Past Masters Sixty Six
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: A motley assortment of pulp magazine and newspaper fiction, plus a touch of classics. The last, and longest story, over 30,000 words, is an example of the traditional 1920s British thriller in full cry; sinister gang who meet in secret conclave wearing masks; beautiful girl in mortal peril; love at first sight, and galloping pace. 1: The Luggage in the Hall / E. M. Delafield 2: A Literary Secret / Percy James Brebner 3: Taken By Surprise / F. Anstey 4: The Purple Terror / Fred Merrick White 5: The Artificial Honeymoon / H Bedford-Jones 6: The Great Stone Face / Nathaniel Hawthorne 7: Black Lig

PAST MASTERS

SIXTY-SIX

February 27, 2022

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: The Luggage in the Hall / E. M. Delafield

2: A Literary Secret / Percy James Brebner

3: Taken By Surprise / F. Anstey

4: The Purple Terror / Fred Merrick White

5: The Artificial Honeymoon / H Bedford-Jones

6: The Great Stone Face / Nathaniel Hawthorne

7: Black Light / Henry Leverage

8: The Crimp / Henry Leverage

9: Birthday Present / Thorne Smith

10: The Glasgow Phantom / Guy Gilpatric

11: Rejuvenation / Arthur Gask

12: Scarsley Moor Mystery / Percy J. Brebner

13: The London Guillotine / L C Douthwaite

Cumulative Index numbers 61-66

____________________

1: The Luggage in the Hall

E. M. Delafield

(Edmée Elizabeth Monica Dashwood) 1890-1943

Observer (Adelaide) 25 Dec 1926

[The Story-teller, July/August 1926]

JULIA DESPARD was the only one of his friends whom Bertie Helston felt to be quite disinterested in her advice.

Almost all the women whom he knew well— and Bertie was the kind of man who either knew a woman very well indeed, or else didn't know her at all— every one of them, told him that he ought to marry.

Since leaving India Bertie had been compelled to realize that in England unmarried men of means, tall and not ill-looking, good at games, fond of dancing, and not much over forty years old, are at least as rare as the dodo, the goa, the roc, or any other extinct animal known to the exponents of crossword puzzles.

In the East, where Bertie had done admirable work for 25 years, his bachelordom had not been at all remarkable. Most of the men with whom he had been associated there had been bachelors, or else their wives had been with the children at home, and they had behaved as though they were bachelors.

But here in Ashbridge!

Everybody he knew said, "You really ought to marry," and everybody he knew possessed an unmarried sister, or sisters, an unmarried daughter, or daughters, or sisters-in-law, and "hundreds of unmarried, lively, wistful, visiting girl friends of rather more than girl age.

It was really impossible for Bertie, although a reasonably modest man, to suppose that all these advisers were entirely actuated by a pure and altruistic desire for his greater happiness only.

But Mrs. Despard he did quite feel to be disinterested.

Up till last month she and her husband had been still in India, and for the past four years Julia's reiterated advice to Bertie had been transmitted through the medium of an occasional mail letter only.

He could give her full credit for the sincerity and the friendliness of her intentions.

There were times even when, rejecting upon his ingenuous friend, on  rereading her letters before destroying them, Bertie Helston almost felt that she was right.

He might be happier married.

He liked his house at Ashbridge, but a woman— the right woman— might lend it additional charm.

It was a pretty house, and extremely comfortable, quite deserving of the encomiums of ttie house agents— "Electric light, constant hot water, and every modern convenience."

At the back of the house was a garden, with trees to screen it from the neighbouring enclosures, and there was even a tennis court. It had a garage to accoimmodate the smart little two-seater in which Bertie went up to town every morning to his London office and returned every evening. In fact, as quite a number of his visitors said— always with an air of rather daring originality— there was everything except a lady of the house.

"I shall never marry now. I'm past the dangerous age," Bertie declared, with perhaps rather more confidence than he felt.

"Wait till George and I come home. We'll find you a wife," wrote Julia Despard. "And when you see how happy we are you won't be content to remain a lonely bachelor."

He knew that George Despard's marriage had been a very happy one. When Julia had first come out, as a bride, to India, they had shared Bertie's bungalow until their own was built. She had not in the slightest degree interfered in his friendship with old George. Indeed, after a short time. Julia and he had formed a close friendship of their own.

Had Bertie Helston been some years younger than he was when he first knew Julia, it would have been to her that he would have confided his various affairs— for he had had at least half a dozen, two of them serious for the woman, and one of them serious for himself. But Bertie even then had been too old a hand for confidence. And it was one of the things he most liked about Julia, that she had never sought them.

She was simply a dear.

If Julia Despard had not been the wife of his best and oldest friend, he might even have fallen in love with her.

Like nine men out of every ten, Bertie was extremely constant to a definite physical type, and it happened to be one to which Mrs. Despard in those days had very nearly conformed.

He was attracted by a slim, upright carriage, hair inclined to any shade of auburn, the peculiarity of allure that in was called dashing, and a subtle but decided conformity in areas and coiffure to the very latest fashion.

Julia Despard, when he had last seen her, waving to him from the docks as he took his final departure from Bombay, had been of this type, save that she could never be described as "dashing."

He wondered whether, in five years, she had changed a great deal.

Five years was too long a stretch for; any woman to stay out East, and she had had three babies.

Bertie was glad to think that the Despards now were coming home for good. They were to arrive in a very few days. Bertie had engaged rooms for tbera at one of the smaller, less expensive hotels in Kensington.

A final, ecstatic letter from Julia, posted at Marseilles, had just reached him.

"We are coming all the way round by sea, as I can't face the long overland journey with the three mites and Ayah, and they say we shall reach Tilbury at about 8 o'clock on Saturday next. I'm simply too excited for words! I shall take the children straight to our hotel and settle them in, and you may count on my ringing you up in the afternoon. George, of course, will have to report to the firm, and both he and I have the usual arrears to make up with doctors, and dentists, and shopping. However, I don't feel I mind anything, now we're so nearly home for good. When I think of die poor souls who have to leave their babies in England, or else send their men back alone, I feel we've been too lucky for words.

"It will be nice to see you again and to show you the children, and hear all your news. Thank you very, very much for taking so much trouble about the rooms. Perhaps, after all, it's been lucky for us that 'Mrs. Bertie' hasn't materialised yet, or you wouldn't have had so much time to devote to our concerns! But just wait till you see what the ideal home of people who are as happily married as George and I are can be like. You, of all people, dear old Bertie, could make some nice, sweet girl just as happy as George makes me."

Certainly Julia was an incurable sentimentalist. Bertie, faintly but net unpleasantly cynical, doubted no more than any other self-respecting bachelor doubts, his complete ability to make any nice, sweet girl reasonably happy. What he did doubt was whether any nice, sweet girl could do as much for him. He looked round his comfortable sitting room. An excellent after-dinner cup of coffee stood on a little table beside his own large brown leather armchair, drawn close up before a blazing log fire.

His pipe rack was within reach of his hand, so was his tobacco jar, so was the shelf on which stood a thoroughly representative medley of his favourite books. (Handley Cross, "Decameron" of Boccaccio, a novel by Elinor Glyn, one by W. J. Locke, a volume of the Badminton series, half a dozen copies of Blackwood's Magazine, and a number of books on sport or travel in the East).

Two adoring dogs, that lived only for the hour of Bertie's return from the office every day, provided him with all the company that he required.

Little Bangs, the terrier, lay curled up on his knees, and Susan, the spaniel, slept with her nose resting against nis foot.

The black cat, Salammbo, prowled quietly about the room, every now and then rubbing against Bertie's leg with loud, affectionate purrings.

There was not another sound to disturb the comfortable quiet, but Bertie knew that in the back premises the admirable Browns, experienced cook and efficient house-parlourmaid, were taking all the necessary steps to ensure his having the minimum of trouble, as well as the maximum of comfort, witn regard to rood, drink, warmth, and repose throughout the next 24 hours.

The Browns were treasures, although expensive treasures. Bertie had more than a suspicion, however, that no money could have purchased them for any establishment other than a bachelor one.

He read Julia Despard's letter again, smiling at the characteristic phraseology of it, and wondered whether it was of design that she had made not a single allusion to Ivy Abbott. If so, that was rather subtle of Julia.

Three months ago she had written and asked him to call upon her cousins, the Abotts, newly arrived in Ashbridge.

Since then he had seen them very, very often, especially Ivy, the daughter of the house. They had motored together, played.golf together, been to the theatre together, and, now that summer was coming, they were planning to enter the Ashbridge tennis tournament together.

Ivy Abbott was 28, although she looked a good deal less, and was just sufficiently sophisticated for Bertie's taste.

She rouged becomingly, had had her red-brown hair smartly shingled at least six months before anybody else in Ashbridge, and was a beautiful and indefatigable dancer. She was always well dressed, and knew exactly what best suited her slim, flat, upright, boyishness of outline.

Her conversation was stimulating and amusing, and there was nothing that she was afraid to say.

Bertie Helston knew himself to be strongly attracted by her, and she had certainly given him every reason to suppose that the attraction was mutual.

It would not, if it ever came to any thing, be an affair of all- for- love- and- the -world -well -lost, but then Bertie was not looking for romance, and neither was Ivy Abbott.

Most probably she was not even looking for a husband, since she was young and of a type to attract men easily.

Strangely enough, this added to her charm. Julia Despard, that kindhearted and transparent matchmaker, had certainly not been without design in sending  Bertie to call upon the Abbotts. It was but further proof of her innocent artfulness that Bhe had never so much as written in any subsequent letter:—

"What do you think of my cousin. Ivy Abbott?"

Perhaps she believed that she could answer the question herself.

"Which is more than I can do. Bangs, old chap," Bertie muttered confidentially to the terrier.

All the same, he knew that he had never been so near to marriage since the frenzied hour, dead and all but forgotten these 20 years, when he had proposed, on board a P. and O., to a pretty missionary woman seven years his senior. A missionary— and then Ivy Abbott!

He drew his chair rather closer to the fire, smiling reminiscently.

ii

THE DESPARDS asked Bertie to dine at their hotel with them on their very first night in England. Julia Deepard rang him up on the telephone. It was delightful of her to be in such a hurry, but when the telephone bell rang Bertie was standing beside bis own Bechstein, looking at, rather than listening to. Ivy Abbott playing revue selections, and he unhesitatingly cursed the insistent clamour of the telephone.

"Hallo—hallo—who is it? Can't hear a word. No—don't stop. Ivy—please—it can't be any one "

She laughed and stopped playing.

"Mrs. Who? Oh— oh. I say! Mrs. Despard— I couldn't catch the name. Hallo, Julia, this is simply splendid! How are you— how's old George— how are the kids ? That's good.... I say, it's splendid to hear your voice again— I bet you haven't altered.... Nonsense. I'm longing to see them, and you too.... That's awfully kind "of you, but are you really sure you want me to-night? Don't you want to— to unpack or something?... Oh, I'd simply lore it, of course. Yes.... Oh, thanks— what's that?... Yes..."

Ivy had disturbingly risen from the piano and was at his elbow, her auburn air touching his shoulder, and her white hand extended for the receiver.

"Wait and see."

He tried to hold Ivy off with tne hand, acutely conscious of the sex appeal that she always contrived to diffuse.

