from himself and at least one woman? Was he to keep silence and fulfil the promise he had given to the woman whom he had left in India, or was he to tell her the truth— that he had been attracted to her only because she reminded him of the one whom he had always loved? The question was a painful one for him to answer, but he had to answer it. His sense of honor told him that he was bound to return to Flora; but with this knowledge there came the question:—

"Am I to doom her to a life of wretchedness, being married to a man who doesn't love her?" The sophistry which a man can always bring forward to oppose the disagreeable dictates of his honor made him feel very uncomfortable for a long time. At last the resolve came to him to submit the question to Joan. He had been so sensible as to what was due to Flora that he had never once suggested to Joan that his love for her was unchanged; so he thought (or fancied he thought) that she was in a position to decide the point for him without prejudice.

He laid the whole matter before her one day, telling her that the dilemma was in regard to a friend of his own in India.

It did not take Joan long to give her decision.

"Your friend should marry the girl to whom he is engaged," she said with great firmness, and then got up from her chair and left him to ponder over her judgment.

"She's right," he said. "I've made a mess of everything. But I'll do my best to hide the truth from— from— both— both," was the resolution that he made. Then, his mind at rest, he turned over on his bed and went to sleep.

The surgeons had decreed that he would never be able to do any more fighting. They thought that he might be strong enough to return to his post in India in the course of a month or two. And they were right. He returned to his post, but he did not go alone.

Was he justified in taking his nurse with him?

The general idea that prevailed in Red Cross Hospital circles was that he was fully justified, and that will probably be the opinion of most readers of this true story, when they bear that just one week after resolving to act upon the judgment of Joan he got this letter from Flora Hastings:—

Dear Walter,— I am a wretch! I was worse than a wretch to accept you when all the time I still loved the other man; but that is the truth—I loved Eric Woodford all the time, and when he came here last week, he told me that his love for me had never
varied; so, as he was able to clear himself of the horrid accusations that had brought about the breaking off of our engagement, we thought it better to get married lest something worse might happen. Dear Walter, do not blame us. Love is a queer thing. But I know that you only proposed to me because you thought I had been ill-treated. Now, didn't you? If there is anything to forgive, forgive.

Flora Montagu Woodford.

P.S.—I hope your wound is all right.

"JOAN, tell me, does the promise you gave me ten years ago still hold good?" Walter asked of his nurse within half an hour of reading this funny letter.

She opened her eyes in surprise that he should ask her such a question.

"Why, of course it does, Walter," she said, as simply as though she was still a child with her hair down.

That was his justification for taking her to India with him.

_________________

17: Markham's New Partner

Fred V Green

[fl 1900-1910. Apart from  a handful of stories, nothing else is known of him.]

World's News (Sydney) 14 May 1910

"MR. ANDERSON, they's a letter inside fer ye."

The one to whom this information was given paused, then stepped toward the general store, as the owner and postmaster disappeared within.

"It come this mornin'," Markham added, as he handed the other a bright green envelope, and watched him as he carelessly tore it open.

After a moment's perusal of the enclosed sheet, during which the storekeeper studied him earnestly, Anderson broke into a hearty laugh.

"Well, of all things! If that isn't the limit!"

"Wot's it 'bout?" inquired Markham with customary rural inquisitiveness.

"Why, it's a green-goods letter," replied Anderson with another hearty laugh. "The same old stereotyped form that has been used for the past twenty years."

"I know it," Markham said, in a low, confidential whisper. "I got one to-day, too. I recognised yours as bein' the same es mine."

Anderson checked his laughter, and his face sobered as he exclaimed incredulously, "You!"

"Yep! They both come in to-day's mail." A smile spread over Anderson's face once more.

"Well, I can understand you getting one, but me—" He again burst out in laughter, "It seems awfully funny to me. Here I am, born and bred New Yorker, up here in this country town for a rest and change— mind you. I haven't been here quite a week yet— and here I am getting green-goods letters."

"Just— just what is their game, Mr. Anderson?" Markham queried. *

Anderson leaned carelessly against a counter laden with various patterns of calicoes.

"A green-goods game, Mr. Markham, is one that can't be beaten. The operator holds all the aces and trumps— the other fellow the twos, threes, and fours."

"But-but just how is it worked?" the postmaster persisted.

"Just as the letter says," the other responded, carelessly tapping the sheet he still held. "These people claim they have stolen some plates from the Treasury Department at Washington; and have struck off from them vast, quantities of bills, which can't be detected from the genuine, as they are printed from the original. They further agree to sell these to you at about twenty cents on the dollar. Doesn't look so bad that far, does it?"

"No, can't say es it does," admitted Markham, whose interest was quite apparent.

"Well, after a deal of careful correspondence, you are told to come on to New York with the necessary amount of money in large bills— the fake bills are, as a rule, of small denomination. You reach the city, and, after following many directions, you meet your man, the bundle of money is submitted for your inspection, it looks good to you, and you pass over your real money, receiving in return the other, which has been carefully placed in a satchel."

"Yes," Msrkham said eagerly. "Then, what?" "Then some time later, you spend a few hours kicking yourself. After one foot gets tired, you try the other, and— "

"But why?" the postmaster interrupted.

"Because when you open your satchel, after reaching a safe place, you find the only thing in it is a bundle of green paper. Consequent-ly the name-green-goods."

"But I don't understand."

"It's simply this, Mr. Markham," Anderson informed him in a tone that plainly betrayed his disgust at such ignorance. "These men are regular sleight-of-hand artists. The bundle you examine is really, truly, United States money. But when it is put in the bag the green paper is substituted."

"Wal, I declare!" Markham burst out. "If thet ain't the most rascally thing I ever heard of."

"Yes, it is," Anderson remarked thoughtfully. "But, even so, I've just thought of a plan whereby, if a smart man ran up against them, he could beat them at their own game.

"How do ye mean?"

"Why, it's so simple it's a wonder someone never thought of it before," was the slow reply. "All it would require would be a little nerve. These fellows always work in pairs, you know. Then, if two men started out to beat them, all they would have to do would be to draw revolvers when the good money is handed to them for inspection. 'I'll take you at your bargain,' one would say, and the two back out, five times richer than they were a few moments before."

"But do ye s'pose it'd work?" Markham inquired dubiously.

"Work!" Anderson sneered. "Well, I should say it would. Those fellows wouldn't dare to yell— they're too afraid of arrest. Why, I'm so positive of it that if I could get a good man to go in with me, I'd have their money within a week."

"Sounds purty easy," Markham observed.

"It is easy," Anderson affirmed. "All you need is a man you can trust." He turned quickly and faced the other. "How'd you like to make a few thousand?"

"Wal, I—"

"I'll tell you what we'll do," Anderson went on excitedly, now thoroughly enthused with the scheme. "We'll both put in five thousand dollars, go to New York, and come back with fifty."

"Are ye sure it's puffectly safe?" Markham inquired cautiously.

"Well, if it wasn't you can bet I'd not risk my money."

"En I s'pose they ain't nothin' dishonest in it," the old man reasoned aloud. "It's simply a case of you gittin' him er he'll git you, eh?"

"That's just it," Anderson retorted. "Just like shooting a man in self-defence. You get him or he'll get you, and the law gives its sanction."

"Mr. Anderson," the postmaster exclaimed, "I like yer plan, pertic'larly when I know they ain't nothin' dishonest 'bout it. En a few thousan' extree will help me quite some. I'd like to tackle it."

"Then I'll get in communication with these rascals," Anderson announced. "If they send for us to come on, we'll go together. Is it a bargain?"

" 'Tis!" Markham replied, seizing the other's extended hand.

Further discussion of the matter followed, with occasional interruptions by persons entering for mail or to make purchases; and when some time later Anderson left and sauntered off in the direction of the little country hotel, at which he was stopping, the two men had become greatly interested in their new money-making scheme.

The next few days were trying ones. They were impatient for the moment when they could count the vast roll of bills.

"And then I'll say," Anderson repeated for the tenth time, " 'Gentlemen, a bargain is a bargain— we'll take you at your word.' Then we'll back out of the room; and, once out of sight, we'll make for the depot, and then back to Blanford."

Already some preliminary correspondence had arrived from New York; and, when the letter was received giving the final instructions as to where they would meet in the metropolis, both men were eager to start; and, while Mark-ham hurried to the bank to draw the necessary five thousand, Anderson hastened to his hotel to prepare for the journey.

"Got the money?" Anderson whispered cautiously when they met a short while later on the station platform.

Markham nodded in reply.

"I only had eight hundred in cash with me," the other informed him. "But I'll get the rest as soon as we reach New York. It's in this satchel."

He nodded toward the valise he carried.

"When we get in the train you had better put yours in, too," he added. "You can carry it, and that will leave me free to use my re- volver, should I be forced to do so."

At that moment the heavy train rumbled toward them, and, boarding it, Anderson led the way through the cars until they came to one which was nearly empty, and the two men took a seat near the rear.

As the train got under way, Anderson said cautiously, "Now, you take care of the satchel and all the money. See the implicit confidence I have in your integrity."

The other leaned closer and whispered hoarsely, "An' ye'll find out, 'fore the day is over, thet Calvin Markham is jest the man fer this here job. When we git back to Blanford ye ain't goin' to the hotel. Yer comin' to my house es my guest fer the rest of yer vacation."

"Oh, that would be imposing—"

"No, 'twouldn't," Markham insisted warmly

"Thet wuz settled long ago."

"Well, we can arrange that later. Just now I would advise your taking care of that satchel."

Anderson leaned down and, lifting it to his lap, opened the valise, displaying the bills that were scattered in the bottom.

"Put yours in, too, and we'll both be the guardians of it," he whispered.

"How much ye got in thar?" the old man queried.

"Eight hundred," the other hastened to reply, "Drop yours in quick."

Markham unlocked the valise he had brought with him, and, after casting a cautious glance over the car, he drew from it a bundle of bills and dropped them into the satchel.

Then, for the first time, he showed symptoms of weakening.

"Don't s'pose they's any chance of our losin', do ye?" he asked timorously.

"Not if we keep our wits about us," Anderson replied. "The truth of the matter is, I can't afford to have the thing go wrong. If it does. I'm cleaned out."

"So am I," Markham admitted. "Mebbe— " But the other anticipated his words and hastened to interrupt.

"Why, there isn't one chance in a hundred of our losing. No, not one chance in a thousand. I know I shall win."

But the old man's enthusiasm seemed to have been left in Blanford, and with each mile they travelled it disappeared farther and farther in the distance. This Anderson noted, and put forth every effort to cheer the other.

"Here, have a good cigar!" he exclaimed, as he drew one from his pocket. "We're running into Bridgeport, and you go up to the smoking-car. A good smoke will calm your nerves."

"Mebbe 'twould," Markham agreed absently, "You watch the satchel."

"Leave that to me," the other laughed; and as the old man rose, he lifted it to the seat beside him. "It's over an hour's run yet to New York— enjoy a long smoke, and you'll feel better. I can guarantee the quality of the cigar."

Markham forced a smile to his lips and start- ed toward the front of the car, the angle at which it leaned as it rounded the curve into Bridgeport causing him to move cautiously.

As he neared the door, a brakeman opened it and announced the station, and Markham hurried across the platform to the next car.

As he approached the forward end of this one, his further progress was impeded by the passengers who had risen to get off, and he was forced to stand in the aisle.

As the train came to a stop, Markham slowly followed in the line of those alighting; but when he reached the platform the idea of step- ping off for a moment occurred to him, and he descended to the station platform, where he nervously paced back and forward.

Suddenly his eyes riveted themselves upon a passenger who had descended from a rear car. For a second Markbam's surprise overcame him-he seemed rooted to the spot. For not only had this man got off the train, but he was already walking rapidly toward the street.

"Why— thet's Mr. Anderson!" Markham gasped.

Then he sprang toward the man.

The other was already some distance down the platform, but the old postmaster dashed after him, running as fast as he could pick his way through the crowd

A thousand thoughts flashed through his brain in a second, but he could think of no reason why his partner should have left the train, and when within a few feet of the other, he panted out, "Mr. Anderson!"

The man half turned, threw a hasty glance at him, then quickly faced about, and dashed toward the other end of the platform.

Before Markham could cry out again, a man who had been walking at Anderson's heels jumped ahead, and thrusting his foot before him, tripped the New Yorker, who fell in a heap, the satchel slipping from him and rolling a few feet away.