"Your little—  Here, wait a minute, exchange— I've not finished yet. Yes, another three minutes."

"I want to speak to Julia myself. Let go this minute, Bertie."

"I won't. Go back to your place like a good girl, and I'll ask her if— "

What is happening?" came Julia's voice, plaintively over the wires. "Are you still there, Bertie?"

"Yes, I am— oh, confound this— you really are a little devil "

Ivy had succeeded in deftly wrenching the receiver out of his hands and he was forced to yield his place to her.

Half-rueful, and half-laughing Bertie shook his fist at her, and retired from her pre-eminently disturbing proximity.

"Hallo, old thing—that really you?" Ivy's voice was always light and marking and superlatively cool. "Don't you know.... Yes, of course it's Ivy. I always come in and mix him a cocktail or two on Saturday afternoons, when he hasn't got to go to the office, you know. It's the only way of seeing he doesn't drink too many."

She shot a glance at him sideways out of her laughing, impudent, red-brown eyes between faintly darkened-thick lashes.

"How sweet of you, Jul But I should be frightfully in the way, I know— you'll want to talk about old times, and all that..... No, realy, Ju, I don't think I'll come."

"Why not," Bertie murmured. "Is that to-night, for dinner? Be a sport, Ivy, and say you'll go. I'll run you up."

"Dear old thing, I'll come another time, may I?" Ivy immediately said with great sweetness to the telephone. "Yes, do write. I'm frightfully full up next week, I know, but I'm going to a show one night that I could easily chuck "

"No, by Jove, you don't!" ejaculated Bertie, with whom she had promised to do a theatre in town on the following Wednesday.

Ivy opened her eyes at him very wide. "Good-bye!" she called. "Bertie's simply wild with excitement, Julia. I can see you're an old flame of his."

Then she rang off and calmly faced the indignant Bertie.

"What is the matter?"

"Look here, you wretched kid, why couldn't you say you'd go round there tonight? I could have taken you, and sceuj you borne again. And what's all that about chucking the show on Wednesday?"

"But I didn't say anything about Wedneeday, did I? Do you think you're the  only person I have engagements with?"

She burst out laughing at his disconcerted expression.

"One more cocktail and then I must go."

He gave her the cocktail.

"Play some more first— do—"

He wanted to detain her, although he scarcely knew why.

When she began to play again, instead of jazz-time Ivy Abbott suddenly broke into a trois-temps that had been fashionable four or five years earlier. It took Bertie Helston back, with a sudden rush, to the club at the Indian hill Btation where he had spent his last leave before coming home. He had danced to that tune with Julia Despard. The combined influence of the cocktails, the already oldfashioned lilt of the valse, the provocativeness of Ivy and the echo of Julia's voice over the telephone, produced in Bertie Helston an agreeable, reminiscent sentimentality that he did not attempt to combat.

He dropped back into his armchair again and luxuriously gave himself up to his drifting thoughts.

It would be rather nice to see Julia again. Ivy reminded him of her cousin sometimes, but she had the spice of devilment in her that Julia had always lacked. Though, perhaps, if Julia hadn't been so ridiculously in love with her own husband

Bertie smiled to himself.

When all was said and done, old George was one of the best, and one rather loved Julia for the charming, old-fashioned naivete of her wifely devotion. How pretty she'd looked that night at the club; he hoped she hadn't changed much. Certainly, judging by her letters she was just the same simple, enthusiastic, affectionate spirit.

George Despard had been in luck when he married Julia.

The valse slipped into a mirror key, and engendered in Bertie a sensation of melancholy but still pleasing self-pity.

He was a lonely beggar. Julia and all of them were right. A home wasn't a home without a wife and children. There was some point in George Dcspard's buying a house, and shoving furniture into it, and making the garden nice— thcre'd be a pretty woman to receive his friends, and children to enjoy the flowers, and to run races round the lawn— but it was all rather pointless for a man who had no one to come after him.

Bertie heaved an enormous sigh, and the musie stopped. i

"I'll have to fly," said Ivy.

She caught up her tiny, absurd little hat that looked like a round tapestry mosaic in navy blue and vermilion red, crushed it over her short hair at exactly, the smartest possible angle without looking in the glass, twisted her blue and red check scarf round her neck, and was at the door by the time Bertie was on his feet.

"Bye-bye, old thing! See you tomorrow."

She threw him a kiss with the tips of her ungloved fingers.

"But where— when?"

"Oh, anywhere— any old time. Blow along to tea if you like."

He went out and watched her efficient starting of her little car. Ivy hated offers of help, and Bertie had learnt not to make them. Besides, she obviously knew far more about the thing than he did. There were times when one was inclined to think that Ivy knew more about most things than one did oneself.

Bertie murmured this phrase to himself, but it was only a phrase born of his disconcertment and her witchery. He naturally did not really suppose that any woman knew more than any man.

He went back to the fire and the dogs again, until it was time to dress fpr his dinner with the Despards.

The hotel was a small and unpretentious one. and on his arrival there Bertie was requested to "take a seat in the lounge" while a small page ran breathlessly upstairs to summon Mrs. Despard.

Julia never had been punctual, he reflected indulgently.

She kept him waiting for some time, sending down an apologetic message and assurances of being ready "immediately" by the breathless page.

It was just like Julia to have asked o guest to dinner on the very night of their arrival!

An enormous mountain of luggage caught his eye, piled in a eorner near the lift, and he recognised with some amusement, "G. F D." and "J. D." painted on the large trunks, the shabby holdalls and the innumerable suitcases. A battered pram flanked the heap, and a child's cane armchair.

So that was how George travelled nowadays, was it? Bertie supppsed, not  without distaste, that it was inevitable if one had a family, and that family had to be transported from one quarter of the globe to another.

His gaze, as though involuntarily fascinated, continued to explore the dim recesses of that corner by the lift.

It was.

That long, shallow object, of which the interior glimmered dully white, was unmistakably a baby's bath!

Bertie could hardly credit it, but there it actually was. There must surely, he disgustedly reflected, be gross mismanagement somewhere if a thing like that had to be dragged about the world in the train of a decent man's belongings. Couldn't a baby be washed in an ordinary bath, or a basin, or something? Why should it have to advertise its ablutions in that revolting fashion? Something stood up in the interior of the bath that looked exactly like a pair of kitchen scales with a wicker tray surmounting it, but Bertie supposed it could hardly be that.

Overcome by horrified curiosity, he tiptoed over to the mountain and looked inside the bath. The mysterious object was a weighing machine with a clock face. He supposed that the children's food had to be weighed or something— a couple of small enamel saucepans were sprawling in an abandoned way at the foot of the weighing machine. Feeling as though he had pryed into some indecent spectacle, Bertie returned to his chair.

With no sense of profanity he fervently thanked God that Ivy Abbott had not come, and was not now sitting beside him. He had no wish to look again at the Despards' luggage, but something kept on drawing bis eyes unwillingly towards it.

Then an ayah— the Despards' ayah, of course— glided through the hall and monentarily detracted his attention.

She carried over one arm a soggy-looking mass of linen. Bertie could not guess of what component parts consisted, and, indeed, he found himself shuddering at the thought of doing so. But he gathered without effort— almost without wishing to do so— the errand on which she had come downstairs.

The soggy mass required drying.

It was the ayah's mission to explain this to the hall porter, and to ask, evidently, where she could carry her burden. In order to emphasise the importance of her request she detached a white spongy square from the mass, unfolded it, and held it aloft in her small, slim brown hands, waving it slowly up and down in the air.

Bertie at that moment would have paid quite a large sum of money sooner than have to meet the hall porter's eyes.

Fortunately this supreme discomfort was not destined to be his.

A hurrying, rustling figure swiftly descending the shallow stairs brought the discussion to an end. The ayah uttered a soft rapid complaint in Hindustani, and her mistress spoke to the hall porter

The ayah, the soggy buudle, and the hall porter vanished somewhere to the rear of the hotel premises.

Bertie Helston sprang up to greet Julia Despard and her husband.

'"Isn't this splendid?"

"How are you, old man?"

"Bertie, I can hardy believe it's tiue. It seems years since we met "

"It is years!"

"Bertie, you've not changed a bit."

"Neither have you," said Bertie's lips valiantly, while in his mind was conscious of profound dismay at the alteration in both the Despards, but especially in Julia.

Could five years— even five years in India— have wrought such havoc?

Her complexion had gone— perhaps that was to be expected— she was freckled and sallow where she had once been pink and white. Her hair had lost its colour, and the old-fashioned way in which she was wearing it looked dowdy and untidy by comparison with the smooth and shorn heads to which one had grown accustomed.

Worst of all, Julia had lost her figure. She was undeniably fat.

It made her look much older than Bertie knew her to be.

George was fat, too, and the hair on the top of his head was very thin indeed.

The clothes of both George and Julia presented a strange appearance (no doubt due to much packing and unpacking), as of clothes that had been slept in all night.

"Come in to dinner," Julia said, and preceded the two men into the coffee room, still talking. They exchanged news of old acquaintances and reminiscences of India, reviving old, half-forgotten jokes and little personalities.

It was with more sincerity than logic that Bertie, for the second time, exclaimed—

"You've not altered, Julia."

She hadn't— in herself. Slie was the same enthusiastic, good-hearted, talkative creature that she had always been. She was as devoted to George as she had been on their honeymoon days. It was quite obvious that theirs was, as she had written, a happy marriage.

"Bertie, I'm longing to show you the children," she said eagerly.

"By jove, yes, I'm looking forward to seeing them. Let me see, the eldest must be— how old?"

For the life of him he couldn't remember whether the Despard children were hoys, or girls, or judiciously divided.

"Rachel is nearly five, and everyone takes her for six years old at the very least— she's so tall for her age and so forward. The boy is three and a half, and Baby is just going to be two. Bertie, I'm simply longing to see you with Rachel. You know it was too funny on board ship, that mite had all the men at her feet. They simply adored her— they really did."

Bertie smiled politely. The conquests of five-year-old coquettes left him entirely unmoved.

"Following in mother's footsteps,? he suggested lightly.

Julia disregarded the personal allusion utterly.

"I must tell you what happened at Colombo. We left little Georgie and Baby on board with ayah. She's perfectly to be trusted, I've had her since Georgia was born, and it was so hot, and poor Baby was horribly worried with her teeth. Even the ship's doctor said he'd never seen a child take such a time over two back teeth. Well, George and I took Rachel on shore. As we got off the launch on the jetty But I murt just go back a little bit, to something that happened on board, to make you understand."

Julia did "go back a little." She retreated into inane and complicated labyrinths of recollections; things that had been said in front of the infant Rachel, things that she had replied, things that ehe had understood, not understood, misunderstood.

And George— George who had had a reputation for years as a most amusing fellow, and a bit of a raconteur— George, who must have heard the tale of his child's vaunted precocity at least once before, and probably far more than once— George sat by, with a fatuous smile, and listened to every word of Julia's involved and pointless narrative, and said at the end of it— "Pretty good for a thing of five, isn't it?"

"Not five yet!" said Julia.

"Not five yet!" cried George. "And I say, darling, tell him about that time we let the kiddie sit up to dinner in the saloon. D'you remember how everyone laughed when she began about the golliwog?"

"You tell him," said Julia fondly.

"No, no, you tell it so much better than I do. Go on."

Julia went on.

She went on after the golliwog anecdote had been received with a forced and meaningless "Ha-ha!" by Bertie; she went on after he had twice attempted to change the conversation, after he had abruptly interrupted her with some quite irrelevant euquiry about their plans; she went on after Geoige himself had ceased to second her with interpolations:— "Yes, but don't forget how she looked up at the man himself," and "It was the way the little mite said it that made it so funny."

It must have been Bertie reflected sardonically.

At last dinner was over, and Julia said: —"I am going up to the family while ayah has her supper. Shall I find you in the lounge?"

"Don't stay with them all night, darling," was the indirect reply of George.

"The baby is in our room," he added earnestly as his wife went upstairs. "The poor little soul is cutting her two-year-old teeth. She's really a bit young for that, and she's having a baddish time. Julia was up with her for nearly two hours last night, and then I took her on for a bit."

But it was easier to divert George than Julia from nursery topics. He allowed himself to be drawn into a discussion on politics. Coffee was brought to them in the lounge. The mountain of luggage, to Berties great relief, had disappeared.

The two men had each drunk a cup of indifferently made hotel coffee and had smoked a couple of cigarettes apiece when George, who had been showing signs of preoccupatiou, thrust an evening paper at his friend— who had already seen it before leaving home— and begged to be excused while he went to see what was detaining Julia.

"She wears herself out with those children," said George apologetically.

Bertie Helston thought of Julia Despard as he had first seen her. There was— or rather, there had been— a likeness between her and Ivy Abbott; allowing for the difference in outlook and in manners between the pre-war and the post-war young woman, those two had undoubtedly belonged to the same type. But Julia now was quite different. She did not resemble Ivy Abbott in the very least.

Ivy was smart, amusing, independent, and intriguing.

Julia, dear Julia, was the exponent of an "ideally happy married life."

And she did look happy. And George looked happy. They were happy.

Bertie recognised it fully.

When they came downstairs again, to tell him simultaneously, and in almost identical words, that Baby had fallen asleep holding Daddy's thumb against her face, the Despards told him about their plans.

They were going to buy a house.

They couldn't afford anything expensive with the children to bring up.

It must have a garden, though, because of the children.

It must be near a lown because of lessons for Rachel. (Long account of Rachel's precocious talent for drawing.) It must be in the country because of little Georgia's tendency to croup. (Distressing description of little Georgie's last attack.)

It really ought to be somewhere near the sea because of Baby. (Anecdote of Baby's exploits in his new bathing pants at a very early age indeed.)

"It certainly can't be a large house," said Julia, "because we couldn't afford it, but I do hope we shall be able to manage a couple of spare bedrooms. I want you to come out to us for lots and lots of weekends, Bertie— and I'm going to get some really nice girls to meet you. You've been a bachelor quite long enough.

"By jove!" said George, "when you see what our home life is, you'll never be happy till you've got a wife and half a dozen kiddies of your own."

"Good-night," said Bertie. And he added— "Thank you very much indeed, both of you."

Then he drove home.

The dogs and Salammbo were gratified at the effusive demonstrations with which their master, late that evening, greeted them on his return. It almost seemed as though he had never sufficiently appreciated them, and the deep leather armchair, and the blazing fire, and the comfortable orderly room before.

He sat there until long after 1 o'clock, smoking his pipe, with little Bangs curled up on his knees, Susan asleep, her nose resting against his foot, and Salammbo rubbing contentedly against his leg every now and then.

He thought of Ivy Abbott, and of Julia Despard, and of George, and of the luggage in the corner by the lift, and of the conversation at dinner, and again of Ivy Abbott.

Bertie Helston has not proposed to Ivy Abbott, who is now engaged to be married to somebody else. Although many people in Ashbridge have expressed surprise and disappointment at this, such are the unique attributes of Bertie that his popularity has not in any way diminished. In fact, as he continues to remain a bachelor, it continues to increase.

_______________

2: A Literary Secret

Percy James Brebner

1864-1922

Telegraph (Brisbane) 7 Sep 1907

SHE HAD walked to the gate many times during the last hour, conscious that she was too early, but now she remained there, and shading her eyes from the, level rays of the sun, looked anxiously down the hill towards the town. A cloud of white smoke rose from the midst of the roofs into the evening air. It marked surely the passage of the London train on its way south. He would be here in a few minutes. She had not gone to town with him that morning, the extra expense was a consideration with them, and something, an indefinite something, had held her back from going to the station this evening to meet him. So much depended upon the moments their eyes met, she feared to hasten its coming, and yet longed to know that the moment was past.

Presently a figure separated itself from the people in the High street, and came slowly up the hill. He looked up and waved his stick to her, but he did not quicken his pace, nor did she go to meet him. Only when he came she opened the gate for him, and looked at him, and held out both her hands. Without a word they entered the little house together, and went into a room, the window of which looked on to a tiny square of well-kept turf, with a border of flowers round it. It was a room of books, and there was a writing table with many papers upon it.

He stood by the table, and she kissed him. It was her way of asking the all important question.

"Hopeless," he answered. "Daylight growing slowly dimmer for six months, and then night— night for ever."

His hands were in hers, and felt the strong pressure of her fingers. "For a little while I shall be able to see your dear face," he said after a pause, " and then— then I shall never see it again."

She made no answer. She knew that this thought was not the one uppermost in his mind, knew that he shrank from touching the real heart of his anxiety, and she waited.

"And my work," he said, turning away from her to look at the papers on the table. "It is hard now, when it really seemed that success was coming to crown the long years of labour, and drudgery, and disappointment. It is very hard, Helen."

"Yes, and yet how much worse it might be," she said, her fingers tightening strongly round his. "You might not have me beside you to be your eyes. It would be harder still if you had to depend upon strangers to see for you. Perhaps this very loss was necessary to make you use your powers to the full. Courage, Maurice! You shall dictate to me. I shall have a more intimate part in your work than I ever had. Oh, there are a thousand worse things than blindness."

He took her in his arms. That she could be brave gave him courage.

"And I shall not be able to see you," he whispered.

"So I shall be always young to you," she answered brightly. "I might grow into a very plain old woman, and you will never know it. You seem to think that you have rather a pretty wife; there is consolation that you will think so to the end of the chapter, no matter how she may change. This very night after, supper, we will begin to plan out our future days."

It was a sweet, smiling face which looked into his, and he could not see the tears deep down in her eyes. They would rise presently and overflow, but he would never see them. She would take care of that. All Helen Carlingford's courage and determination were indeed needed.

The first two years of her married life had passed smoothly enough. Her husband's prospects were good, and there was hope of a partnership some day. The crash had come quite suddenly and unexpectedly. The firm failed, and Maurice Carlingford found himself out of employment, and with little money. Not until he had turned every stone to get other work, and failed, had he determined to seek his livelihood in the thorny paths of literature. It had always been his hobby, and he had had some success.

To minimise expenses they had taken the little, old-fashioned house on the hill overlooking Milchester, and the result of the first year had surpassed their most sanguine expectations. Maurice had completed a novel which had found a publisher, and although it had not caused a sensation, It had been paid for, and its publication gave him confidence in himself, he was able to look forward hopefully. The future held possibilities.

Now blindness was to be his fate, and yet, thanks to his wife, the future was still not without hope. Helen Carlingford spoke bravely, but she had grave misgivings. She did not like to admit, even to herself, that there was something wanting in her husband's work, that particular something which makes for success. There was much that was good in his novel, but it lacked distinction. There was little in the treatment, or style, to lift it above the ordinary, and in her heart of hearts she saw little of the promise which Maurice so insisted upon.

Her failure in this respect gave her a sense of treason against the man she loved.  She tried to believe that she was wrong, that her judgment was at fault, and for a time the calamity which had fallen upon her husband helped her.

She began at once to be Maurice's amanuensis. If he did not use his eyes now, the rest might strengthen them, perhaps, even, he would never be totally blind.

The new novel progressed rapidly. She wrote at Maurice's dictation, and then typed what she had written. Sometimes she criticised, sometimes gave him hints; but the hints he seldom took, her criticism he always argued away. He grew more confident in his own powers. His eyes, however, did not strengthen; and before the novel had been sent to the publishers, the light had gone out of them altogether. He expected nothing else, he had never hoped to save them, as Helen had done; he was prepared, and accepted the inevitable calmly. It did not trouble him half so much as the refusal of the publishers, who had taken up his former work, to accept this now one.

"I cannot understand it," he said. "The novel is far better than the other one."

"Some of the greatest novels have been refused by half the publishers in London," she answered gaily.

There was no bright smile on her face as she said it, but be could not see that.

The manuscript was sent to one publisher after another, coming back with wearisome regularity until the typewritten sheets were sadly soiled, the corners turned up, and the edges torn. Over it Helen shed many silent tears, and the spending of pennies became a matter of deep consideration with her. Used with the utmost care, the money they had could not last long, and then—

"Maurice, I think I should put this novel aside," she said, when the parcel came back again. "There is something in it which does not appeal to the readers evidently. It may only be a small something, and presently it may occur to you what is lacking."

"There is nothing lacking, Helen; it is their inability to recognise a good ! thing."

"Perhaps that is it, but don't you think it would be well to get on quickly with the new story you have been planning? Fit it to their requirements, and, who knows? They may presently be anxious to have the very one they are now refusing."

The possibility appealed to him, and she persuaded him. The new work was commenced. There were long hours for Helen Carlingford at the desk, and at the typewriter. She did not criticise, she gave no hints; he told her his own opinion of his work, and she accepted his estimate of it. Only with regard to the title did she express an opinion, and in this he allowed himself to he guided. She had always been rather good at titles, he confessed.

The book was accepted. The publishers' terms were liberal, and better still, the public bought the book. It ranked amongst the successes of the season.

"It only shows that a man's best work is not what the public wants," Maurice said. Now that the book was successful he was inclined to despise it. He felt that he had the power to do better work.

This success was the first of many.  The name of Maurice Carlingford was established, and the expenses of the little ménage on the hill were no longer a source of anxiety to Helen. But she had no ambition to launch out, and no desire for society or many friends.

"I grow more selfish every day," she said, "I want you more to myself than ever. I should be jealous were you to talk about your work to anyone else but me."

"Foolish little woman," he said caressingly.

"We all have some weakness, or vanity may be, and this is mine," she returned. "I like to fancy that I have some part in your success, that in a way I have helped you to secure it. And I have. Remember, sir, that had the manuscript been badly typed, the reader might have thrown it aside in disgust, and not advised its acceptance."

"Of course, of course, my whole success lies in the typing," he laughed. "Oh, I know that well enough. Never was man so blessed in his private secretary and amanuensis. Indeed, Helen," he went on quietly, "I sometimes fancy I should never have accomplished what I have done had I retained my sight."

She laughed happily; he heard it, and was satisfied; yet in her face there was an expression which seemed curiously at variance with the sound of her laughter, a look that paused midway between great love and haunting fear.

The desire to be the only partner in his triumph grew upon her. To the few friends they had In Milchester, she let it be understood that her husband's literary work was never to form the subject of conversation. It was his wish. It was always necessary to concede something to genius, and her husband's eccentricity took this form of reserve.