Markham seized the valise, then dashed up to Anderson, who had already risen and was now glaring into the face of the stranger.

"What's the meaning of this?" Markham heard him demand.

"I guess you know," the other returned quietly.

At this juncture the postmaster stepped before them.

"Mr. Anderson!" he cried. "Wot wuz ye tryin' to do? Where wuz ye a goin'?"

"I— I thought you got off here by mistake," was the stammered reply.

Markham gazed sympathetically at the big rent in Anderson's trousers. Then he looked up angrily into the stranger's face.

"En who are you?" he demanded. "My dear friend," was the cool reply, "do you know this man?"

"Why— of course," Markham declared in a startled tone, somewhat awed at the other's manner.

"So do I. Did he get any money from you?"

"Why— of course not. I—"

At that instant further conversation was cut short by a crashing and rattling, and looking down the track a hundred yards, they saw that the heavy train which had pulled out unnoticed by them, had jumped the track and was bumping over the ties. Then it came to a stop.

"She's jumped the rails!" the stranger exclaimed.

Anderson looked up into Markham's face.

"If you had been on it," he remarked quietly, "you might have been killed. You might have been on one of the platforms, passing between the cars and been pitched off down that embankment."

At these words, Markham turned from watching the crowd that gathered about the derailed train.

"Thet's true." he declared slowly. "And—"

"Look here!" the stranger put in roughly "This man you call Anderson is one of New York's slickest confidence men. Has he any of your money?"

"He's— what?" Markham rasped.

"It's all there in the satchel, just where you put it," Anderson declared, then added: "I suppose you're a detective, but you've got nothing on me this time.

"Well, we'll see," the other declared. "Better open that bag and make sure."

With fingers that trembled from excitement, the postmaster did as he was bidden, and drew forth the bundle of bills, to find them exactly as he had put them there.

"They're all right" he reported. "But I can't understand— "

"I'll explain after we take this crook to the lock-up. There's a warrant out for him now. He's wanted in New York."

The officer seized Anderson's arm and they passed through the main street, Markham following in a dazed condition. At length they turned into police headquarters, and the old man sat down to await the detective's return from safely lodging his prisoner.

Presently he re-appeared, and Markham related the whole story.

"Well, the solution is this," the officer summed-up thoughtfully. "This fellow landed in your town with his plans all carefully laid. A confederate in New York wrote those letters, and mailed them so they would arrive in the same mail. Of course, a conspicuous envelope was used. Then came his proposition to you, and you fell. In a way, you are guilty of a crime, too. You set out to rob, didn't you?"

Markham's face blanched at these words, and he stammered: "But— but— Mr. Anderson said it wasn't no crime."

"Oh, he'd say anything," the detective declared impatiently. "It was probably a part of his plan to get you to go to the smoking-car just before a station was reached, then thinking you safe in the forward part of the train, he'd jump off and skip with your money. See it all now, don't you?"

"Yep, I do," he returned excitedly. "But I got my money back." Then he added hurriedly: "En eight hundred of his, too."

"How's that?"

Markham hurriedly opened the satchel again, and while doing so, explained, "He hed eight hundred under mine."

The two men leaned over the satchel, while Markham lifted out his bundle of currency and disclosed a few scattered bills, which the detective took out and counted.

"There's nineteen one-dollar bills here," he laughed. "I'll give them back to him. As for you, will you enter a charge against him?"

"Wal, I dunno," Markham answered slowly. "I got my money back, en— en, by gum! Mebbe he did save my life, though he didn't do it a purpose."

"No, you bet he didn't!" the detective put in.

"I guess the best thing fer me to do is to go back home," Markham said thoughtfully.

"I guess so, too. There's a train going north at noon, and it's nearly that now. If you hurry, you'll catch it. But hang on to that bag till you get there."

__________________

18: The Secret of the White Castle

Julia Magruder

1854-1907

The Black Cat, Vol 1 No 1 Oct 1895

WHEN I became the occupant of the Chateau Blanc, in the neighborhood of Fontainebleau, I found that my wish for a place of complete seclusion was likely to be realized to the full. I was not in a state of mind for society, and I had deliberately given myself three months in which to fight out a certain battle with myself, for which I needed solitude and reflection.

When the old woman who acted as keeper and caretaker of the place took me through it, on a tour of inspection, there were three things which, in spite of my preoccupation with my own affairs, struck me very forcibly. The first was the forlorn remnants of the body of a white swan, which must once have been a creature of splendid size and shape. My informant told me that this swan had been a great pet of the former owner of the chateau, until some accident had killed it; after which it had been stuffed and fastened in its place upon the surface of the little lake under his window. There it was still— what remained of it— a mass of weather-beaten and dirty feathers.

Another thing that compelled my strong attention was a certain picture which hung in the bedroom of the late owner, and which I was informed was his own portrait, painted by himself. This room, by the way, was sinister and mysterious in its effect beyond any I had ever entered. One reason for this was the fact that all the furniture, which was elaborately carved and which must once have been of beautiful polish and color, had been ruthlessly covered with a coat of black paint,— the bed, the table, chairs, wardrobe, chests of drawers, and even the great leather easy-chair which was placed just under the picture, facing the opposite wall.

It was a wretched piece of work, that picture, representing a man dressed in some sort of court dress of the last century, and it would have seemed ineffectual and amateurish to the last degree but for the truly marvelous expression of the eyes, which were fixed on a certain spot in the wall opposite with an earnestness and intensity which made me feel that there was some hidden significance in this look. The man not only looked at the spot himself, but he compelled me to do the same, and forced me, by the insistent command of his eyes, to look again and again.

And yet there was nothing to see. The wall was perfectly bare in that place and covered with a meaningless sort of wallpaper, which gave me no encouragement whatever.

Another thing that I noticed specially, with a feeling of being imperiously directed to do so, was a large rusty key that hung on the wall directly under the picture. When I inquired of the old woman what this key belonged to she answered that she had never known, but that it had been hung there by the late proprietor and had been undisturbed since his death. That event had occurred a great many years ago, and it was owing to the provisions of the will left by him that no one had ever occupied the house in the interval. The prescribed time had only just expired, and I was the first person to rent the chateau, the revenue from which was to go to a nephew, who lived abroad.

The somberness of the black chamber suited my frame of mind, and I decided on taking it for my room. Besides this, the picture, the key, and the white swan all interested me, and, as it was the first time that an outside interest had made any headway against the melancholy of my own thoughts, these objects, far from cheerful as they were in themselves, afforded a grateful diversion.

So continually did I wonder why the picture looked always and could compel me to look at that one spot, and why the key had been hung in that place and had kept its position so many years undisturbed, as if some ghostly guardian watched over it, and why, ever and always, the old white swan compelled me, as if by some irresistible power, to connect it with these other things, that I kept myself awake at night, weaving all sorts of stories concerning these objects, and spent half my days in looking from the picture to the wall, and back again to the key, and then out of the window at the battered effigy of a noble bird beneath it, until the confusion of mind thus produced seemed likely to drive me crazy.

I expended all the ingenuity of which I was master in questioning the old woman, who had lived here in the time of the former owner, but the satisfaction of my curiosity in that direction was rather meager.

She told me that her former master had had a wife whom he adored, fair as an angel, and gifted with a divinely beautiful voice, such as none had ever heard, before or since. This young wife had been snatched from him by a sudden and frightful death. The fever which seized her had been so contagious, the woman said, that every one had fled the premises, except one woman servant and the master himself. These, with the help of the doctor, had nursed the young wife through her brief illness until its end.

My informant had heard it said that the circumstances of her death were very peculiar,— that, in her delirium, on the very last night of her illness, those who had ventured to linger about the premises had heard her singing more gloriously than ever in her life; that it had reminded them of the great white swan, which but the night before had sung its last sweet song on the lake, in the moonlight, and had been found dead in the morning.

The woman who had remained to help the master in his last sad ministrations to his dying and dead wife had gone away the day after the funeral, and had never been heard of since.

That funeral, in the quaint old church but a few paces from the house, had been, from the woman's account, a melancholy affair enough. Scarcely any one dared to come to it, so malignant had been this fever, and it was feared that the few men who were willing to act as pall-bearers would not be equal to the task; but the poor lady had always been slight and fairy-like in figure, and so wasted was she from this consuming fever that the bearers declared that her weight was scarcely more than that of an empty coffin. The woman further said that, as the small funeral cortege was leaving the church, it had surprised every one to see the husband, who was directly behind the coffin, pause abruptly under a statue of the Virgin, and single out, from the great bunch of white ribbons which hung there, the long strip which his young wife had placed there on the day of her marriage to him, less than a year before. It was an old custom connected with this church. Every girl ever married there had conformed to it, and some of the ribbons were yellow with time and almost dropping to pieces. The longest and freshest bit of all had been put there by the beautiful and beloved young creature now lying dead in the flower of her youth and loveliness.

No one ever knew, the woman went on to say, how the master spent his days after the funeral was over. He had forbidden every servant to return, and turned a deaf ear to the rings and knocks of visitors. Months had passed, and no one held speech with him. They knew he was alive, because people who had looked through the palings had seen him walking in the garden, and one person reported having seen him carry from the house the stuffed body of the great swan and fasten it in its place on the lake, where it could be plainly seen from his window. He must have embalmed or stuffed it himself, the old woman said, for he was known to have remarkable knowledge and skill in such strange arts, and had once had a great room filled with birds and beasts, which he had preserved by methods studied in foreign lands.

As was inevitable, after hearing all this, my interest in the picture, and swan, and the key deepened sensibly. There was certainly a spell of the supernatural about these things for me. I had only to stand near the spot on which the eyes of the picture were fastened to experience the strangest, the most overwhelmingly significant sensations I had ever known. The spot was haunted by a presence for me, and as often as I stood there I would feel my heart throb and cease throbbing, my breath pant and cease panting, my very flesh turn cold and moist with consciousness and apprehension. I tried to account for all this on natural grounds, but I found it was quite impossible to do so.

One day— it was the 19th of August— a hot, sultry, close, indescribably gloomy day, when the heavy clouds that lowered seemed only to darken the whole earth without giving forth one drop of moisture, the old woman came to my room and chanced to mention that it was the time of the death of the young mistress of the Chateau Blanc. She had died, it appeared, just at midnight between the 19th and 20th of August. After giving me this information, she said good-evening and left me to the reflections which it aroused.

I can scarcely call them reflections. They took the form, rather, of a sort of compulsion that was laid upon me to obey a certain force by which I felt myself suddenly dominated.

It was the picture that did it; this was certain, for, as often as I faltered, one look into that insistent, commanding, coercing face compelled me to go on. In obedience to its bidding, I did as follows:—

I went to an old desk in the room, and took from it some simple carpenters' tools, with which I deliberately cut through, first, the wall-papering, and then a thin boarding, which covered all the space between a door and window opposite the picture. When this was done I saw— I cannot say whether most to my satisfaction or my horror, that I stood opposite a door,—a  regular, ordinary door, with panels, hinges, and, more than all, a keyhole. I glanced at the picture. It seemed to me that the canvas positively lived with expression.

The eyes commanded me to get the rusty key. I got it, fitted it in the lock, in which it turned with difficulty, and then, with my heart almost choking me with its throbs, my knees shaking under me, my body covered with a cold sweat, and my tongue dry in my mouth, I opened the door.

As it creaked on its rusty hinges, I saw, by the light of the candle which I held in my hand, a mass of cobwebs, heavily weighted with the dust of years, and, through these, a woman's figure.

It was clad— for I obeyed the eyes, which commanded me to examine it, though my heart was cold with terror— in what I made out to be a white silk gown, above which was the face, withered and awfully livid, as I had heard the faces of embalmed corpses appear years after death. Still, it was recognizable as a real human face, and was surrounded by masses of yellow hair, which, even through the dust and cobwebs, gleamed with the brightness of gold. The hands held something in their shrunken fingers,— a white ribbon, with the date of her marriage and death upon it, her husband's name and her own, and these words, which, under the compelling eyes of the picture, I laboriously studied out:—

"I have been able to keep you near me, even in death. I have never been separated from you, or from what was you to me once. But when death shall come to me you will have no power over my body, and they will take me from you. That I am unable to help. I think only of this: you cannot suffer for it, since you have so long ceased to be, and by that time my suffering also will be over. I shall put my spirit into the eyes of my picture, which will watch over you still."