She went further than this, and in her husband's name refused all interviewers. She gave a few short particulars of his career occasionally, but the paragraphs which found their way into the papers concerning him were of the most meagre description. As a writer he was a power in the world of letters, as a man he was entirely unknown there.

His blindness was naturally against his taking any active part in literary life, some agreed; but there were others who considered the complete withdrawal from all social intercourse, a subtle form of advertising.

So Helen succeeded in keeping her husband and his work to herself, her eagerness to do so causing many people to consider her rather mad upon the subject. She was talked about, although she was unconscious of the fact, and was pointed out as Carlingford's eccentric wife. When her husband went out, she always went with him; she would allow no one else to guide his footsteps, and in the house she was seldom away from him for more than a few minutes together.

One day she was obliged to go to London, and Maurice was left alone. It was business which needed her personal attention, and she had put off going twice already. She was quite unhappy at leaving him.

"I shall spend my day working out a dramatic situation for the next book," he said. "It is a plot I have had floating about in my mind for a long time. Don't worry, little woman, I shall not be lonely."

In spite of the assertion, he found the hours drag somewhat heavily. He had so seldom been without her that he hardly knew what it meant to be alone. He made very little progress with his dramatic situation, and in the afternoon had nearly fallen asleep when a ring at the bell aroused him.

The servant came in and held out a card on a tray.

"Well, Jane who is it?"

"There is the card, sir." So effectually had Ellen been his eves, that the servant forgot that her master was blind.

"Read the name, Jane."

"Mr. Alfred Blesworth."

" Blesworth! Show him in, Jane. Ah, Alfred, old fellow, it is good to see— to hear you again. Give me your, hand."

"Maurice!"

"I am right glad to see you— well, that isn't quite true, is it, because I can't see you, you know, but—"

"I only heard about you last night," said Blesworth, "and I thought I must run down and see you. I have been wandering about the world for the last  half-dozen years, and have lost touch of things at home. I never knew your eyes were likely to give out."

"Nor did I," Maurice answered, "it came about rather suddenly. But there is a tone of pity in your voice, old man, and really I don't deserve it. No blind man could feel the loss less than I do. My dear wife is my sight, and really I seem to see things, she is so wonderful. She will be home presently."

"I met your wife once, I remember. So you have become famous."

"Famous! Well, I have won success."

"You mustn't be too modest, Maurice," Blesworth returned. "I don't as a rule read novels, but coming home I read one of yours. A lady on board was horrified to find that I had never read any of your works, and insisted on lending me a book of yours. It was called 'A Late Traveller'. "

"Oh, yes, it was published last year. Some people consider it my best, I believe."

"It is a very fine book, Maurice. There was one passage, an ending to one of the chapters, which appealed to me immensely, I remember."

"Which was that ?" Carlingford asked. "The books are on the shelf there. Would you mind reading me the passage which you liked ? I suppose a little praise always pleases an author, and besides, it is helpful to know what it is that particularly strikes a reader. My blindness unfortunately shuts me off from all intercourse with the world to which I belong, and in which I have won a place."

If Helen could only have heard this complaint.

Blesworth took down the book and turned over tho pages.

"Ah! Here it is— in the twelfth chapter," and he began to read in an understanding manner, showing that he felt and appreciated what he lead. Maurice. Carlingford leant forward in his chair and listened, intense interest in his face. The reader did not look up until he had finished the passage.

"I call that splendid," he said, enthusiastically. "It rings true, and goes straight to the heart."

"Which hook did you say that was in?" asked Carlingford.

" 'A Late Traveller. Is it possible that you can forget? Why, if I had written that I should always remember the. circumstances which inspired it."

"One does forget," said Maurice quietly. "You read remarkably well. I wonder if you will do me a favour. Rend me a passage from each of my books. A poor blind fellow like I am is so helpless, you know."

Blesworth took down each book in turn, read out the title, and then a passage or two, opening the pages haphazard.

"There is only one more," he said— " 'Mortimer's Last Chance.' "

"That was my first. You need not read anything from that," Maurice answered.

"Ah, you let me into a secret," sold Blesworth, with a laugh. " 'Mortimer's Last Chance' is evidently not to be compared with its successors."

"No. I— I was feeling my way then. But tell me something of yourself and  your doings."

Blesworth talked well, but be could not tell whether he interested his companion. He nodded at intervals to show that he was listening, but neither a bit of description nor a jest brought a smile or a look of keen comprehension, into the immobile face of the blind man. When Blesworth spoke of going Maurice did not press him to stay. It never seemed to occur to Carlingford that his friend could hardly return to London that night, that he would stay in Milchester. Blindness had changed Maurice Carlingford a good deal, Blesworth thought.

To the blind man daylight and darkness were alike, but he knew that the sun was setting; that Helen would soon be home. For thee first time in his life he dreaded her coming. Presently the gate clicked. There was a quick step in the hall, and then the room door opened Maurice felt that he could see her beautiful face as she entered.

"My dearest! Have you missed me? I have been with you all day in spirit, knowing how lonely you must feel."

"Not so lonely as you imagine. I have had a visitor."

"A visitor? Who?" She paused in the act of taking the pin from her hat, waiting for the answer.

"Blesworth. You met him once, I think, before we were married, before he went abroad."

"Yes, I think I remember him. And he has been telling you all about his travels, has he? That would be very interesting."

"Yes, and we talked of my books. He has read one of them, and was much impressed with it. He particularly mentioned one passage in it, and I got him to read it to me."

"He read it?"

"Yes, and so well that I got him to read something from each of my books, all except the first, all except 'Mortimer's Last Chance.' "

There was silence in tho darkening room. The man sat in his chair, his sightless eyes turned towards his wife. She stood with her face hidden in hot hands, the tears, trickling between her fingers. "You are crying, Helen."

"Maurice!" She was on her knees beside him, clinging to him lest he should thrust her away. He let his hand rest gently on her head.

"So I learn the truth at last," he said quietly. "The blind man is useless in the world after all."

"You must hate me," she sobbed.

"No, my dearest, I love you, just as I have always loved you; only I want time to realise things as they stand, to take hold of my real self. What made you think of it— at first, I mean?"

"Oh, Maurice, there were only a few pounds between us and penury Something had to be done, and I felt I could do so little. It was a short story first, and they took it, and asked for more, and then— then I began the longer work."

"And you took all mine down as well?"

"Yes."

"What has become of them?"

"One I typed and sent to the publishers."

"And it came back?"

"Yes."

"How many times?" he asked.

"I don't remember."

"What did they say?"

She did not answer.

"I can guess," he said. "Even Maurice Carlingford's reputation would not be able to support such work. After a time you were afraid to risk sending it. I understand."

Still she did not answer. "I hardly know what I shall do, Helen. I have been so busy working out my plots and dictating to you. It was all useless labour, but— but it has been my occupation."

"Don't, Maurice, don't make it harder for me," she said. "We have enough money now; I shall write no more. We will keep our secret, and—"

"The real artist must work, Helen, even as the water in a river must flow seawards. You will have to read to me, and I will criticise. Perhaps I may be able to think of titles for you."

"Don't, Maurice, don't."

"The discovery has thrown us both out of gear, my dear," he said. "We both want time to settle into our new positions. I think you must take me away for a time, and you must read me your books— all of them."

"I shall write no more," she sobbed.

"Wait, wait and see. I have been thinking of a plot to-day; who can tell how it may develop in your hands? Wait, Helen!"

NEARLY three years elapsed before the publication of Maurice Carlingford's next novel. It was by far the finest work the author had yet accomplished; all the critics were agreed upon this point; and an additional zest was given to the book by the discovery that the writer was a woman, and not a man, after all. The title page bore the name, Mrs. Maurice Carlingford. Maurice had insisted upon this. The reviewers understood now why the author had been denied to them. It was a literary secret which had been well-kept.

___________________

3: Taken By Surprise

F. Anstey

(Thomas Anstey Guthrie) 1856-1934

The Cornhill Magazine, Nov 1887

FOR SOME YEARS I, Bedell Cruncher, have consecrated my poor talents to the guidance and education of public taste in questions of art and literature. To do this effectively I have labored— at the cost of some personal inconvenience— to acquire a critical style of light and playful badinage. My lash has ever been wreathed in ribbons of rare texture and daintiest hues; I have thrown cold water in abundance over the nascent flames of young ambition— but such water was systematically tinctured with attar of roses. And in time the articles appearing in various periodicals above the signature of "Vitriol " became, I may acknowledge without false modesty, so many literary events of the first magnitude. At first my identity with the lively but terrible "Vitriol " was kept a profound secret, but gradually by some means which I do not at present remember it leaked out, and I immediately became a social as well as a literary celebrity. Physically I have been endowed with a presence which, though not of unusual height and somewhat inclined to central expansion, produces, I find, an invariably imposing effect, especially with members of the more emotional and impressionable sex. Consequently I was not surprised even at the really extraordinary sensation I inspired upon my first introduction to a very charming young lady. Miss Iris Waverley, as soon as my nom de guerre was (I forget just now by whom) incidentally alluded to. However, as it turned out, she had another and a deeper reason for emotion: it seemed she had been engaged to a young poet whose verses, to her untaught and girlish judgment, seemed inspired by draughts of the true Helicon, and whose rhythmical raptures had stirred her maiden heart to its depths.

Well, that young poet's latest volume of verse came under my notice for review, and in my customary light-hearted fashion I held it up to general derision for a column or two, and then dismissed it, with an ineffaceable epigrammatic kick, to spin forever (approximately) down the ringing grooves of criticism.

Miss Waverley, it happened, was inclined to correct her own views by the opinions of others, and was, moreover, exceptionally sensitive to any association of ridicule with the objects of her attachment— indeed, she once dispatched a dog she fondly loved to the lethal chamber at Battersea, merely because all the hair had come off the poor animal's tail! My trenchant sarcasms had depoetized her lover in a similar fashion; their livid lightning had revealed the baldness, the glaring absurdity, of the very stanzas which once had filled her eyes with delicious tears; he was dismissed, and soon disappeared altogether from the circles which I had (in perfect innocence) rendered impossible to him.

Notwithstanding this. Miss Waverley's first sentiments toward me were scarcely, oddly enough, of unmixed gratitude. I represented the rod, and a very commendable feeling of propriety made her unwilling to kiss me on a first interview, though, as our intimacy advanced— well, there are subjects on which I claim the privilege of a manly reticence.

I hasten over, then, the intermediate stages of antipathy, fear, respect, interest, and adoration. In me she recognized an intellect naturally superior, too indifferent and unambitious to give life to its own imaginings— too honest, too devoted to humanity, to withhold merited condemnation from those of others.

One trait in my character which Iris valued above all others was the caution with which I habitually avoided all associations of a ridiculous nature; for it was my pride to preserve a demeanor of unsullied dignity under circumstances which would have been trying, if not fatal, to an ordinary person. So we became engaged; and if, pecuniarily speaking, the advantage of the union inclined to my side, I cannot consider that I was the party most benefited by the transaction.

It was soon after this happy event that Iris entreated from me, as a gift, a photograph of myself. I could not help being struck by this instance of feminine parsimony with regard to small disbursements, since for the trifling sum of one shilling it was perfectly open to her to procure an admirable presentment of me at almost any stationer's; for in obedience to a widely expressed demand, I had already more than once undergone the ordeal by camera.

But no; she professed to desire a portrait more peculiarly her own— one that should mark the precise epoch of our mutual happiness— a caprice which reminded me of the Salvation Army recruit who was photographed, by desire, "before and after conversion;" and I demurred a little, until Iris insisted with such captivating pertinacity that— although my personal expenses (always slightly in excess of my income) had been further swelled since my engagement by the innumerable petits soins expected by an absurd custom from every lover— I gave way at length.

It was her desire that my portrait should form a pendant to one of herself which had been recently taken by a fashion- able photographer, and I promised to see that this wish should be gratified. It is possible that she expected' me to resort to the same artist ; but there were considerations which induced me to avoid this if I could. To the extent of a guinea (or even thirty shillings) I could refuse her nothing; but every one knows what sums are demanded by a photographer who is at all in vogue.

So, keeping my promise constantly in mind, I never entered a secluded neighborhood without being on the lookout for some unpretending photographic studio which would combine artistic excellence with moderate charges.

And at last I discovered this photographic phoenix, whose nest, if I may so term it, was in a retired suburb which I do not care to particularize. After a brief period of hesitation I stepped inside, and, on stating my wish to be photographed at once, was invited by a very civil youth with a slight cast in his eye to walk upstairs, which I accordingly did.

I mounted flight after flight of stairs, till I eventually found myself at the top of the house, in an apartment pervaded by a strong odor of chemicals, and glazed along the roof and the whole of one side with panes of a bluish tint. It was empty at the moment of my entrance, but, after a few minutes, the photographer burst impetuously in— a tall young man with long hair and pale eyes, whose appearance denoted a nervous and high-strung temperament.

"You will find me," I told him frankly, "a little more difficult to satisfy than your ordinary clientele; but, on the other hand, I am peculiarly capable of appreciating really good work. Now, I was struck at once by the delicacy of tone, the nice discrimination of values, the atmosphere, gradation, feeling, and surface of the examples displayed in your window."

He bowed almost to the ground; but having taken careful note of his prices, I felt secure in commending him, even to the verge of extravagance ; and besides, does not the artistic nature demand the stimulus of praise to enable it to put forth its full powers?

He inquired in what style I wished to be taken, whether full-length, half-length, or vignette.

"I will answer you as concisely as possible," I said. "I have been pressed, by one whose least preference is a law to me, to have a photograph of myself executed which shall form a counterpart, or pendant as it were, to her own. I have therefore taken the precaution to bring her portrait with me for your guidance. You will observe it is the work of a firm in my opinion greatly overrated— Messrs. Lenz, Kamerer & Co.; and, while you will follow it in style and the disposition of the accessories, you will, I make no doubt, produce, if you take ordinary pains, a picture vastly superior in artistic merit."

This, as will be perceived, was skilfully designed to put him on his mettle and rouse a useful spirit of emulation. He took the portrait of Iris from my hands and carried it to the light, where he examined it gravely in silence.

"I presume," he said at length, "that I need hardly tell you I cannot pledge myself to produce a result as pleasing as this— under the circumstances. "

"That," I replied, "rests entirely with you. If you overcome your natural diffidence and do yourself full justice, I see no reason why you should not obtain something even more satisfactory."

My encouragement almost unmanned him. He turned abruptly away and blew his nose violently with a colored silk handkerchief.

"Come, come," I said, smiling kindly, "you see I have every confidence in you— let us begin. I don't know, by the way," I added, with a sudden afterthought, "whether in your leisure moments you take any interest in contemporary literature?"

"I— I have done so in my time," he admitted; "not very lately."

"Then," I continued, watching his countenance with secret amusement for the spasm I find this announcement invariably produces upon persons of any education, "it may possibly call up some associations in your mind if I tell you that I am perhaps better known by my self-conferred sobriquet of 'Vitriol.' "

Evidently I had to do with a man of some intelligence— I obtained an even more electrical effect than usual.

" 'Vitriol!' " he cried, "not surely Vitriol, the great critic?"

"The same," I said carelessly. "I thought I had better mention it."

"You did well," he rejoined, "very well! Pardon my emotion— may I wring that hand?"

It is not my practice to shake hands with a photographer, but I was touched and gratified by his boyish enthusiasm, and he seemed a gentlemanly young fellow too, so I made an exception in his favor; and he did wring my hand— hard.

"So you are Vitriol? " he repeated in a kind of daze, "and you have sought me out— me of all people in the world— to have the honor of taking your photograph! "

"That is so," I said, "but pardon me if I warn you that you must not allow your head to be turned by what is, in truth, due to the merest accident."

"But what an accident!" he cried; "after what I have learned I really could not think of making any charge for this privilege!"

That was a creditable and not unnatural impulse, and I did not check it. "You shall take me as often as you please," I said, "and for nothing."

"And may I," he said a little timidly— "would you give me permission to exhibit the results? "

"If I followed my own inclinations," I replied, "I should answer, 'Certainly not.' But perhaps I have no right to deprive you of the advertisement, and still less to withhold my unworthy features from public comment. I may, for private reasons," I added, thinking of Iris, "find it advisable to make some show of displeasure, but you need not fear my taking any proceedings to restrain you."

"We struggling photographers must be so careful," he sighed. "Suppose the case of your lamented demise— it would be a protection if I had some written authority under your hand to show your legal representatives."

"Actio personalis moritur cum persona," I replied; "if my executors brought an action, they would find themselves non-suited." (I had studied for the bar at one period of my life.)

"Quite so," he said, "but they might drag me into court, nevertheless. I should really prefer to be on the safe side."

It did not seem unreasonable, particularly as I had not the remotest intention either of bringing an action or dying; so I wrote him a hasty memorandum to the effect that in consideration of his photographing me free of charge (I took care to put that in), I undertook to hold him free from all molestation or hindrance whatever in respect of the sale and circulation of all copies resulting from such photographing as aforesaid.

"Will that do? " I said as I handed it to him.

His eyes gleamed as he took the document. "It is just what I wanted," he said gratefully; "and now, if you will excuse me, I will go and bring in a few accessories, and then we will get to work."

He withdrew in a state of positive exultation, leaving me to congratulate myself upon the happy chance which had led me to his door. One does not discover a true artist every day, capable of approaching his task in a proper spirit of reverence and enthusiasm; and I had hardly expected, after my previous failures, to be spared all personal outlay. My sole regret, indeed, was that I had not stipulated for a share in the profits arising from the sale— which would be doubtless a large one; but meanness is not one of my vices, and I decided not to press this point.

Presently he returned with something which bulged inside his velvet jacket, and a heap of things which he threw down in a corner behind a screen.

" A few little properties," he said; " we may be able to introduce them by and by."

Then he went to the door and, with a rapid action, turned the key and placed it in his pocket.

"You will hardly believe," he explained, "how nervous I am on occasions of importance like this; the bare possibility of interruption would render me quite incapable of doing myself justice."

I had never met any photographer quite so sensitive as that before, and I began to be uneasy about his success; but I know what the artistic temperament is, and, as he said, this was not like an ordinary occasion.

"Before I proceed to business," he said, in a voice that positively trembled, "I must tell you what an exceptional claim you have to my undying gratitude. Among the many productions which you have visited with your salutary satire you may possibly recall a little volume of poems entitled 'Pants of Passion'?"

I shook my head good-humoredly. "My good friend," I told him, " if I burdened my memory with all the stuff I have to pronounce sentence upon, do you suppose my brain would be what it is? "

He looked crestfallen. "No," he said slowly, "I ought to have known— you would not remember, of course. But I do. I brought out those Pants. Your mordant pen tore them to tatters. You convinced me that I had mistaken my career and, thanks to your monitions, I ceased to practise as a poet and became the photographer you now behold! "

"And I have known poets," I said encouragingly, "who have ended far less creditably. For even an indifferent photographer is in closer harmony with nature than a mediocre poet."

"And I was mediocre, wasn't I? " he inquired humbly.

"So far as I recollect," I replied (for I did begin to remember him now), "to attribute mediocrity to you would have been beyond the audacity of the grossest sycophant."

"Thank you," he said; "you little know how you encourage me in my present undertaking— for you will admit that I can photograph?"

"That," I replied, "is intelligible enough; photography being a pursuit demanding less mental ability in its votaries than that of metrical composition, however halting. "

"There is something very soothing about your conversation," he remarked; " it heals my self-love— which really was wounded by the things you wrote."

"Pooh, pooh!" I said indulgently, "we must all of us go through that in our time— at least all of you must go through it."

"Yes," he admitted sadly, "but it ain't pleasant, is it? "

"Of that I have never been in a position to judge," said I; "but you must remember that your sufferings, though doubtless painful to yourself, are the cause, under capable treatment, of infinite pleasure and amusement to others. Try to look at the thing without egotism. Shall I seat myself on that chair I see over there?"

He was eying me in a curious manner.

"Allow me," he said; "I always pose my sitters myself." With that he seized me by the neck and elsewhere without the slightest warning, and carrying me to the further end of the studio, flung me carelessly, face downward, over the cane-bottomed chair to which I had referred. He was a strong, athletic young man, in spite of his long hair— or might that have been, as in Samson's case, a contributory cause? I was like an infant in his hands, and lay across the chair, in an exceedingly uncomfortable position, gasping for breath.

"Try to keep as limp as you can, please," he said, "the mouth wide open, as you have it now, the legs careless— in fact, trailing. Beautiful! don't move."

And he went to the camera. I succeeded in partly twisting my head round.

"Are you mad?" I cried indignantly; "do you really suppose I shall consent to go down to posterity in such a position as this?"

I heard a click, and, to my unspeakable horror, saw that he was deliberately covering me from behind the camera with a revolver— that was what I had seen bulging inside his pocket.

"I should be sorry to slay any sitter in cold blood," he said, "but I must tell you solemnly that unless you instantly resume your original pose— which was charming— you are a dead man!"

Not till then did I realize the awful truth I was locked up alone, at the top of a house, in a quiet neighborhood, with a mad photographer! Summoning to my aid all my presence of mind, I resumed the original pose for the space of forty-five hours— they were seconds really, but they seemed hours it was not needful for him to exhort me to be limp again ; I was limper than the dampest towel.

"Thank you very much," he said gravely as he covered the lens; "I think that will come out very well indeed. You may move now."

I rose, puffing, but perfectly collected. "Ha, ha," I laughed in a sickly manner (for I felt sick), "I perceive, sir, that you are a humorist."

"Since I have abandoned poetry," he said as he carefully removed the negative to a dark place, "I have developed a considerable sense of quiet humor. You will find a large Gainsborough hat in that corner— might I trouble you to put it on for the next sitting? "

"Never!" I cried, thoroughly revolted. "Surely, with your rare artistic perception, you must be aware that such a head-dress as that (which is no longer worn even by females) is out of all keeping with my physiognomy. I will not sit for my photograph in such a preposterous thing!"

"I shall count ten very slowly," he replied pensively, "and if by the time I have finished you are not seated on the back of that chair, your feet crossed so as to overlap, your right thumb in the corner of your mouth, a pleasant smile on your countenance, and the Gainsborough hat on your head, you will need no more hats on this sorrowful earth. One— two "

I was perched on that chair in the prescribed attitude long before he had got to seven! How can I describe what it cost me to smile, as I sat there under the dry blue light, the perspiration rolling in beads down my cheeks, exposed to the gleaming muzzle of the revolver, and the steady Gorgon glare of that infernal camera?