I looked from the paper to the picture. It seemed dull and inexpressive,— mere canvas and paint. The power of the eyes was gone. Their spell over me was broken.

Suddenly I felt within me a long-absent yearning for human companionship,— for life and love. I had come to this place impelled by a morbid and unhealthy desire for solitude, and my experiences here had made me more morbid and unhealthy still. They had culminated now in this awful revelation of disappointment and death, which threw into brilliant contrast the bright possibilities which still remained to me, and I resolved to go back into the world and do my best to deserve and win these.

________________

19: Stolen Centuries

Otis Adelbert Kline

1891-1946

Thrilling Wonder Stories, June 1939

BLEARY-EYED and unkempt, with a three days' growth of beard covering his lean jowls, his threadbare suit unpressed and baggy, Fred "Fly" Jorgeson shuffled to the park bench, sat down heavily, and sighed dejectedly.

Jorgeson had seen better days— much better. For years he had made a splendid living with his "Human Fly" act, climbing the sides of skyscrapers as an advertising stunt while crowds gaped, watching for him to fall.

He had never fallen, but others of his profession had, and finally the authorities everywhere had prohibited such exhibitions. No more Human Fly acts would be permitted. Ergo, Fly Jorgeson, as he was called everywhere, was suddenly without the highly paid jobs and the adulation of the crowds which had been the breath of life to him.

He had never saved his money, had learned no other trade or profession, and with millions of trained men jobless, he found it impossible to get work. He soon found himself flat broke. He then took to panhandling, usually getting enough nickels and dimes in a day for his food and a cheap flop. His last dime was now gone. Soon he must leave the languid comfort of the park bench and resume his panhandling, in order to obtain the food and the flophouse bunk that would see him through the night.

A discarded newspaper lay on the bench beside him, and picking it up, he glanced idly through the "Help Wanted" columns of the classified section. Suddenly, a small ad caught and held his attention:

WANTED: Experienced mountain climber. Easy work. Excellent pay. Applicants call in person, 1332 Poinsetta Drive, and ask for Professor Hartwell.

Jorgeson frowned and considered. That address would be at least a five mile walk from where he sat. But didn't he walk a good fifteen to twenty miles a day, anyway? And the panhandling might even be better out Poinsetta way, whether he landed the job or not.

He tore the ad from the paper, thrust it into his coat pocket, lurched to his feet, and slouched off on his way.

1332 Poinsetta Drive was a typical California bungalow, set in a spacious grounds, dotted with trees and surrounded by a high, woven wire fence.

Jorgeson stood for a moment, peering through the wire meshes of the gate, trying to gather courage to enter. He was painfully conscious of his unshaven, unkempt appearance. For a moment, he was tempted to turn away and give up the quest.

Then he saw a white-haired, bespectacled man of about his own size and build emerge from a side door and walk out into the yard. He made a queer, clucking noise, and a squirrel came scampering down the nearest tree, then ran toward him and halted with bushy tail arched.

The man produced an acorn from a bulging coat pocket, and handed it to the squirrel, which sat there on its haunches, nibbling and jerking its tail. It was soon followed by another and another, until no less than a dozen squirrels surrounded the old man.

This sight decided Jorgeson. Undoubtedly, this was Professor Hartwell. A man who was kind to animals would also be likely to be kind to a fellow human being in distress. The Fly opened the gate and entered.

The squirrels scampered away at his approach. The old man rose to his feet, rattling the acorns in his pocket as he appraised the Fly with keen gray eyes that looked out through his gold-rimmed glasses from beneath bushy white brows.

"Well, what can I do for you?" he asked crisply.

"I've come in answer to your ad in today's paper," Jorgeson replied.

"You are an experienced mountain climber?" the old man asked.

"I can climb anything that's climable," Jorgeson responded.

The professor considered, stroking his chin as he looked the Fly over from head to foot.

"Hm-m. Your appearance isn't particularly prepossessing— but you're my only applicant, thus far. There must be a dearth of unemployed mountain climbers in these parts. Are you strong?"

"My muscles are still hard, and my wind is still good. Feel."

Jorgeson flexed a biceps, and the professor thumbed it for a moment. Then he poked his back, leg and abdominal muscles.

"Pretty fair, at that," he said. "I guess you'll be able to make it. You are hired for two days. The pay, when you've completed the job, will be one thousand dollars. Satisfactory?"

Jorgeson gulped in surprise, and nodded, too astounded for words.

"Good. Then come with me. I'll fix you up with a shave, a bath, a square meal, and some clothing and shoes. You and I are about the same size, and I believe my spare outfit will fit you. Come along."

Jorgeson followed the professor into the house, and through a long room that was fitted up as a laboratory, with an imposing array of test tubes, microscopes, cages of fruit flies, guinea pigs, and the usual paraphernalia of the biochemist, then down a hallway and into a tiled bathroom.

An hour later, bathed, shaved, fed and wearing a pair of his employer's whipcords, with high-laced, hobnailed boots, flannel shirt, and leather windbreaker, the Fly felt like a new man as he helped the professor load the luggage into the tonneau of a large, powerful sedan.

They sped away, heading for the mountains. Jorgeson grew quite curious about this mysterious trip. However, the professor was not communicative. Presently they turned off the paved highway, and took to a rutted dirt road, which circled steeply upward through the trees. This was succeeded after several miles by a little used "stump" road cut through the timber.

This road came to a sudden end at the base of a steep cliff, which was almost perpendicular. The professor climbed out stiffly, and Jorgeson got out on his side, flexing his muscles, numbed by the long ride.

"Think you can climb that with a load on your back?" asked the professor, nodding toward the cliff.

"For me, climbing that will be like taking candy from a baby," the Fly replied, with a grin.

"Good. We'll camp here for the night, then tackle it the first thing in the morning. But now we eat."

Jorgeson's eyes bulged as he turned and saw the elaborate array of cans, parcels and bottles the professor was setting out on the checkered oil cloth he had spread on the ground. The old man, noting his look of astonishment, smiled slightly.

"This is to be my last dinner for a long time. Also, it is a celebration of the culmination of a lifetime of labor and research."

"Looks like a banquet, to me," said the Fly.

"Let us make it a banquet— for two," the professor replied. "We'll eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow—" he paused for a moment, as if he had been about to say something he wished to conceal— "for tomorrow we part forever!" he finished.

Jorgeson joined in the preparations with gusto—and in the feast that followed. They washed down their caviar and anchovies with a fifth of sherry. Their green turtle soup with a quart of sauterne. A bottle of Burgundy blended perfectly with their thick steaks, smothered in mushrooms. And another of Pedro Domigue, 1882, flamed blue above their crêpes suzettes and topped off their café cognac.

The Fly was in a roseate glow. The professor grew talkative, even boastful.

"I suppose you've been wondering what all this is about, Jorgeson," he said. "Wasn't going to tell you at first, but hell, you're a good fellow, and have turned out to be a real pal, helping me celebrate and everything, so why shouldn't I tell you? I've got everything fixed, so there's nothing you or anyone else can do about it, anyhow." The professor paused, drew a deep breath.

"Do you realize that you are the last man I am going to see for three centuries! Picture that, Jorgeson. In three hundred years I'll be alive, just as I am today, ready to step into a new world— the hero of the hour— with historical knowledge that will have been long forgotten."

The Fly looked at him skeptically, as he mixed himself another coffee and brandy, half and half.

"I see you don't believe me," said the professor, reaching for the brandy bottle as Jorgeson put it down. "But it's a fact, nevertheless."

He took a small leather case from his breast pocket. Opening it, he revealed a hypodermic syringe on one side, a small brown bottle on the other.

"See that bottle?" he asked. "Elixir of life, that's what it is. Temporary immortality in a bottle. Tomorrow I'll shoot that into my arm— go to sleep for three centuries, and wake up, alive and well."

"How do you know you can do all this?" asked Jorgeson, interested in spite of his skepticism.

"Experiments. Thousands of them. Mediterranean fruit flies, guinea pigs, monkeys, white mice. Proper dosage puts any of them into a state of suspended animation for four of their normal lifetimes. And they wake up at the proper time— depending on the dosage and the weight of the animal—  carrying on from where they left off, and living out the balance of their lives as if nothing had happened. Talk about Rip Van Winkle! What was supposed to happen to him could really happen to anyone— except the aging process— with my serum."

But how do you know what might happen to your body while you're sleeping? Cold, storms, attacks of animals— how can you survive these?"

"Simple. All taken care of. I've got a vault all built— airtight, insulated against outside temperatures, prevents dehydration, freezing or overheating. Air conditioning apparatus that will start up as soon as I move and have to breathe again. Man, didn't I tell you I've been preparing this for a lifetime?"

"But how will you be able to get out of the vault? I suppose there will be a thick, heavy door. What if you are too weak to move it when you awaken?"

"Just a matter of perfect timing. The door will open automatically at the right time. In fact, I've made it so it can't be opened any other way— to keep out possible vandals. Know anything about the equinoxes?"

The Fly harked back. After all, he had had an education.

"Very little. Studied it in school. They shift periodically, don't they?"

"Precisely. And what effect does that have on the stars in the northern heavens? Right now, Polaris is the North Star. But do you know that about in the year B.C. 3,000, Alpha Draconis was the polestar, and that some 12,000 years from now Vega will occupy that position?

"Man, the movements of the Earth around the sun and on its axis, despite the slight polar wobble, can be more safely depended on over a period of years, than the most precise and efficient instruments invented by man."

"But, I don't see—"

"I'll explain. I've a tube shaped like a telescope trained on the northern sky in a certain direction. Beneath it, is a composite and extremely complicated device of my own invention, protected by a small dome of quartz, and operating like a photoelectric cell, but with this difference. It doesn't respond every time light strikes it. There must be a special combination of light rays—a combination of certain pinpoints of light, in short, agreeing precisely, not with the stars which are shining in that tube tonight, but with those which will shine into it three centuries hence, when the Earth has shifted its position relative to the sidereal system."

"And then what happens?"

"Simple enough. It will work just like the time lock on a safe. The mechanism for opening the door is set in motion— the door swings open."

"Not so simple," the Fly disagreed. "What if it should be a cloudy night?"

"That's provided for also. There will be enough food, water and air in the vault to last ninety days. The chances are millions to one that there will be at least one clear night during that period. And only one will be required for my purpose."

At this point, Jorgeson noted that the professor's head was beginning to nod. A moment later, he rose, mumbling something about bedtime, and retired to his mattress.

For a long time the Fly lay awake, looking up at the gleaming stars, and thinking.

If only he could get that bottle of serum— immure himself in the vault. He was a misfit in this generation. All of his chances had vanished. True, he would have a thousand dollars tomorrow, but he knew himself too well to believe he would have it long. There would be a spree of spending, and within a month at the most he would be back on the street panhandling.

But if he could wake up in a new world three centuries hence— a world in which he could emerge as a hero, the center of attraction, the wonder of all time, a man who had remained in a state of suspended animation for three centuries— what a chance there would be for him to live as he had lived in the good old days— or even better.

As for that old codger snoring across from him, what good would it do him to traverse the gap of three centuries? Why, he must be at least sixty-five years old— with one foot in the grave. He would totter into it a few years after he woke up. But the Fly, a man of thirty, could look forward to perhaps a half century of life. Thinking along these lines, and trying to evolve some scheme that would enable him to take the place of the professor, he presently fell asleep.

Jorgeson woke with a hangover. The professor, however, showed no signs of his celebration; he was as businesslike and taciturn as if nothing had happened. He dosed the Fly with aspirin and black coffee, and, after they had had their bacon and eggs, they loaded the equipment which the professor wished to move up to his vault, on their backs. They bound themselves together with a twenty-foot length of rope, and taking up their alpenstocks, began their climb up the steep slope.

To the Fly, accustomed to supporting himself for long stretches on the side of a building, the climb was ridiculously easy. The professor, though surprisingly strong and agile for an old man, could not have made it without help.

After a climb that took them well into midmorning, they reached a ledge about two feet in width. Above this ledge, the cliff towered, as sheer and straight as the side of a building, for about a hundred feet. The Fly wondered how he was going to be able to get the old man up that wall. Then he noticed a knotted rope with a hook at the end, dangling within easy reach from the top of the cliff.

The professor unstrapped his pack and lowered it to the ledge. Then he fastened it to the hook in the end of the rope, and went up, hand over hand, with surprising ease for a man of his age. Jorgeson decided that he must have made this trip many times before— perhaps alone, perhaps with others to accompany him as far as the ledge. Obviously, he must have moved a great many heavy things to the cliff top during the time when he was building his vault.