"That will be extremely popular," he said, lowering the weapon as he concluded. "Your smile, perhaps, was a little too broad, but the pose was very fresh and unstudied."

I have always read of the controlling power of the human eye upon wild beasts and dangerous maniacs, and I fixed mine firmly upon him now as I said sternly, "Let me out at once— I wish to go."

Perhaps I did not fix them quite long enough ; perhaps the power of the human eye has been exaggerated: I only know that for all the effect mine had on him they might have been oysters

"Not yet," he said persuasively, "not when we're getting on so nicely. I may never be able to take you under such favorable conditions again."

That, I thought, I could undertake to answer for; but who, alas! could say whether I should ever leave that studio alive? For all I knew, he might spend the whole day in photographing me, and then, with a madman's caprice, shoot me as soon as it became too dark to go on any longer! The proper course to take, I knew, was to humor him, to keep him in a good temper, fool him to the top of his bent— it was my only chance.

"Well," I said, " perhaps you're right. I— I'm in no great hurry. Were you thinking of taking me in some different style? I am quite at your disposition."

He brought out a small but stout property-mast and arranged it against a canvas background of coast scenery.

"I generally use it for children in sailor costume," he said, "but I think it will bear your weight long enough for the purpose."

I wiped my brow. "You are not going to ask me to climb that thing?" I faltered.

"Well," he suggested, "if you will just arrange yourself upon the cross-trees in a negligent attitude, upside down, with your tongue protruded as if for medical inspection, I shall be perfectly satisfied."

I tried argument. "I should have no objection in the world," I said; "it's an excellent idea— only do sailors ever climb masts in that way? Wouldn't it be better to have the thing correct while we're about it?"

"I was not aware that you were a sailor," he said; "are you?"

I was afraid to say I was, because I apprehended that, if I did, it might occur to him to put me through some still more frightful performance.

"Come," he said, "you won't compel me to shed blood so early in the afternoon, will you? Up with you."

I got up, but, as I hung there, I tried to obtain a modification of some of the details. "I don't think," I said artfully, "that I'll put out my tongue— it's rather overdone, eh? Everybody is taken with his tongue out nowadays."

"It is true," he said, "but I am not well enough known in the profession yet to depart entirely from the conventional. Your tongue out as far as it will go, please."

"I shall have a rush of blood to the head, I know I shall," I protested.

"Look here," he said; "am I taking this photograph or are you?"

There was no possible doubt, unfortunately, as to who was taking the photograph. I made one last remonstrance.

"I put it to you as a sensible man—" I began; but it is a waste of time to put anything to a raving lunatic as a sensible man. It is enough to say that he carried his point.

"I wish you could see the negative!" he said as he came back from his laboratory. "You were a little red in the face, but it will come out black, so it's all right. That carte will be quite a novelty, I flatter myself."

I groaned. However, this was the end; I would get away now at all hazards, and tell the police that there was a dangerous maniac at large. I got down from the mast with affected briskness.

"Well," I said, "I mustn't take advantage of your good nature any longer. I'm exceedingly obliged to you for the— the pains you have taken. You will send all the photographs to this address, please."

"Don't go yet," he said. "Are you an equestrian, by the way?"

If I could only engage him in conversation I felt comparatively secure.

"Oh, I put in an appearance in the Row sometimes, in the season," I replied; "and, while I think of it," I added, with what I thought at the time was an inspiration, "if you will come with me now, I'll show you my horse— you might take me on horseback, eh?" I did not possess any such animal, but I wanted to have that door unlocked.

"Take you on horseback!" he repeated. "That's a good idea— I had rather thought of that myself. "

"Then come along and bring your instrument," I said, ''and you can take me at the stables; they're close by."

"No need for that," he replied cheerfully. "I'll find you a mount here."

And the wretched lunatic went behind the screen and wheeled out a small wooden quadruped covered with large round spots!

"She's a strawberry roan," he said; "observe the strawberries. So, my beauty, quiet, then! Now settle yourself easily in the saddle, as if you were in the Row, with your face to the tail."

"Listen to me for one moment," I entreated tremulously. "I assure you that I am not in the habit of appearing in Rotten Row on a spotted wooden horse, nor does any one, I assure you— any one mount a horse of any description with his face toward the crupper! If you take me like that you will betray your ignorance— you will be laughed at! "

When people tell you it is possible to hoodwink the insane by any specious show of argument, don't believe them; my own experience is that demented persons can be quite perversely logical when it suits their purpose.

"Pardon me," he said, "you will be laughed at possibly— not I. I cannot be held responsible for the caprices of my clients. Mount, please; she'll carry you perfectly."

"I will," I said, "if you'll give me the revolver to hold. I — should like to be done with a revolver."

"I shall be delighted to do you with a revolver," he said grimly, "but not yet; and if I lent you the weapon now, I could not answer for your being able to hold the horse as well— she has never been broken in to firearms. I'll hold the revolver. One— two— three—"

I mounted. Why had I not disregarded the expense and gone to Lenz & Kamerer? Lenz does not pose his customers by the aid of a revolver. Kamerer, I was sure, would not put his patrons through these degrading tomfooleries.

He took more trouble over this than any of the others; I was photographed from the back, in front, and in profile; and if I escaped being made to appear abjectly ridiculous, it can only be owing to the tragic earnestness which the consciousness of my awful situation lent to my expression.

As he took the last, I rolled off the horse completely prostrated. "I think," I gasped faintly, "I would rather be shot at once— without waiting to be taken in any other positions. I really am not equal to any more of this! " (He was quite capable, I felt, of photographing me in a perambulator if it once occurred to him!)

"Compose yourself," he said soothingly; "I have obtained all I wanted. I shall not detain you much longer. Your life, I may remark, was never in any imminent danger, as this revolver is unloaded. I have now only to thank you for the readiness with which you have afforded me your co-operation, and to assure you that copies of each of the photographs shall be forwarded for Miss Waverley's inspection."

"Miss Waverley!" I exclaimed; "stay, how do you know that name?"

"If I mistake not, it was her photograph that you kindly brought for my guidance. I ought to have mentioned, perhaps, that I once had the honor of being engaged to her— until you (no doubt from the highest motives) invested my little gift of song with a flavor of unromantic ridicule. That ridicule I am now enabled to repay, with interest calculated up to the present date."

"So you are Iris' poet!" I burst out, for, somehow, I had not completely identified him till that moment. "You scoundrel! do you think I shall allow you to circulate those atrocious caricatures with impunity? No, by heavens! my solicitor shall—"

"I rely upon the document you were kind enough to furnish," he said quietly. "I fear that any legal proceedings you may resort to will hardly avert the publicity you seem to fear. Allow me to unfasten the door. Good-by; mind the step on the first landing. Might I beg you to recommend me among your friends?"

I went out without another word; he was mad, of course, or he would not have devised so outrageous a revenge for a fancied injury, but he was cunning enough to be my match. I knew too well that if I took any legal measures he would contrive to shift the whole burden of lunacy upon me. I dared not court an inquiry for many reasons, and so I was compelled to pass over this unparalleled outrage in silence.

Iris made frequent inquiries after the promised photograph, and I had to parry them as well as I could— which was a mistake in judgment on my part; for one afternoon while I was actually sitting with her a packet arrived addressed to Miss Waverley.

I did not suspect what it might contain until it was too late. She recognized that photographs were inside the wrappings, which she tore open— and then!

She had a short fainting fit when she saw the Gainsborough hat, and as soon as she revived the extraordinary appearance I presented upside down on the mast sent her into violent hysterics. By the time she was in a condition to look at the equestrian portraits, she had grown cold and hard as marble.

"Go," she said, indicating the door; "I see I have been wasting my affection upon a heartless buffoon!"

I went— for she would listen to no explanations; and indeed I doubt whether, even were she to come upon this statement, it would serve to restore my tarnished ideal in her estimation. But though I have lost her, I am naturally anxious (as I said when I began) that the public should not be misled into drawing harsh conclusions from what, if left unexplained, may doubtless have a singular appearance.

IT IS TRUE that, up to the present, I have not been able to learn that any of those fatal portraits have absolutely been exposed for sale, though I direct my trembling steps almost every day to Regent Street, and search the windows of the Stereoscopic Company with furtive and foreboding eyes, dreading to be confronted with presentments of myself— Bedell Cruncher ("Vitriol"), the great critic!— lying across a chair in a state of collapse, sucking my thumb in a Gainsborough hat, or bestriding a ridiculous wooden horse with my face toward its tail!

But they cannot be long in coming out now; and my one hope is that these lines may appear in print in time to forestall the prejudice and scandal which are otherwise inevitable. At all events, now that the world is in possession of the real facts, I am entitled to hope that the treatment to which I have been subjected will excite the indignation and sympathy it deserves.

__________________

4: The Purple Terror

Fred Merrick White

1859-1935

The Strand Magazine, Sep 1898

An HTML edition of this story, complete with the original Strand Magazine illustrations, is at Project Gutenberg Australia.

LIEUTENANT Will Scarlett's instructions were devoid of problems, physical or otherwise. To convey a letter from Captain Driver of the Yankee Doodle, in Porto Rico Bay, to Admiral Lake on the other side of the isthmus, was an apparently simple matter.

"All you have to do," the captain remarked, "is to take three or four men with you in case of accidents, cross the isthmus on foot, and simply give this letter into the hands of Admiral Lake. By so doing we shall save at least four days, and the aborigines are presumedly friendly."

The aborigines aforesaid were Cuban insurgents. Little or no strife had taken place along the neck lying between Porto Rico and the north bay where Lake's flagship lay, though the belt was known to be given over to the disaffected Cubans.

"It is a matter of fifty miles through practically unexplored country," Scarlett replied; "and there's a good deal of the family quarrel in this business, sir. If the Spaniards hate us, the Cubans are not exactly enamoured of our flag."

Captain Driver roundly denounced the whole pack of them.

"Treacherous thieves to a man," he said. "I don't suppose your progress will have any brass bands and floral arches to it. And they tell me the forest is pretty thick. But you'll get there all the same. There is the letter, and you can start as soon as you like."

"I may pick my own men, sir?"

"My dear fellow, take whom you please. Take the mastiff, if you like."

"I'd like the mastiff," Scarlett replied; "as he is practically my own, I thought you would not object."

Will Scarlett began to glow as the prospect of adventure stimulated his imagination. He was rather a good specimen of West Point naval dandyism. He had brains at the back of his smartness, and his geological and botanical knowledge were going to prove of considerable service to a grateful country when said grateful country should have passed beyond the rudimentary stages of colonization. And there was some disposition to envy Scarlett on the part of others floating for the past month on the liquid prison of the sapphire sea.

A warrant officer, Tarrer by name, plus two A.B.'s of thews and sinews, to say nothing of the dog, completed the exploring party. By the time that the sun kissed the tip of the feathery hills they had covered some six miles of their journey. From the first Scarlett had been struck by the absolute absence of the desolation and horror of civil strife. Evidently the fiery cross had not been carried here; huts and houses were intact; the villagers stood under sloping eaves, and regarded the Americans with a certain sullen curiosity.

"We'd better stop for the night here," said Scarlett.