Tilting his head far back, the Fly saw the old man crawl over the edge of the cliff. A moment later, he began pulling up the pack he had hooked on the end of the rope. Once he had it on the cliff top, he dropped the rope again.

"Take off your pack and fasten it on the hook," he ordered.

Jorgeson complied, and watched Hartwell draw up the second pack. To the surprise of the Fly, he did not drop the rope again. Instead, he held a leather wallet out over the edge and dropping it, said:

"Catch."

The Fly caught it, and opening it, found within ten crisp one hundred dollar bills.

He looked up, and saw that the old man was watching him.

"Your job is over, and that's your pay," he said. "From here, I carry on alone. You know something I had intended no man of this generation to know. But, before anyone can get here, I'll be sealed in my vault, which is well- camouflaged. I wouldn't advise you to try to find it. And don't try to drive the car back to town. I smashed the carburetor, this morning. Take it off, walk back to town, and buy a new one. Then you can come back and drive the car away. It is yours, with everything in it."

He drew back out of sight without a word of farewell, and Jorgeson, after standing and staring until his neck ached, realized that he had gone for good. What should he do now? Should he return to his world, the owner of a car and a thousand dollars, to tell a strange, incredible story which no one would believe? Or should he try to steal this coveted spanning of the centuries for himself?

A crafty gleam came into his eyes. He was glad, now, that he had not told the old man he was the Human Fly. The old buzzard might have taken other precautions. But he would never suspect that he could climb that cliff with ease.

Fifteen minutes later, the Fly was peering cautiously above the edge of the cliff. The coil of knotted rope was lying where the old man had left it, but the two packs were gone, and the professor was not in sight.

The Fly found himself on a flat-topped pinnacle, strewn with boulders, and cut by arroyos in which sparse vegetation grew. The professor had chosen well in selecting this retreat. No plane could land here, and no ordinary mountain climber would be likely to negotiate the steep cliffs that surrounded the pinnacle. Only a Human Fly could make it without the aid of a rope or a long ladder.

A brief search revealed a well-defined path. He followed it quietly and cautiously.

Presently, he heard the sound of hammering just ahead of him. He parted the bushes and peered through. There before him was the professor, standing in front of the open door of his vault, knocking the crate from a machine which, a moment later, he carried inside and bolted in place.

The machine in place, the professor took the leather case from his pocket, and from it removed the syringe and bottle of serum. He filled the syringe, then began to roll up his sleeve.

It was now or never for Jorgeson. Catching up a heavy stone, he bounded noiselessly forward.

The old man turned, apparently about to close the vault door before injecting the serum. He caught sight of his assailant for an instant— then the heavy rock came down on his skull crushing it like an eggshell.

The Fly snatched the syringe as Hartwell slumped to the floor, dead.

Flinging the rock out into the bushes, he grasped the old man's collar, and dragged the limp body out through the door. For a moment, he thought of burying it. Then he remembered that this would take time, and that the professor had told him everything had been timed, almost to the minute. He must close the door and take the serum now if he wished to wake up at the proper time. It should affect him exactly as it would have the professor, because he was of the same size and build, and almost the same weight.

He sprang inside the vault and swung the heavy door shut after him. The locking bars fell into place. There was, he observed, a porthole in the north side, filled with heavy glass to admit light only. The unlocking mechanism was invisible to him— must be fastened somewhere outside— would have to be, as a matter of fact, to catch the starlight.

For a moment panic seized him as he realized that the mechanism would not open the door for three hundred years. He rushed to the door, wrenched at the handle, determined to give up the whole idea, and flee. But it would not budge. The professor had told the truth. It could only be opened by the mechanism. And it would not open for three hundred years. He had to take the serum, now, or die like a rat in a trap.

There was a low cot at the back of the room. He sat down on this and bared his arm. Then he closed his eyes, inserted the needle, and sent the plunger home. His head reeled dizzily as he flung the empty syringe from him and sank back on the cot. Then came oblivion.

GRADUALLY, consciousness returned to Jorgeson. He opened his eyes and looked about him for a moment before he remembered where he was. It did not seem that more than five minutes had elapsed since he had sunk back upon the cot, unconscious. That serum was a fraud.

But was it?

By the reflected sunlight that came through the porthole, he was able to see everything in the room, even though he was so weak he could scarcely lift his hand. Presently, he moved an arm, raised it above his head. Something gray and fluffy fell away from it— something which had once been a woolen sleeve, but now was nothing but dust and lint.

He raised a foot. The remains of his whipcord trousers floated away in the tiny air current the movement had caused. The high-laced boot crumbled to powder.

Presently, he managed to sit up, and found himself as naked as the day he was born. The bedding on the cot had turned to dust and lint. Only the seasoned wooden frame and slats remained. Even the springs had rusted completely away.

He staggered to his feet and made his way to the provision compartments. Eagerly he gulped water— then broke the seal of a food jar and filled his empty stomach.

Having drunk and eaten, he felt stronger. It was true! It was true! He had survived for three centuries. The professor had planned well, and he was to reap the fruits of that endless planning and toil. Soon the stars would open the door for him and he could walk out into a strange, new world.

He went to the porthole and looked out. To his surprise, he was unable to see the northern sky. Yet it had been plainly visible through the porthole when he had first entered the cave. Instead of the sky, he now saw a solid mass of rustling leaves— oak leaves.

Why, what could this mean? There had been no oak tree there when he went to sleep. Standing on tiptoe, he peered downward. Yes, a mighty oak stood there, rooted before the door. And the scattered remains of a human skeleton lay among its gnarled roots.

A human skull grinned up at him— a skull that had been crushed in on one side.

It was the skull of Professor Hartwell grinning up at him! Why was it grinning? Well, all skulls grinned. But this one had a particularly malicious grin— as if some dark secret were about to be revealed. What was this secret?

Obviously, oak trees came from acorns. And the professor, he remembered, habitually carried acorns in his pockets— for the squirrels. So, by throwing the body of the professor in front of the door, he, himself, had planted the oak tree. The body had protected and fertilized the sprouting acorn.

But what of that? Something in the back of Jorgeson's mind seemed to be trying to get a message through— a warning of impending disaster.

Then, suddenly, he knew.

The oak tree standing there meant his doom. No starlight could penetrate through those thick leaves in the right combination to open the door of the vault. He could not open it himself. And he could not get out through the small, eight-inch porthole.

He had exactly ninety days to live— ninety days of hell. Never would he be able to see the new world of his hopes and dreams.

He picked up the food jar he had just emptied and shattered it on the floor. Then, taking up a jagged fragment, he slashed his wrists, and watched his life blood drip on the floor until consciousness left him once more— but this time forever.

________________

20: The Black Camel

G. G. Pendarves

1885-1938

Oriental Stories Vol 1 No 1, Oct-Nov 1930

THE "EL" TRAIN roared and rattled on downtown past Bleecker Street, bearing its load of weary passengers still farther on into the forbidding gloom ahead.

But it was not the inclement weather which caused one man to alight with such evident reluctance at Bleecker Street. Skulking in the shadows, he allowed his fellow-passengers to precede him through die clanking exit-barriers, and several times he glanced back apprehensively over his shoulder to make certain that no one followed him down the stairway to the street level.

The whites of his eyes gleamed as he found himself held up by a stream of traffic going south; and, rather than wait, he sped along under the "L," crossed over two blocks farther up and returned to Bleecker Street on the other side; then once more he turned his back on it and hurried downtown, dodging along Wooster Street for several blocks, turning east and finally returning uptown again by way of Greene Street.

He slipped and twisted through the crowd—commuters hurrying for homeward-bound trains, errand boys, shoppers, together with that indefinite drifting mass of humanity which form the neutral background of New York. Abel Gissing
merged himself into this background without effort, for there was nothing in his slim body, his thin face and shadowed eyes to distinguish him from the hundreds of under-nourished men and women who washed to and fro, up and down the streets, like refuse drifting on the bosom of a great tidal wave.

Only the glint of terror in his eyes, the nervous tension of his body, the quick hiss of an indrawn breath as a passer-by jostled him roughly, set him definitely apart from the mob. Here was a hunted thing seeking sanctuary!

Coming to Bleecker Street for the third time, Gissing looked furtively about him, hesitated, crossed the street, recrossed it; then, abruptly making up his mind at last, he pushed open the door of a dim little shop, entered and closed it quickly behind him, and stared speechlessly at the man who rose to face him.

Isaac Volk grasped the situation with the intelligence of one who has long lived by his wits, and was accustomed to turn all kinds of situations, no matter how complicated, to his own advantage.

Here was a man in the last extremity of terror! Evidently he had something to get rid of, or he would not have sought refuge in a pawn-shop; obviously he wished to be rid of it immediately and would not stay for long argument or bargaining.

The Jew's eyes narrowed, every instinct in him alert and keen; here was a bird to his hand for the plucking, and his fingers itched for the job.

Danger? A fig for the danger! Isaac Volk had been cradled and bred in the very lap of hazard; for one does not trade with the underworld, or hobnob with poisoners, thieves and cutthroats without risk. Danger ... he had come to need the taste of it as a sailor craves the tang of salt on his lips, or as a desert wanderer desires limitless horizons. He put his dirty claw-like hands on the counter in front of him, leaned over it, and watched his visitor in silence.

Yellow gleams of light, from a flickering oil lamp hung from the low-raftered ceiling, half revealed and half concealed the faces of the two men as they stood frozen into immobility, distrust warring with utter panic on Abel Gissing's pallid features; greed, craft, and infinite patience puckering the sallow, dirt-begrimed visage of the Jew.

Suddenly, with a light nervous tread, Gissing crossed swiftly to the counter, and drew a packet from under his coat.

"Take it!" he said in a low shaking voice. "Take it! I've heard of you... I know you fear nothing—no one! Take it, and may you never—"

He broke off as the door-latch rattled violently, and, leaping over the low counter, he crouched down between it and
the wall, clutching Volk by the legs. A loud hoarse voice was audible from without, cursing the shop and everything in it, including the owner. Gissing rose with an audible sigh of relief.

"I thought it was... him!" he muttered.

Volk, meanwhile, was unwrapping the package, taking no notice at all of his client's behavior or of the noisy profanity which continued outside his locked door.

Removing the oilskin cover, Volk revealed a square box of sandalwood inset with ivory and carved about with Arabic lettering in relief. The "Hand of Fatima" was exquisitely cut where a keyhole might have been expected, and, turning this with eager exploring fingers, Volk found the box open in his hands, and even his hard eyes softened at sight of the treasure within.

He drew it forth deftly enough, holding the long shining string up to the light, and the blood coursed hot and quick in his veins as a man's might do after a draft of rare, long-mellowed wine.

"Rubies?"

"No," answered Gissing in a whisper, "Rose-emeralds! The Arabs call it the Wrath of Allah ... the Wrath of Allah! It has a history, that string of stones... too long to tell you all now. It came from the East, the far East, in ancient times... long before the Arabs got hold of it."

"And you... where did you pick it up?" asked Volk, his black eyes boring into the shifting eyes of his companion.

"From... from... North Africa... the desert."

"So!" responded Volk. "And the clasp?"

"I never discovered," said Gissing. "It's not part of the original string, of course. I've never seen a black stone like it before, it's cut in the shape of a camel because the stones belong now to a secret society called the Black Camels. My God!... the Black Camels!" was Gissing's despairing whisper.

Volk retired to the back of his den, and remained there for a long time, examining the jewels and testing them, while the other man waited muttering and shivering by the counter.

"They seem to be genuine," was Volk's verdict at last.

"Genuine!" Gissing's voice cracked on a high note of hysteria. "Would I go through hell for a string of glass beads?

They're worth more than you or any man in this city can pay. They're beyond all price! There's nothing like them in the whole world, I tell you! They date back to the days of Tyre and Sidon, and the period when the Phenicians built Tarshish, and owned silver mines in Spain. These stortes were brought by them from Syria, and passed from their keeping to king after king. Now they belong to the Black Camels and their leader—"

"Who is he?"

"No names— not even here! I see his face everywhere ... I hear his voice! He is a ruler in the desert... ruler of a terrible race in the desert. Their stronghold is a vast walled city, built of salt, and black with age. That string of stones was the glory of his people."

"But who are his people?" persisted the Jew.

"Touaregg Arabs... the scum of the desert... outlaws, murderers, robbers, bandits of every description, who have banded themselves together and call themselves the Black Camels because death walks ever at their side. The desert city is their headquarters, but their followers are everywhere. They are a very strong, very terrible secret society— followers of Zoroaster—fire-worshippers!"

Volk stared blankly and unbelievingly at this fantastic story. Silence fell in the little dusty shop. The owner of the voice outside had gone off with a last parting curse, and there was a lull in the roar of the traffic. Only the bubbling flicker of the lamp-flame overhead was audible.

"That clasp means danger... it is a symbol of death!" Gissing continued in a whisper. "Death to any one who violates the sanctuary of the jewels! Death to those who touch the Wrath of Allah with profane hands! Death to me... to you... to every one, I tell you!"

A wild laugh rose to Gissing's lips, but the Jew clapped a dirty hand over his mouth.

"Death for you, if you like! For me, I am not afraid of your Arabs and your secret societies. Besides— what has the desert to do with us here?"

"The Black Camel is death, I tell you! Does not death walk here as well as in the desert?"

"And how did you manage to get away with this?"

Gissing's eyes, which were fixed in unwilling, passionate admiration on the gleaming rose-red stones, darted fearfully toward his interlocutor.

"Don't ask me, man," he said heavily. "That's my business, not yours. I wish to God I'd never seen it, never heard of the Black Camels and their sacred jewels! Never seen an Arab— nor been near the desert! If only I could—"

"Stow that!" interrupted the Jew roughly. "I'll give you my own price for these stones as you—"

"Your price!" a note of contempt strengthened the other's voice. ''They're priceless... priceless! But yes—yes— take them," he added hurriedly, as a gust of wind rattled the crazy dwelling, hooting savagely through vents and holes in the roof and walls. ''Hide them quickly before I change my mind. To think of the long years I spent in the desert to get hold of those cursed jewels... death almost every step of the way... and now-"

"Now you don't want them."

"I'm afraid... afraid!" The husky voice sank to its lowest note. "The Black Camels are on my track. He has followed me... he's here in this city ... in this street perhaps. He is a devil—more awful than death itself. I dare not keep the stones. I dare not keep them... but... but—"

His hands went out to the wonderful shimmering length of jewels, each stone the glowing living heart of a rose—the very fire and essence of that perfect flower!

Isaac Volk dropped the jewels into the box, shut it, and wrapped the oilskin about it abruptly.

"Two thousand dollars," he said, his thin curved mouth closing over the words like a steel trap. "That'll take you a few miles from your Black Camels and all the rest of your fancy zoo, I reckon."

Gissing made no reply. As the shining rose jewels vanished from his sight, the last flicker of energy died out of him, and he collapsed amongst the greasy garments which hung against the wall behind the long counter.

The Jew brought a thimbleful of vile brandy and forced it down the other's throat; then he counted a roll of bills and gave it to Gissing.

"Better get out," Volk said. "I don't want any of your Camels in here— black or white! To say nothing of the cops. Come on now— out of this!"

Roughly assisting him, the Jew half carried, half pushed the unfortunate Gissing across the dusty room, drew back the bolt, and deftly deposited his visitor on the slimy uneven steps outside his door.

"Don't come near this place again," he warned. "What you've done, I don't know— or care. But don't bring your troubles here— that's all."

He re-entered his house, bolting the door on the inside again; and going straight to the box of sandalwood, he drew out the jewels, and sat down to examine them at leisure.

"Fellow was crazy, I guess!" he muttered at length. "I'd be hanged by my thumbs before I'd give them away like that. That yarn of his about the Black Camels! How the —— did he think that  up? What was he running from, anyhow? Black Camels— huh! This beauty"— and he touched the clasp— "is the only camel I'll have round here, I guess."

IT was rather more than twenty-four hours later when Gissing returned to the pawn-shop.

Midnight had passed, and although in more fashionable quarters the glare of lights, the whirring of cars, the hooting of many horns still continued, down in Bleecker Street a heavy leaden silence enveloped the dingy neighborhood. The endless rows of gray roofs, the dreary windows, the towering factories, the flyblown stores, the vast warehouses, the gaudy picture-houses, and the lots of waste ground littered with bricks and paper and timber, all these were cloaked in merciful shadow by a setting moon, whose slanting silver beams lent romance even to the unbeautiful environs of Bleecker Street.

Lights shone dimly here and there as Gissing hurried along, but the small square window of Isaac Volk's house was in darkness, and the door was uncompromisingly shut.

Gissing put out a cautious hand and lifted the rusty latch of the battered door, and to his amazement found that the bolt had not been drawn within. The door opened slowly inward as he pushed it from him, and, as he stood hesitating, the murky fetid atmosphere of the room within rose like an evil cloud to his face.

Very cautiously he stole inside, very softly he closed the door behind him, and stood listening intently, his eyes wide and strained, trying to pierce the inky evil-smelling darkness of the den. Gradually his heart slowed down, and he licked his dry lips and swallowed convulsively. He got out his torch and sent a slender pencil of light athwart the gloom, moving it across and across the dirty place as he grew bolder.

Suddenly the moving light was still, pointing at an obscure corner where Volk had stowed away an ancient four-post bed on which was piled some unspeakable bedding and a few mangy-looking fur coats.

Paralyzed by shock, Gissing held the light steady for an appreciable time, his eyes on the bold outline of a drawing sketched in black charcoal on the wall by the bed. It was the presentment of a camel— a black camel— which his torch revealed.

Not only that... there was something else... something at which Gissing stared and stared with dropped jaw and a cold sickness in his breast.

He began to back to the door at last, with a queer sobbing catch of his breath, afraid to turn his back on what he saw. When, with groping hand behind, his cold fingers touched the latch, he dashed down his torch, flung open the door, and, leaving it to swing to and fro in the night wind, he fled under the shadow of the iron roof of the "El" until he could run no farther.

He knew without shadow of a doubt who possessed the Wrath of Allah now! It was Buzak, ruler of El Zoonda— that Arab city in the desert, the stronghold of the terrible brethren of the Black Camels.

Buzak the White-footed One, so called because of his burned foot, the skin of which was permanently bleached and wrinkled by its injury.

Buzak, who had pursued over desert and plain, across cities and the broad ocean, until he had found his jewels again.

Gissing's hands stole trembling to his throat as he recalled the bloated, distorted features of Isaac Volk, as he had dangled dreadfully from his own rafters. Volk had died slowly— inch by inch— the breath squeezed out of his body by infinitesimal degrees— with many pauses between the torture that the victim's lungs might fill again. Yes! Volk had died many deaths that night, Gissing knew well.

The latter had lived long enough in El Zoonda to be horribly familiar with Buzak's methods: for there, protected by his clever disguise, his intimate knowledge of the ways and speech of the Arabs, and above all by his painful initiation to the membership of the Black Camels, he had witnessed many unforgettable crimes of the White-footed One.

And yet... yet the shimmering rose-red radiance of the lost jewels began to beckon him again—to shine like a false marsh-light luring him to destruction.

That incomparable loveliness... the light and warmth of the whole world was imprisoned in those stones!

He forgot Isaac Volk... he forgot past perils... he forgot the almost superhuman strength and cunning of Buzak his enemy.

He only remembered that Buzak had pursued him, had deprived him of a treasure he held dearer than life, and was bearing this treasure farther and farther away from him every passing minute.

Gissing's fear dropped from him like a cloak.

"I will track him as he tracked me," he resolved. "I will find him and kill him before he reaches his desert city, and the jewels shall be mine... mine once more."

ii

IT was a transformed Gissing who disembarked at Algiers and took train for a little white-walled city on the edge of the desert.

Transformed outwardly by a beard and spectacles, a tweed suit of remarkable design, gaiters, thick boots, and a greenish velour hat with a feather stuck in its band, he was the picture of an untravelled tourist from the land of Wagner and beer.

But inwardly the transformation was far more devastating. The whole character of the man was altered astoundingly from that of the Gissing who had skulked, shivering with fear, into that pawn-shop in Bleecker Street only three short weeks ago.

An alienist would have realized that here was a man whose reason tottered to a fall; a man obsessed and driven by a fixed idea; a man who had ceased to reflect or consider, and was rushing in blind hurrying circles toward the center of that whirlpool which would presently engulf him into its vortex of insanity and death.

His fear of Buzak was utterly swamped by the overmastering fury of desire which drove him like a demon. Blind, thwarted, sick desire which reached out to his lost treasure and burned up the obstacles in his way, as a devouting flame licks up wood and straw.

The following evening Gissing made his way through the high-walled tortuous ways of the city until he stood before a nail-studded door which was very familiar to him. He lifted its heavy iron knocker, and, after a short interval, the door was opened to him. There was a swift question, an answer, and an exclamation in joyous guttural Arabic, as the door was held wide open for Gissing to enter.

It was fully an hour before he reemerged, wrapped in a voluminous burnous with the hood drawn well down over his head and face, completely hiding the strange dress and mask he wore beneath. It was the Dress of Ceremony which every member of the Black Camels wore when assembling for any public function. At these meetings, brother disguised himself from brother as cautiously as from an enemy, and they were known to each other by numbers only. Even Buzak, the Arch-devil of them all, mingled with the lesser brethren as a number too, and no man could say what that number was.

Buzak alone held the key to each brother's identity, and that was why Gissing had skilfully altered the Arabic numerals sewn in silver thread on the veil he wore, and was now 901.

He had to risk the possibility of the genuine 901 being present at the gathering for which he was bound, but his whole life was now one gigantic risk— details did not worry him!

On and on he went through the evil- smelling labyrinthin native streets until he reached a dark tree-shaded avenue, and a massive iron gate set in a high white wall.

"The Black Camel walks swiftly," he said in Arabic, as a tall form approached, wrapped in a burnous like his own.

"Where does it walk?"

"Over the gray face of the desert," was Gissing's prompt reply.

The guardian of the gate waved him on, and in a few moments Gissing was unburdening himself of his heavy burnous, and stood in the rich black silk robes of his order.

Around him were dozens of similar figures, all in black, all wearing a head-dress in the likeness of a camel, all with a long black silk veil falling straighc from beneath the eyes to the hem of their robes, and on each veil was blazoned a silver number. Even voices were disguised, and Gissing, with the rest, spoke through a little mouthpiece which rendered speech curiously shrill and sibilant.

Gissing knew that Buzak was in the city, getting together men and camels and provisions for the long journey across the desert to El Zoonda. This fact had been easy to ascertain. And, as leader of the Black Camels, his enemy would almost certainly be present at this, the most important function of the year.

Gissing mixed freely with the crowd, so eager to find Buzak that he lost sight of the danger of meeting his own number face to face. How to discover Buzak? How to distinguish him in this mass of black-robed brethren?

In pairs, in groups, sometimes singly, the brethren were beginning to settle like a flock of blackbirds about the great domed hall, reclining on piles of soft cushions, or squatting cross-legged on wonderful silken rugs which were strewn over the mosaic floor. Incongruous enough they looked—somber macabre figures in the spacious brilliant place, with its white carven pillars and Moorish arches, its Oriental lavishness of color, its perfume of incense and attar of roses, and its general air of ease and voluptuousness.

Then luck— blind luck— led Gissing to sink down in a certain alcove. Several other brethren already sat there, exchanging remarks in the peculiar speech their mouthpieces produced.

One of the occupants of the alcove moved slightly to give the latest comer room, and in so doing, he dragged die robe of a man by his side, exposing the sandalled foot of his neighbor for a moment. It was only a fleeting glimpse that Gissing had, but it was enough. He recognized that foot, with its bleached wrinkled skin, puckered and drawn up like the hand of a washerwoman.

This was the White-footed One himself— Buzak the White-footed One who sat within reach of his hand! Gissing trembled with the shock of his sudden discovery, and for a moment the silver number on his enemy's veil wavered and melted dizzily before his eyes.

He fought the blind swimming sensation desperately, afraid that his good luck would vanish before he could take advantage of it, and that Buzak and his number would disappear like a mirage in the desert. Clenching his hands under the long loose sleeves of his robe, he forced himself to calm. Slowly the blood stopped pounding and rushing in his ears, slowly his vision cleared, and he saw the glittering number sharp and distinct once more.

"27."

Gissing leaned back heavily against a yielding mass of cushions and closed his eyes.