They had come at length to a village that boasted some pretensions. An adobe chapel at one end of the straggling street was faced by a wine-house at the other. A padre, with hands folded over a bulbous, greasy gabardine, bowed gravely to Scarlett's salutation. The latter had what Tarrer called "considerable Spanish."

"We seek quarters for the night," said Scarlett. "Of course, we are prepared to pay for them."

The sleepy padre nodded towards the wine-house.

"You will find fair accommodation there," he said. "We are friends of the Americanos."

Scarlett doubted the fact, and passed on with florid thanks. So far, little signs of friendliness had been encountered on the march. Coldness, suspicion, a suggestion of fear, but no friendliness to be embarrassing.

The keeper of the wine-shop had his doubts. He feared his poor accommodation for guests so distinguished. A score or more of picturesque, cut-throat-looking rascals with cigarettes in their mouths lounged sullenly in the bar. The display of a brace of gold dollars enlarged mine host's opinion of his household capacity.

"I will do my best, senors," he said. "Come this way."

So it came to pass that an hour after twilight Tarrer and Scarlett were seated in the open amongst the oleanders and the trailing gleam of the fire-flies, discussing cigars of average merit and a native wine that was not without virtues. The long bar of the wine-house was brilliantly illuminated; from within came shouts of laughter mingled with the ting, tang of the guitar and the rollicking clack of the castanets.

"They seem to be happy in there," Tarrer remarked. "It isn't all daggers and ball in this distressful country."

A certain curiosity came over Scarlett.

"It is the duty of a good officer," he said, "to lose no opportunity of acquiring useful information. Let us join the giddy throng, Tarrer."

Tarrer expressed himself with enthusiasm in favour of any amusement that might be going. A month's idleness on shipboard increases the appetite for that kind of thing wonderfully. The long bar was comfortable, and filled with Cubans who took absolutely no notice of the intruders. Their eyes were turned towards a rude stage at the far end of the bar, whereon a girl was gyrating in a dance with a celerity and grace that caused the wreath of flowers around her shoulders to resemble a trembling zone of purple flame.

"A wonderfully pretty girl and a wonderfully pretty dance," Scarlett murmured, when the motions ceased and the girl leapt gracefully to the ground. "Largesse, I expect. I thought so. Well, I'm good for a quarter."

The girl came forward, extending a shell prettily. She curtsied before Scarlett and fixed her dark, liquid eyes on his. As he smiled and dropped his quarter-dollar into the shell a coquettish gleam came into the velvety eyes. An ominous growl came from the lips of a bearded ruffian close by.

"Othello's jealous," said Tarrer. "Look at his face."

"I am better employed," Scarlett laughed. "That was a graceful dance, pretty one. I hope you are going to give us another one presently—"

Scarlett paused suddenly. His eyes had fallen on the purple band of flowers the girl had twined round her shoulder. Scarlett was an enthusiastic botanist; he knew most of the gems in Flora's crown, but he had never looked upon such a vivid wealth of blossom before.

The flowers were orchids, and orchids of a kind unknown to collectors anywhere. On this point Scarlett felt certain. And yet this part of the world was by no means a difficult one to explore in comparison with New Guinea and Sumatra, where the rarer varieties had their homes.

The blooms were immensely large, far larger than any flower of the kind known to Europe or America, of a deep pure purple, with a blood-red centre. As Scarlett gazed upon them he noticed a certain cruel expression on the flower. Most orchids have a kind of face of their own; the purple blooms had a positive expression of ferocity and cunning. They exhumed, too, a queer, sickly fragrance. Scarlett had smelt something like it before, after the Battle of Manila. The perfume was the perfume of a corpse.

"And yet they are magnificent flowers," said Scarlett. "Won't you tell me where you got them from, pretty one?"

The girl was evidently flattered by the attention bestowed upon her by the smart young American. The bearded Othello alluded to edged up to her side.

"The señor had best leave the girl alone," he said, insolently.

Scarlett's fist clenched as he measured the Cuban with his eyes. The Admiral's letter crackled in his breast-pocket, and discretion got the best of valour.

"You are paying yourself a poor compliment, my good fellow," he said, "though I certainly admire your good taste. Those flowers interested me."

The man appeared to be mollified. His features corrugated in a smile.

"The senor would like some of those blooms?" he asked. "It was I who procured them for little Zara here. I can show you where they grow."

Every eye in the room was turned in Scarlett's direction. It seemed to him that a kind of diabolical malice glistened on every dark face there, save that of the girl, whose features paled under her healthy tan.

"If the señor is wise," she began, "he will not—"

"Listen to the tales of a silly girl," Othello put in, menacingly. He grasped the girl by the arm, and she winced in positive pain. "Pshaw, there is no harm where the flowers grow, if one is only careful. I will take you there, and I will be your guide to Port Anna, where you are going, for a gold dollar."

All Scarlett's scientific enthusiasm was aroused. It is not given to every man to present a new orchid to the horticultural world. And this one would dwarf the finest plant hitherto discovered.

"Done with you," he said; "we start at daybreak. I shall look to you to be ready. Your name is Tito? Well, good-night, Tito."

As Scarlett and Tarrer withdrew the girl suddenly darted forward. A wild word or two fluttered from her lips. Then there was a sound as of a blow, followed by a little stifled cry of pain.

"No, no," Tarrer urged, as Scarlett half turned. "Better not. They are ten to one, and they are no friends of ours. It never pays to interfere in these family quarrels. I daresay, if you interfered, the girl would be just as ready to knife you as her jealous lover."

"But a blow like that, Tarrer!"

"It's a pity, but I don't see how we can help it. Your business is the quick dispatch of the Admiral's letter, not the squiring of dames."

Scarlett owned with a sigh that Tarrer was right.

ii

IT WAS quite a different Tito who presented himself at daybreak the following morning. His insolent manner had disappeared. He was cheerful, alert, and he had a manner full of the most winning politeness.

"You quite understand what we want," Scarlett said. "My desire is to reach Port Anna as soon as possible. You know the way?"

"Every inch of it, senor. I have made the journey scores of times. And I shall have the felicity of getting you there early on the third day from now."

"Is it so far as that?"

"The distance is not great, senor. It is the passage through the woods. There are parts where no white man has been before."

"And you will not forget the purple orchids?"

A queer gleam trembled like summer lightning in Tito's eyes. The next instant it had gone. A time was to come when Scarlett was to recall that look, but for the moment it was allowed to pass.

"The senor shall see the purple orchid," he said; "thousands of them. They have a bad name amongst our people, but that is nonsense. They grow in the high trees, and their blossoms cling to long, green tendrils. These tendrils are poisonous to the flesh, and great care should be taken in handling them. And the flowers are quite harmless, though we call them the devil's poppies."

To all of this Scarlett listened eagerly. He was all-impatient to see and handle the mysterious flower for himself. The whole excursion was going to prove a wonderful piece of luck. At the same time he had to curb his impatience. There would be no chance of seeing the purple orchid to-day.

For hours they fought their way along through the dense tangle. A heat seemed to lie over all the land like a curse— a blistering sweltering, moist heat with no puff of wind to temper its breathlessness. By the time that the sun was sliding down, most of the party had had enough of it.

They passed out of the underwood at length, and, striking upwards, approached a clump of huge forest trees on the brow of a ridge. All kinds of parasites hung from the branches; there were ropes and bands of green, and high up a fringe of purple glory that caused Scarlett's pulses to leap a little faster.

"Surely that is the purple orchid?" he cried.

Tito shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.

"A mere straggler or two," he said, "and out of reach in any case. The senor will have all he wants and more to-morrow."

"But it seems to me," said Scarlett, "that I could—"

Then he paused. The sun like a great glowing shield was shining full behind the tree with its crown of purple, and showing up every green rope and thread clinging to the branches with the clearness of liquid crystal. Scarlett saw a network of green cords like a huge spider's web, and in the centre of it was not a fly, but a human skeleton!

The arms and legs were stretched apart as if the victim had been crucified. The wrists and ankles were bound in the cruel web. Fragments of tattered clothing fluttered in the faint breath of the evening breeze.

"Horrible," Scarlett cried, "absolutely horrible!"

"You may well say that," Tarrer exclaimed, with a shudder. "Like the fly in the amber or the apple in the dumpling, the mystery is how he got there."

"Perhaps Tito can explain the mystery," Scarlett suggested.

Tito appeared to be uneasy and disturbed. He looked furtively from one to the other of his employers as a culprit might who feels he has been found out. But his courage returned as he noted the absence of suspicion in the faces turned upon him.

"I can explain," he exclaimed, with teeth that chattered from some unknown terror or guilt. "It is not the first time that I have seen the skeleton. Some plant-hunter doubtless who came here alone. He climbed into the tree without a knife, and those green ropes got twisted round his limbs, as a swimmer gets entangled in the weeds. The more he struggled, the more the cords bound him. He would call in vain for anyone to assist him here. And so he must have died."

The explanation was a plausible one, but by no means detracted from the horror of the discovery. For some time the party pushed their way on in the twilight, till the darkness descended suddenly like a curtain.

"We will camp here," Tito said; "it is high, dry ground, and we have this belt of trees above us. There is no better place than this for miles around. In the valley the miasma is dangerous."

As Tito spoke he struck a match, and soon a torch flamed up. The little party were on a small plateau, fringed by trees. The ground was dry and hard, and, as Scarlett and his party saw to their astonishment, littered with bones. There were skulls of animals and skulls of human beings, the skeletons of birds, the frames of beasts both great and small. It was a weird, shuddering sight.

"We can't possibly stay here," Scarlett exclaimed.

Tito shrugged his shoulders.

"There is nowhere else," he replied. "Down in the valley there are many dangers. Further in the woods are the snakes and jaguars. Bones are nothing. Peuf, they can be easily cleared away."

They had to be cleared away, and there was an end of the matter. For the most part the skeletons were white and dry as air and sun could make them. Over the dry, calcined mass the huge fringe of trees nodded mournfully. With the rest, Scarlett was busy scattering the mocking frames aside. A perfect human skeleton lay at his feet. On one finger something glittered— a signet ring. As Scarlett took it in his hand he started.

"I know this ring!" he exclaimed; "it belonged to Pierre Anton, perhaps the most skilled and intrepid plant-hunter the Jardin des Plantes ever employed. The poor fellow was by way of being a friend of mine. He met the fate that he always anticipated."

"There must have been a rare holocaust here," said Tarrer.

"It beats me," Scarlett responded. By this time a large circle had been shifted clear of human and other remains. By the light of the fire loathsome insects could be seen scudding and straddling away. "It beats me entirely. Tito, can you offer any explanation? If the bones were all human I could get some grip of the problem. But when one comes to birds and animals as well! Do you see that the skeletons lie in a perfect circle, starting from the centre of the clump of trees above us? What does it mean?"

Tito professed utter ignorance of the subject. Some years before a small tribe of natives invaded the peninsula for religious rites. They came from a long way off in canoes, and wild stories were told concerning them. They burnt sacrifices, no doubt.

Scarlett turned his back contemptuously on this transparent tale. His curiosity was aroused. There must be some explanation, for Pierre Anton had been seen of men within the last ten years.

"There's something uncanny about this," he said, to Tarrer. "I mean to get to the bottom of it, or know why."