"I've got him!" he told himself, tremendous exultation surging up within him. "I've got him! I'll claim my privilige tonight, while the luck's with me... it can't fail me now! What luck... what staggering colossal luck ... in another hour the jewels... no, no ... I mustn't think of them yet."

"BRETHREN of the Black Camel!"

The strange sibilant twittering of many voices ceased abruptly, as brother 901 mounted a dozen steps to a dais at the cast end of the great hall, and stood outlined against a heavy saffron-hued brocade curtain.

"Brethren of the Black Camel!" Gissing's voice was audible, even in its disguise, from end to end of the room. "I claim a boon and a privilege at your hands."

"Speak, brother!" voices answered from every direction.

"Tonight in this place hath my face been blackened, and the greatest insult that one man can offer to another have I suffered. Only death can wipe out the memory of my shame."

"Speak further," commanded shrill voices.

"I overheard talk between two of the brethren here tonight, as I sat in the deep shadow behind a pillar. One brother boasted to another that he is my wife's lover, and he cast mud and filth on my name for an old half-witted fool, not able to guard his own treasure."

One of the brethren, an exceptionally tall man, stood up and hissed:

"Great wrong has been done thee. What boon dost thou crave at our hands?"

"The privilege of the Hunt!"

A babel broke out at these words. Rarely indeed was this deadly privilege demanded, and the thought of the grim spectacle they were to witness roused the primitive emotions of the Arabs to fever-heat.

The tall brother spoke again:

"It is thy right, brother 901. Hast thou well considered the penalty of thy failure— should thy aim be untrue?"

Gissing's inflamed imagination was incapable of dealing with failure or penalty, and he answered:

"I can not fail."

"Speak then, brother 901. Who is he thou wilt hunt in the darkness... who shall flee before thy wrath in the shadows of the night?"

"He who hath brought shame and dishonor on my house is number—27!"

"Brother 27— 27— 27!"

The cry went hissing from mouth to mouth, all the grotesque camel-heads turning and bobbing furiously, as each brother sought to identify the owner of the fatal number.

Then a wide lane opened to disclose number 27 standing in a little space apart, very still and quiet and ominous. Eager hands seized him, jostled him, pushed him until he was standing on the platform opposite his accuser.

Brother 27 was indeed cornered! Only a genius or a madman could have conceived such a plafi of checkmating him. As one of the brethren, even Buzak could not refuse the challenge of the Hunt, without breaking a most sacred and binding vow. To break his vows was to lose face irrevocably before the brethren, to lose prestige, and power, and ultimately leadership; and that also meant the end of him as ruler of El Zoonda, for the Black Camels were the power behind his throne and they alone kept the cruel inhuman chief safe in his own city.

The Hunt must proceed— and Buzak must creep like a jungle thing at the mercy of the Hunter, unless chance delivered him from his implacable foe.

Gissing laughed in his newly grown beard as he calmly stared at the black figure confronting him.

"What madness hath seized thee?" hissed a voice from beneath the veil of 27. "I spoke no word of thy wife—or of any woman."

"Wallahi! Thy memory is short as thy remaining life!"

" 'Tis thou shalt lie cold under the moon tonight," was the answer. "A hunted thing has teeth and claws!"

"Thou sayest well! Claws too long and sharp, therefore will I cut them for thee!" was Gissing's retort.

During this brief duologue all the silent-footed brethren had withdrawn, melting like Rakes of soot from the spacious hall, but their rapid speech could be heard from all sides where the deep balconies ran round the four walls.

The lights went out with the swift suddenness of a blow, and only a red crescent moon, high in the central dome of the splendid roof, shed a portentous glow on the scene. The tall brother— spokesman for the evening, and chosen for that office by purely arbitrary method —now joined the two on the platform.

"I will recite the Rule, Brethren of the Black Camel!" He presented a revolver to Gissing. "Thou—the Hunter—receive this weapon. May thy aim be true if thy cause is just. Swear now to shoot only at the signal of the bell... swear by the Sacred Fires of thy oath, brother 901!"

"By the Red Fire of Eblis,

By die White Fire of Sun, Moon, and Stars,

By the Fires of Love and Hate,

By the sacred undying Fire on the

Altar of Zoroaster—I swear!"

The spokesman turned to brother 27:

"This for thee, O Hunted One! This to warn the Hunter that his prey walks abroad to kill or be killed. Ring it when they dost hear my word of command. Swear now by thy oath to obey my voice!"

Brother 27 took the little brass bell from the tall Arab, and swore as Gissing had done.

"O Hunter!" went on the speaker, "only at the sound of the bell shalt thou shoot. Three times shall thy prey give warning of his nearness to thee... three times shall thy vengeance speak. But if thou dost fail to kill, then art thou proved a liar and accurst, and shalt die the death of the Seven Flames this night.

"O Hunted One!" continued the voice, "three times shalt thou sound thy bell at my word of command. May thy teeth and claws protect thee if thou an innocent!"

Taking Buzak by the arm, the spokesman led him to the west wall and withdrew, leaving the combatants facing each other across the length of the hall. In a brief time the voice sounded again from a balcony.

"The Moon sets! The Hunter and his prey are abroad in the darkness. Let the Hunt begin!"

The red crescent light blinked out, and the great hall was plunged into absolutely impenetrable darkness.

Time seemed to stand still. Not a whisper, not a breath was audible. The brethren might have been changed into black marble, so profoundly still were they, while in the hall below them death stalked on noiseless foot.

As Gissing moved forward, the scented air seemed to be roaring past his ears with the booming fury of a New England blizzard; fiery comets flashed and whizzed before his straining eyes as he stared and stared into the hot thick blackness. His head felt like a balloon blown up to bursting-point and filled with scorching air, while his feet were heavy and cold and dragged at his ankles like bags of wet sand.

"Give warning. Hunted One!"

The command was like an electric shock. A bell tinkled, a spurt of light was followed by a sharp report; then there was the sound of falling glass, and Gissing realized his shot had found its billet in one of the great mirrors panelling the walls.

Again the darkness of the Pit, the awful silence, the terrifying sound of his own heartbeats, and the click of his dry tongue in his mouth. For years and endless years it continued, this walking in a hot black world, where hands stretched out to seize him by the throat! The hands of the Strangler feeling in the dark for him... feeling... feeling!

"Give warning. Hunted One!"

Again the bell—again the flash and the report! Again the soft thick silence fell, while Hunter and Hunted moved blindly to and fro in hell.

Gissing's instinct, tuned to abnormal sensitivity by his maddened brain, held him still, with his back against the wall one outstretched hand had touched. He stood there like a thing of stone, while the centuries slipped past him; he stood and suffered there alone—most awfully alone—while around him all the souls whizzed past and were released from hell, while he must stay alone... alone!

"Give warning, Hunted One!"

The bell rang almost at Gissing's elbow, and his shot was followed by a fierce hiss of rage and the thud of a fall. Swift as light, he was at Buzak's side, feeling the inert helpless body, patting— probing—searching frantically! Ah!... here in the armpit was something! A jerk... another... and Gissing pulled a small chamois leather bag from under the broad bandage which had held it close to Buzak's body, and thrust it into his own girdle.

Then he ascertained with deft sure touch that his bullet had injured but not killed the Strangler, for the heart beat slow and strong. As the red moon glowed overhead once more, he dashed to meet the brethren, who were swarming back into the hall.

He ran like some swift fire in their midst, and with mad fury snatched off veil after veil from before the faces of the paralyzed brethren. His own, too, he tore off and trampled under foot, and as the unveiled began to shout and run and gesticulate as madly as Gissing himself, in a few seconds none could say who had begun the assault, for Gissing ran to and fro bewailing and crying out his unveiled state like the rest.

The confusion was appalling. Torn veils were picked up from the ground at random by the outraged brethren, each one seeking to cover his features, no matter how. Gissing, alone, chose his veil with an eye to the number he picked up, and that number was not 901!

He had fastened it securely, and stood quietly fingering that packet in his girdle, when suddenly the place was bathed in all the colors of a desert sunrise, as one tinted globe after another filled with light.

The spokesman came forward, and after ascertaining that brother 27 was wounded, but not killed, he accepted the situation with the true fatalism of the East, and took the most convenient way out of his predicament.

"This is the deed of some Shaitan [demon] who is amongst us tonight!" he said at last. "Who may strive against fate? It was written that we should be afflicted by this terrible devil... what is written, is written! Let us invoke the aid of the Mighty Ones, that this Shaitan shall be driven from our midst."

This idea diverted the braver of the brethren; but the majority were too shaken to linger under a roof which sheltered so evil a spirit, Gissing being among the latter, and with them he hastened to escape before worse ills befell.

iii

AND NOW that the marvelous jewels were in his hands once more, Gissing knew again the cold shadow of a monstrous fear.

Buzak still lived—and where, under the broad arch of heaven, was there a place of safety and peace for the man who had twice stolen from him the sacred Wrath of Allah?

Gissing's thoughts turned hungrily toward America— to his own place and his own people; but the threat of Isaac Volk's dangling body lay like a hideous shadow over that vast continent, darkening and blotting out his pictured return to his native land as fast as his longing painted it.

Gradually, after sleepless hours of torturing indecision, he realized that only the thought of the great mysterious desert brought any peace to his mind. The haunting loveliness of die silent wilderness attracted him more and more strongly, as his mind threshed everlastingly in red-hot circles whidi seemed always to bring him nearer and nearer to Buzak.

In the reaction from his late ordeal, following the three weeks planning and striving to regain the jewels, he now magnified his enemy's omnipotence, and his own danger, as passionately as he had recently ignored both.

At last, in burnous and sandals, his skin stained to a desert swarthiness, the blue littram of the Touaregg fastened over nose and mouth, he went down to the souk [market] to hear the latest news and gossip of the city.

"Maleish! Wouldst thou have me grow oranges the size of watermelons? Lo, these of my orchard are beyond praise! Like honey and dew they cool the parched throat, and—"

Gissing put a piece of money in the merchant's hand, and taking the oranges, dropped them into the hanging peak of his hood.

"A caravan?" he asked indifferently, jerking his head toward a busy group of men in a far corner of the market.

"Thou sayest," replied the merchant. "It is the Sheik Daouad el Wahab who returns to his tents in the Tueyk mountains."

"That is a far journey, by the prophets!" exclaimed Gissing.

"He hath bought him a new wife, for the first one is angry that she, having born him two sons, must yet do all the work of his household. She gives Daouad no peace, clamoring day and night!"

"So he will double his cause of unrest!"

"Wah! He becomes old and fat, and Kirfa, his first wife, doth not dip her tongue in honey."

"He starts now, this Sheik Daouad?"

"Even this night," replied the merchant. "But another and a greater caravan goes south ere the new moon rises."

Gissing's heart beat slow and heavy in his breast as he looked questioningly at his companion.

"This is not a good time for any caravan, small or great," he commented.

"By Allah, thou hast wisdom behind thy teeth. This caravan goes to El Zoonda."

"Buzak!" was Gissing's hoarse exclamation.

"Who else!" agreed the merchant.

"He goes in haste."

"Swift as the hot south wind when it blows across die desert. Moreover, he pursueth one who hath done him some evil turn."

Gissing wandered on through the souk, receiving confirmation and denial of the fruit-merchant's tale on every hand; the market buzzed with Buzak's name, but no two repons of him agreed.

At last he noticed a camel-driver watering his beasts, and from his unusual activity Gissing judged him to be one of Buzak's slaves; and, being far apart from the rest, the white man approached him with caution.

"Thou art in haste," he remarked.

"There is need," was the surly response; then, melting instantly as his willing fingers closed over a coin— "Buzak the Sheik will start at dawn."

"Whither, my brother?"

The slave hesitated, and another and larger coin was dropped into his hand.

"I will tell thee, because thou hast named me brother, who am but a slave beneath thy feet. Moreover, with thy gold, perchance I may yet win freedom."

"Speak, in Allah's name!" implored Gissing.

"The caravan will start at dawn, but Buzak the Sheik doth not ride forth with it! This is a thing I heard by chance, while I lay chained and forgotten in the courtyard— but it is the truth. Buzak, my master, will remain secretly in this city, that he may search for an enemy who hath done him great evil."

Gissing's red-rimmed bloodshot eyes looked long into the pock-marked wretched face of the slave.

"Thou dost swear, by Allah?"

"By Allah, and by Allah. May my bones rot in the wilderness, and jackals pick them if I lie! May my soul go down to Eblis, and Shaitans torment me forever if I hide the truth from thee. Moreover it is a white man who hath injured Buzak, one who speaks with the tongues of the desert, and is like us in all points. All this came to my cars as Buzak spoke with one—Hassan ibn Shesh. This Hassan is to lead the caravan to El Zoonda, and is to learn aught he can on the journey, if perchance Buzak's enemy hath already fled into the desert."

"Hassan ibn Shesh!" A new stab of fear went through Gissing, as he recalled the obscene mass of flesh and the very evil face of the owner of that name. This was Buzak's chief councillor, the court-jester extraordinary, whose business it was to administer fresh zest and amusement to life in El Zoonda by devising new and spectacular deaths for Buzak's victims.

Under the littram he wore, Gissing's face was distorted by his panic, and his impulse was to run... and run... and run! To get away from this city where Buzak was, to run blindly somewhere... anywhere ... at all costs to run!

Violently he restrained himself, and, with shaking hands, dropped a third piece of money into the slave's eager hand.

"Allah's peace be with thee!" he murmured hoarsely, and, turning from the well, he began to make his way unostentatiously to the caravan of Daouad el Wahab. Mechanically he threaded his way among the booths, and pyramids of red-gold oranges, to where the venerable Sheik in snowy turban, blue and scarlet burnous and gold slippers, sac peacefully directing his servants.

"Thou dost journey south, O Sheik?" asked Gissing, after the customary greeting.

"Even so," was the dignified response. "Who art thou, and why dost thou ask?"

"I am a physician— Fahd el Raschid— and would return in haste to Aufiz, where my wife lies sick. I came to this city for certain drugs and must journey swiftly back to her. I would pay thee well for thy company and protection, and for aught else thou dost demand."

The old Sheik deliberated in his long snowy beard, while Gissing's hands worked nervously under his sheltering sleeves. Lengthy argumenr and haggling followed, in which Gissing forced himself to take part with the zest proper to a born Arab, and the bargain was struck at last.

All the long hot hours until noon, Gissing sat in one of Daouad's tents, watching the souk, and especially that part of it where Buzak's caravan was preparing for its journey.

It was during the siesta that the shadow of the colossal bulk of Hassan ibn Shesh, councillor of El Zoonda, fell across the opening of the tent where Gissing sat.

Gissing looked directly up into Hassan's little black eyes, buried in rolls of flesh, and the shock of it steadied the whirling thoughts that were driving him insane. The need for action was a vast relief, and his distraught mind grew suddenly cold and clear. Drawing the knife at his girdle he plunged it again and again into the quivering flabby body of the councillor.

No outcry had disturbed the profound quiet of the hot noontide hour, and Gissing dragged the mountainous body into his tent without observation, and looked at it dispassionately.

For long he sat gravely considering his problem, his brain finding relief in the concentration necessary. Presently he let down the flap of his tent, and kneeling, began to dig furiously in the soft sand. All through the grilling hours of the afternoon he toiled, and the sun was setting red and tow in the west before he had accomplished his task.

Then he untied his tent flap, and sat once more in the opening— the sandy floor smooth under his feet—and of Hassan ibn Shesh there was no sign whatever. Gissing scarcely felt the terrible exhaustion of his body, for his brain burnt like a hot coal in his head, and his eyes stared glassily from under his twitching brows.

Darkness fell, and Daouad and his little retinue set out at last: the line of camels moving with protesting roars toward the south and the illimitable desert, and Gissing's hot fingers were clasped round a certain little chamois leather bag which hung suspended from a chain at his neck, as he watched the terraced lights of the white-walled city grow dim behind him.

IT was at dawn on the tenth day out that Daouad discovered the physician Fahd el Raschid was not in his tent, nor was his camel tethered with the rest. For as long as he dared delay on that weary waterless route, the old Sheik waited, while his slaves rode forth to discover some trace of the missing man. They searched in vain, however, and at last, very reluctantly, the old Sheik with his new wife and his slaves set out without the physician.

And far out over the wide-flung sea of sand, Gissing rode on and on, holding in his hands a rose-red shining string of beauty.

He was alone at last—alone with his treasure... that matchless splendor of ancient days. Here he could worship it... drink in its glowing life... feel the blood beat strongly within him once more as the terrible glorious thing he had won flashed in the sunlight.

His treasure... his life... his own! He rode on and on across the blinding sands— on and on by sunlight and starlight— on and on until neither food nor water remained, and his camel sank down to her knees and never rose again.

It was all one to Gissing. He huddled down against the dying beast, and smiled at his rose-red jewels and whispered hoarsely to his treasure.

He never felt the bitter night wind that blew through his very bones, for the flame at the heart of each perfect stone he held warmed him to the soul.

At dawn his rapid whispering voice failed, and the cold hands which held his jewels before his darkening vision dropped heavily to his sides.

Very cold and still sat Gissing, as the last pale stars glimmered and vanished— unable any more to sec the sun touch to life the dancing magic flames of the Wrath of Allah... for the shadow of the Black Camel was dark and heavy on his eyelids.

But the Wrath of Allah flashed and flashed again in the eye of the rising sun.

_______________

21: Gentlemen of the Jury

Fred Merrick White

1859-1935

The Warwick Examiner & Times, QLD, 11 May 1914

THE dim little courthouse was packed to suffocation. A dense mass of perspiring humanity sat there watching Archer Steadman being tried for his life. There were hundreds of people who knew him personally, they had chatted with him, shaken hands with him, asked him to their homes. They had applauded him in the cricket field, they had cheered his triumphant progress at football, Castleford had been proud of him. The sleepy old cathedral city had never produced a finer athlete. And Arthur Steadman was being tried for murder.

People remembered now that he had always been a 'bit of a waster.' His life was clean enough, but he really was a loafer. Old Gordon Steadman always said so, though he was good to his nephew in his own queer, eccentric way, and gave him some kind of allowance. Perhaps Archer had counted on dead men's shoes; certainly he had counted on having the old man's money some of these days, and there was a good deal of it, too. So Gordon Steadman had grumbled and paid till three months before when there had been a dispute over a betting account of the younger man's. And Gordon Steadman had had a perfect horror of betting. Archer had given him a promise as regarded that vice and he had broken his word.

Everybody had heard the story, of course. These things cannot be a secret in a small, cathedral city. There had been a final split, and Archer had been ordered out of his uncle's house. In future he could look to himself for his bread and cheese. He would have to earn his own living. And Archer had set out to do so fearlessly enough. At the end of a fortnight he was absolutely penniless, in debt to everybody; he was getting shabby and moody and discontented.

A week later and the startling discovery had been made that Gordon Steadman had been foully murdered in his own house in broad daylight at four o'clock in the afternoon. The victim's house was a rather lonely one on the outskirts of the town; it boasted a wonderful walled-in garden where the old man followed his favourite pursuit, the study of the ways and habits of wild birds. At the back of the house was a kind of garden-room with French windows opening on to a lawn and here Mr. Steadman passed most of the summer. At three o'clock on the day of the tragedy his housekeeper had taken him in a packet of films for photographic purposes, and at that time he had been writing at his desk. His keys lay on the table, and he had appeared to be busy. An hour later, when the housekeeper took in the usual cup of tea, she was horrified to find her master dead, his head shattered by a blow from some blunt instrument.

Whether there was anything missing nobody ever knew. Nothing appeared to have been stolen, for there were valuables in the desk. Mr. Steadman's cheque-book appeared to have vanished, but there was no significance in this, for it was just possible that at the time of his death Mr. Steadman was out of cheques altogether. The papers did not even mention the matter.

From the very first suspicion began to fasten itself on Archer Steadman. So far as it was possible to ascertain the old man had not had a single enemy in the world. There was no proof that robbery was the motive for the crime. Who, therefore could benefit by the tragedy but the dead man's nephew— and heir? Closely questioned, Archer denied that he had seen his uncle since the split. Yet he had money soon after the murder, and paid off several little loans. A day or two before and it could be proved that he had literally not one penny. Certain footmarks near the garden-room tallied exactly with the boots that he was wearing— indeed he had no other pair on the day of the crime. A witness had come forward and testified to the fact that he had seen Archer Steadman in the lane by the old man's house just after four on the day of the murder. And worse than all this, the wife of a butcher named Garvis had testified to the fact that she had cashed a cheque for fifty pounds for the prisoner that same afternoon shortly after five o'clock and that the cheque, drawn and endorsed in favour of 'self,' had been signed by Mr. Gordon Steadman. Mrs. Garvis kept her husband's books and managed his monetary affairs, and she spoke with authority. She had cashed the cheque and given the prisoner some twenty pounds in gold and the balance in three small cheques payable to various people named by the prisoner, who had no banking account of his own, and adopted this method of paying sundry creditors who resided at a distance. The cheques had been taken from a new cheque-book which the butcher, Garvis, had apparently obtained that very day from the local branch of the Capital and Allied Bank.

Verily the counsel for the Crown was piling up a terribly black case against the prisoner. By the time he had finished with his last witness it was felt by everybody listening there that the verdict was only a matter of time. And what chance had young Edgar Vavasour, the rising young Junior who defended the prisoner, against so powerful an opponent as Mr. George Geoffrey, K.C.? Vavasour was a local man which in itself was interesting; he was by way of being a friend of Archer Steadman's; they had been at school together. Ah, yes, it was a tremendously strong case to answer, but Vavasour's face showed hope and courage as he took one witness after another in hand. It was the old housekeeper to the murdered man that seemed to attract his attention first.

"I'd like to ask you few questions," he said. "Now, you told the Court a little time ago that on the day of the murder you took into the garden-room about three o'clock a packet of films. I understand that Mr. Gordon Steadman was an expert photographer?

"He was, sir. Birds and animals and such like."

"Precisely. All this is common knowledge. Most people here are aware of the fact that Mr. Steadman's photographs were quite popular with certain periodicals. He had a special camera built for the purpose. Was that camera standing in the window on the day of the murder?"

"Yes, sir. It frequently stood there. My master placed it there, and from the camera there was a silken cord attached at the other end to a kind of trap arrangement in which food for birds was placed. My master frequently explained this to me."

"Quite so. And the weight of the bird depressed the cord and released the shutter of the camera, thus registering a snap photograph. Am I to understand that?"

"Yes, sir, if you please. Just that. It was all so simple that a child could understand it."

What was young Vavasour driving at, every body wondered. Why was he imparting this extraordinary air of mystery into the case? And why did he look so gravely self-satisfied? Everybody there was prepared for some tremendous dramatic surprise.

"We will let that pass for the moment," Vavasour went on. "You have proved to us what the camera can do, and we will come back to this part presently. At four o'clock on the day of the murder you returned to the garden room and found your master dead. I am not going to ask any questions as to that. You have told us, and the police have proved to us, that there was no evidence of a struggle, practically nothing had been disturbed. Now was everything exactly in its proper place? Just think? Are you sure that nothing had been overturned?"

The witness hesitated for a moment, her mind apparently moving slowly. A tense, rigid silence gripped the court. It was impossible to believe that Vavasour was asking these questions out of sheer curiosity. Even the prisoner had lost his white, apathetic indifference, and his eyes grew dark. The pencils of the reporters were flying across the pages of their notebooks. The crime was what they called a 'popular' one, and they scented a new sensation for the morrow.

"Think carefully before you speak," Vavasour's voice came warningly.

"I'm trying to, sir," the old woman faltered. "The only thing I can think of is the camera. It had been knocked off the stand and lay on the floor. But anything might have done that, you see, standing as it did on a three-legged arrangement—"

"Stop, stop," Vavasour interrupted. "I don't want any explanation or arguments. The camera was upset. Did you let it lie there or did you pick it up?"

"I let it lie there for the time, sir. I was too frightened to do anything. After the police came and I told them all I knew I did tidy up a bit. Matter of habit, sir. I picked up the camera and put it back in its stand. And it's in the garden room now."

"I know it is," Vavasour said quietly. "It was too trifling a matter to attract the attention of the police. But trifles, my lord and gentlemen of the jury, if I may address you for an instant, hang men and set them free. I may state that I have seen the camera, and being something of an expert it gave me an idea. Whether or not there is anything in that idea will be seen to-morrow. I found that certain films in the camera had been exposed, and I took the liberty of having them removed under the eyes of the police. They have gone to London to be developed, and will be in my hands to-morrow. Whether or not they will help me in my case remains to be proved. I think they will. That will do."

The aged witness shuffled away, glad to hide herself in an obscure corner of the court. For a moment at any rate the sensation was at an end. Whether or not it would crop up to-morrow was the question. Everybody was on the tip-toe of expectation now. In a milder form the curiosity was renewed a little later on, when Vavasour developed a bitter cross-examination of the butcher's wife, Mary Garvis.

"I am sorry to make myself objectionable," he said, "but in the interests of my client I must put certain points to you. Your husband happens to be on the jury?"

"He does, sir?" the woman said. "He's not a witness in the case."

"That will do, please. I need no comments. Have you had any money troubles lately? I put it to you that your husband is being sorely pressed by his creditors."

Counsel for the Crown protested. The Judge murmured disapproval. Vavasour stood there erect and rigid.

"I regret the necessity, my Lord," he said. "But in the interests of justice I must ask these questions. I pledge my word that they are necessary. Now, madam, answer me."

"We have been unfortunate lately, if that's what you mean," she said, sullenly.

"Precisely. Writs and county court proceedings and lawyers' letters."

The woman nodded. It seemed strange that she should have been there making these admissions with her husband scowling in the jury box. But what had all this to do with the case against the prisoner? Once more the court swayed with curious excitement.

"I have done for the moment," Vavasour said. "It is now 6 o'clock, my Lord. May I suggest respectfully that the case stand adjourned at this point till to-morrow?"

The prisoner seemed to come out of a waking dream. For some time he had been hardly conscious of what was going on around him. The suggestion of calmness and callous indifference was more due to his dazed condition than anything else. He had been trying to reconcile the actual with the incredible. It was all coming back to him now; his mind began to work again. He was going over the events of the past half-hour in his thawed brain. What was Vavasour driving at? Why had he made so much of that camera business? And what in the name of fortune had the butcher Garvis to do with the case. To inquire into the man's finances seemed to be an impertinence. And yet, with it all, there was a suggestion of calmness and strength about Vavasour that had impressed a good many people besides the prisoner. The judge turned towards him.

"Very well," he said. "I take it that counsel is well advised in this course. In the interests of the prisoner the court is adjourned until 10 o'clock to-morrow morning."

The packed spectators fought their way into the street; the prisoner was hustled down below and back to his cell again. He was not left long to his reflections. Within an hour he was summoned by a warder to meet his solicitor and counsel in consultation. Vavasour held out a friendly hand. His face was a little stern and hard, yet there was a suggestion of a smile in his eyes.

"Did you follow me carefully this afternoon?" he asked.

"It came to me afterwards," Steadman said. "One's mind gets numbed, you know. It was all so much Greek to me, Vavasour. If there was anything in it—"

"My dear fellow, there is a great deal in it. As an absolutely innocent man—"

"It is very good of you to say that," Steadman murmured gratefully.

"But you are. And I am going to prove it to-morrow. At least I think so. At any rate I am going to seriously compromise somebody else. The sensation-mongers are going to have a rare treat. Quite like a scene in a melodrama. But you had better tell the truth— you have been an arrant fool to conceal it for so long. Why did you deny the fact that you saw your uncle the day of his death, and not long before the murder? You must have known that the story of the cheque you changed would reach the ears of the police."

"I was a fool," Steadman confessed. "I lost my head. I saw that the police suspected me, and I lied. Just for the moment I had clean forgotten all about the cheque. A sheer case of funk. Had I been quite candid I should probably be a free man at this moment. I did see my uncle. Mind you, I didn't go to the house on purpose. He had a litter of pups that I was interested in. I sneaked through the fence, and he happened to see me. He called me into the garden room, and we talked. He was very hard and bitter, but just a little sorry for me all the same. For the last time he was prepared to help me on condition that I left Castleford and went abroad. If I did that he would give me fifty pounds, and perhaps more later on if I could justify it. He had just drawn a cheque for fifty pounds, as was his custom on the fifteenth of every month, and on the spur of the moment he handed it over to me. I wasn't in the house more than ten minutes altogether. I accepted the offer, especially as I had one or two pressing debts of honour. It seemed to me that about fifteen pounds would suffice to get over to Canada. And— and that's all."

"Um. You are willing to let me say this in court?" Vavasour asked.

"Certainly, if you think it will do any good. I should like to know—"

"Yes, I dare say you would. But not just yet. Besides, it's a mistake to promise too much."

Apparently there was no more to be said for the moment, and the conference ended.

IF POSSIBLE the court was still more crowded next morning when the case commenced. The prosecution had finished its case, and for the most part Steadman was regarded as a doomed man. How could Vavasour clear away the impression that had been formed in the minds of the jury?

Yet he smiled with a certain suggestion of triumph as he rose to open the defence. It was a most unusual case, he said, and he craved the indulgence of the court to treat it in an unusual way. He proposed to call a very few witnesses, indeed those he should call for the most part had already given their testimony, on behalf of the Crown.

"I shall call the prisoner," he said. "He will tell the truth. He has behaved foolishly. He lost his head and prevaricated. He did see his uncle and did get that cheque from him. He will tell you why he acted so foolishly. But I shall prove that the murderer came along after; I shall prove this by the evidence of the camera. I am going to produce a portion of the murderer's photograph."

A cry of astonishment rang out from one end of the court to the other.

'"The murderer came by way of the garden," Vavasour went on. "He was facing the garden room as he tripped over the cord by which the photographic shutter was operated. It occurred to me that the camera held evidence, and I had the negatives developed. I am somewhat surprised that the idea did not occur to the police. For the negatives are evidence of the first importance. The murderer came by way of the garden so that he should not be seen. He knocked over the camera on his way, but the shutter worked, and I have the photograph. I propose to put the photographer who developed these negatives in the box. The police know the whole story. The criminal murdered Mr. Steadman to get possession of a cheque he had drawn. The murderer was desperately in need of money, and perhaps tried to borrow it from Mr. Steadman. I have the photograph in my hand. It represents a man with thick hair and beard and the unfortunate possessor of a pronounced hare-lip."

Again the shout of amazement went up. Every eye was turned on the jury-box, where Garvis, the butcher, sat with his colleagues. The description fitted him exactly.

"The murderer is there," Vavasour cried. "In the jury-box. Here is his photograph. In his flight he took Mr. Steadman's cheque-book. Not knowing what to do with it he put it in his safe. And then very soon after his wife found it. When the prisoner came to change his cheque and get others for it, Mrs. Garvis took up the wrong book and filled the cheques in out of that. Doubtless the cheque-book has been destroyed by now, but the fact remains, and the bank officials can prove beyond a doubt that Garvis has been using cheques issued by them to Mr. Steadman. I tried to prove motive yesterday when I elicited the fact that Garvis was in desperate financial straits. If my methods are somewhat unusual, my lord, you will bear with me, for this is an unusual case. So long as the man I accuse is in the jury-box the trial cannot go on. If the innocence of my client—"

Once more the ringing cry went up. The man with the hare-lip climbed over the ledge of the jury-box and stood white, partly defiant on the floor of the court. He yelled something that could not be heard, he clapped his hands to his mouth. A police officer darted forward, but too late. With a groan Garvis staggered forward and collapsed on the floor. Someone called for a doctor, there was a tense rigid silence, and the whisper went round the court that the thing was finished.

"He is dead, my lord," Vavasour said solemnly. "He has poisoned himself. The murderer himself has come forward and proved my case."

________________

Index to Past Masters Nos 61-65

The "Author Index" to Issues 1-60 has now been uploaded separately.

Achmed Abdullah

The Mystery of the Talking Idols 63

Anonymous

The Diamond Necklace 62

The Great Auk's Egg Affair 61

The Ruins of the Abbey of Fitz-Martin 64

Francis Henry Atkins

The Lay Figure  63

John Arthur Barry

The Mystery of the "Mountain Maid"  64

Frederick R. Bechdolt

Before Michael Came  63

L. Adams Beck

The Interpreter (novelette) 62

H. Bedford-Jones

Death Gave Him His Chance  63

J. J. Bell

The Price of a House  63

"Sir William"  61

E. F. Benson

Negotium Perambulans  64

Christopher B. Booth

Mr Clackworthy Collects 63

Mr Clackworthy Gets His Tonic 64

Mr Clackworthy Sells Short  63

Solly's Last Forgery 64

When Mr. Clackworthy Needed a Bracer 64

B. M. Bower

The Ghost in the Red Shirt  63

Max Brand

Five Minutes to Twelve 61

Honor Bright 64

Lion Heart 61

Percy James Brebner

Cat or Devil 65

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

Anna Alice Chapin

Through the Dragon's Valley  63

The Scales of Time 63

G.K. Chesterton

The Sword of Wood 65

Peter Cheyney

Cocktail For Cupid 65

Dance Without Music  64

Sylvanus Cobb, Jun.

The Bottomless Jug  64

J. J. Connington

After Death the Doctor 63

Richard Dowling

The Going Out of Alessandro Pozzone 62

Edward Dyson

A Golden Shanty 65

The Third Chair 65

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Three Hours Between Planes 65

Ford Madox Ford

Riesenberg 61

Andrew Forrester Jr.

Arrested on Suspicion 61

Robert Edward Francillon

A Circumstantial Puzzle 62

R. Austin Freeman & Clifford Piers

By the Black Deep  64

Arthur Gask

Strychnine for Village Dogs 62

Theophile Gautier

The Mummy's Foot 62

George Gilbert

In Maulmain Fever-Ward  63

Charlotte Perkins Gilman

The Yellow Wallpaper  64

Why I wrote "The Yellow Wallpaper" 64

Guy Gilpatric

The Homestretch 61

Where Early Fa's the Dew 65

Frederick Graves

White Flame  62

Fred V Green

Markham's New Partner 65

Beatrice Heron-Maxwell

The Outcast 65

Headon Hill

The "Artemis" Mystery 65

The Bank Clerk's Love Story 65

The Dining-Car Clue 65

Limping Justice 65

Val Jameson

"Burglin' ain't the game it was" 61

Otis Adelbert Kline

Stolen Centuries 65

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

Julia Magruder

The Secret of the White Castle 65

Huan Mee

The Russian Cipher 65

William Henry Moberley

The Great Valdez Sapphire 63

F. Frankfort Moore

Joan Dark 65

Edith M Nesbit

In the Dark 64

Man-Size in Marble  65

Number 17    61

Fitz-James O'Brien

The Wondersmith  64

Vincent O'Sullivan

The Business of Madame Jahn  64

Thomas Nelson Page

What was the Lady's Choice? 62

Max Pemberton

The Devil To Pay 63

G. G. Pendarves

The Black Camel  65

Ernest M Poate

A Person from the Police 63

William Le Queux

The Faith of Men 62

The Story of the Chief of Police 61

Walter Ripperger

The Cardboard Clue 62

Andrew Soutar

Bluebeard 63

Emile C Tepperman

Coffin Cache 63

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

Fred Merrick White

Early Closing Day  64

Gentlemen of the Jury  65

Victor L. Whitechurch

The Convict's Revenge  61

How the Captain Tracked a German Spy 61

In a Tight Fix 61

Raoul Whitfield

The Great Black 65

Mary E Wilkins

The Shadows on the Wall  64

______________

Table of Contents

- 1: The Sword of Wood / G.K. Chesterton
- 2: Cocktail For Cupid / Peter Cheyney
- 3: The Russian Cipher / Huan Mee
- 4: Man-Size in Marble / Edith Nesbit

- 5: Three Hours Between Planes / F. Scott Fitzgerald

- 6: A Golden Shanty / Edward Dyson
- 7: The Third Chair / Edward Dyson
- 8: The Great Black / Raoul Whitfield
- 9: Where Early Fa's the Dew / Guy Gilpatric

- 10: The Bank Clerk's Love Story / Headon Hill

- 11: The "Artemis" Mystery / Headon Hill
- 12: Limping Justice / Headon Hill
- 13: The Dining-Car Clue / Headon Hill
- 14: Cat or Devil / Percy James Brebner
- Unnamed
- 16: Joan Dark / F. Frankfort Moore
- 17: Markham's New Partner / Fred V Green

- 18: The Secret of the White Castle / Julia Magruder

- 19: Stolen Centuries / Otis Adelbert Kline

- 20: The Black Camel / G. G. Pendarves

- 21: Gentlemen of the Jury / Fred Merrick White

- Cumulative index 61-65