"As for me," said Tarrer, with a cavernous yawn, "I have but one ambition, and that is my supper, followed by my bed."

iii

SCARLETT lay in the light of the fire looking about him. He felt restless and uneasy, though he would have found it difficult to explain the reason. For one thing, the air trembled to strange noises. There seemed to be something moving, writhing in the forest trees above his head. More than once it seemed to his distorted fancy that he could see a squirming knot of green snakes in motion.

Outside the circle, in a grotto of bones, Tito lay sleeping. A few moments before his dark, sleek head had been furtively raised, and his eyes seemed to gleam in the flickering firelight with malignant cunning. As he met Scarlett's glance he gave a deprecatory gesture and subsided.

"What the deuce does it all mean?" Scarlett muttered. "I feel certain yonder rascal is up to some mischief. Jealous still because I paid his girl a little attention. But he can't do us any real harm. Quiet, there!"

The big mastiff growled and then whined uneasily. Even the dog seemed to be conscious of some unseen danger. He lay down again, cowed by the stern command, but he still whimpered in his dreams.

"I fancy I'll keep awake for a spell," Scarlett told himself.

For a time he did so. Presently he began to slide away into the land of poppies. He was walking amongst a garden of bones which bore masses of purple blossoms. Then Pierre Anton came on the scene, pale and resolute as Scarlett had always known him; then the big mastiff seemed in some way to be mixed up with the phantasm of the dream, barking as if in pain, and Scarlett came to his senses.

He was breathing short, a beady perspiration stood on his forehead, his heart hammered in quick thuds—all the horrors of nightmare were still upon him. In a vague way as yet he heard the mastiff howl, a real howl of real terror, and Scarlett knew that he was awake.

Then a strange thing happened. In the none too certain light of the fire, Scarlett saw the mastiff snatched up by some invisible hand, carried far on high towards the trees, and finally flung to the earth with a crash. The big dog lay still as a log.

A sense of fear born of the knowledge of impotence came over Scarlett; what in the name of evil did it all mean? The smart scientist had no faith in the occult, and yet what did it all mean?

Nobody stirred. Scarlett's companions were soaked and soddened with fatigue; the rolling thunder of artillery would have scarce disturbed them. With teeth set and limbs that trembled, Scarlett crawled over to the dog.

The great, black-muzzled creature was quite dead. The full chest was stained and soaked in blood; the throat had been cut apparently with some jagged, saw-like instrument, away to the bone. And, strangest thing of all, scattered all about the body was a score or more of the great purple orchid flowers broken off close to the head. A hot, pricking sensation travelled slowly up Scarlett's spine and seemed to pass out at the tip of his skull. He felt his hair rising.

He was frightened. As a matter of honest fact, he had never been so horribly scared in his life before. The whole thing was so mysterious, so cruel, so bloodthirsty.

Still, there must be some rational explanation. In some way the matter had to do with the purple orchid. The flower had an evil reputation. Was it not known to these Cubans as the devil's poppy?

Scarlett recollected vividly now Zara's white, scared face when Tito had volunteered to show the way to the resplendent bloom; he remembered the cry of the girl and the blow that followed. He could see it all now. The girl had meant to warn him against some nameless horror to which Tito was leading the small party. This was the jealous Cuban's revenge.

A wild desire to pay this debt to the uttermost fraction filled Scarlett, and shook him with a trembling passion. He crept along in the drenching dew to where Tito lay, and touched his forehead with the chill blue rim of a revolver barrel. Tito stirred slightly.

"You dog!" Scarlett cried. "I am going to shoot you."

Tito did not move again. His breathing was soft and regular. Beyond a doubt the man was sleeping peacefully. After all he might be innocent; and yet, on the other hand, he might be so sure of his quarry that he could afford to slumber without anxiety as to his vengeance.

In favour of the latter theory was the fact that the Cuban lay beyond the limit of what had previously been the circle of dry bones. It was just possible that there was no danger outside that pale. In that case it would be easy to arouse the rest, and so save them from the horrible death which had befallen the mastiff. No doubt these were a form of upas tree, but that would not account for the ghastly spectacle in mid-air.

"I'll let this chap sleep for the present," Scarlett muttered.

He crawled back, not without misgivings, into the ring of death. He meant to wake the others and then wait for further developments. By now his senses were more alert and vigorous than they had ever been before. A preternatural clearness of brain and vision possessed him. As he advanced he saw suddenly falling a green bunch of cord that straightened into a long, emerald line. It was triangular in shape, fine at the apex, and furnished with hooked spines. The rope appeared to dangle from the tree overhead; the broad, sucker-like termination was evidently soaking up moisture.

A natural phenomenon evidently, Scarlett thought. This was some plant new to him, a parasite living amongst the tree-tops and drawing life and vigour by means of these green, rope-like antennae designed by Nature to soak and absorb the heavy dews of night.

For a moment the logic of this theory was soothing to Scarlett's distracted nerves, but only for a moment, for then he saw at regular intervals along the green rope the big purple blossoms of the devil's poppy.

He stood gasping there, utterly taken aback for the moment. There must be some infernal juggling behind all this business. He saw the rope slacken and quiver, he saw it swing forward like a pendulum, and the next minute it had passed across the shoulders of a sleeping seaman.

Then the green root became as the arm of an octopus. The line shook from end to end like the web of an angry spider when invaded by a wasp. It seemed to grip the sailor and tighten, and then, before Scarlett's, afrighted eyes, the sleeping man was raised gently from the ground.

Scarlett jumped forward with a desire to scream hysterically. Now that a comrade was in danger he was no longer afraid. He whipped a jack-knife from his pocket and slashed at the cruel cord. He half expected to meet with the stoutness of a steel strand, but to his surprise the feeler snapped like a carrot, bumping the sailor heavily on the ground.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes vigorously.

"That you, sir?" he asked. "What is the matter?"

"For the love of God, get up at once and help me to arouse the others," Scarlett said, hoarsely. "We have come across the devil's workshop. All the horrors of the inferno are invented here."

The bluejacket struggled to his feet. As he did so, the clothing from his waist downwards slipped about his feet, clean cut through by the teeth of the green parasite. All around the body of the sailor blood oozed from a zone of teeth-marks.

Two-o'clock-in-the-morning courage is a virtue vouchsafed to few. The tar, who would have faced an ironclad cheerfully, fairly shivered with fright and dismay.

"What does it mean, sir?" he cried. "I've been—"

"Wake the others," Scarlett screamed; "wake the others."

Two or three more green tangles of rope came tumbling to the ground, straightening and quivering instantly. The purple blossoms stood out like a frill upon them. Like a madman, Scarlett shouted, kicking his companions without mercy.

They were all awake at last, grumbling and moaning for their lost slumbers. All this time Tito had never stirred.

"I don't understand it at all," said Tarrer.

"Come from under those trees," said Scarlett, "and I will endeavour to explain. Not that you will believe me for a moment. No man can be expected to believe the awful nightmare I am going to tell you."

Scarlett proceeded to explain. As he expected, his story was followed with marked incredulity, save by the wounded sailor, who had strong evidence to stimulate his otherwise defective imagination.

"I can't believe it," Tarrer said, at length. They were whispering together beyond earshot of Tito, whom they had no desire to arouse for obvious reasons. "This is some diabolical juggling of yonder rascally Cuban. It seems impossible that those slender green cords could—"

Scarlett pointed to the centre of the circle.

"Call the dog," he said grimly, "and see if he will come."

"I admit the point as far as the poor old mastiff is concerned. But at the same time I don't— however, I'll see for myself."

By this time a dozen or more of the slender cords were hanging pendent from the trees. They moved from spot to spot as if jerked up by some unseen hand and deposited a foot or two farther. With the great purple bloom fringing the stem, the effect was not unlovely save to Scarlett, who could see only the dark side of it. As Tarrer spoke he advanced in the direction of the trees.

"What are you going to do?" Scarlett asked.

"Exactly what I told you. I am going to investigate this business for myself."

Without wasting further words Scarlett sprang forward. It was no time for the niceties of an effete civilization. Force was the only logical argument to be used in a case like this, and Scarlett was the more powerful man of the two.

Tarrer saw and appreciated the situation.

"No, no," he cried; "none of that. Anyway, you're too late."

He darted forward and threaded his way between the slender emerald columns. As they moved slowly and with a certain stately deliberation there was no great danger to an alert and vigorous individual. As Scarlett entered the avenue he could hear the soak and suck as the dew was absorbed.

"For Heaven's sake, come out of it," he cried.

The warning came too late. A whip-like trail of green touched Tarrer from behind, and in a lightning flash he was in the toils. The tendency to draw up anything and everything gave the cords a terrible power. Tarrer evidently felt it, for his breath came in great gasps.

"Cut me free," he said, hoarsely; "cut me free. I am being carried off my feet."

He seemed to be doomed for a moment, for all the cords there were apparently converging in his direction. This, as a matter of fact, was a solution of the whole sickening, horrible sensation. Pulled here and there, thrust in one direction and another, Tarrer contrived to keep his feet.

Heedless of possible danger to himself Scarlett darted forward, calling to his companions to come to the rescue. In less time than it takes to tell, four knives were at work ripping and slashing in all directions.

"Not all of you," Scarlett whispered. So tense was the situation that no voice was raised above a murmur. "You two keep your eyes open for fresh cords, and cut them as they fall, instantly. Now then."

The horrible green spines were round Tarrer's body like snakes. His face was white, his breath came painfully, for the pressure was terrible. It seemed to Scarlett to be one horrible dissolving view of green, slimy cords and great weltering, purple blossoms. The whole of the circle was strewn with them. They were wet and slimy underfoot.

Tarrer had fallen forward half unconscious. He was supported now by but two cords above his head. The cruel pressure had been relieved. With one savage sweep of his knife Scarlett cut the last of the lines, and Tarrer fell like a log unconscious to the ground. A feeling of nausea, a yellow dizziness, came over Scarlett as he staggered beyond the dread circle. He saw Tarrer carried to a place of safety, and then the world seemed to wither and leave him in the dark.

"I feel a bit groggy and weak," said Tarrer an hour or so later: "but beyond that this idiot of a Richard is himself again. So far as I am concerned, I should like to get even with our friend Tito for this."

"Something with boiling oil in it," Scarlett suggested, grimly. "The callous scoundrel has slept soundly through the whole of this business. I suppose he felt absolutely certain that he had finished with us."

"Upon my word, we ought to shoot the beggar!" Tarrer exclaimed.

"I have a little plan of my own," said Scarlett, "which I am going to put in force later on. Meanwhile we had better get on with breakfast. When Tito wakes a pleasant little surprise will await him."

Tito roused from his slumbers in due course and looked around him. His glance was curious, disappointed, then full of a white and yellow fear. A thousand conflicting emotions streamed across his dark face. Scarlett read them at a glance as he called the Cuban over to him.

"I am not going into any unnecessary details with you," he said. "It has come to my knowledge that you are playing traitor to us. Therefore we prefer to complete our journey alone. We can easily find the way now."

"The señor may do as he pleases," he replied. "Give me my dollar and let me go."

Scarlett replied grimly that he had no intention of doing anything of the kind. He did not propose to place the lives of himself and his comrades in the power of a rascally Cuban who had played false.

"We are going to leave you here till we return," he said. "You will have plenty of food, you will be perfectly safe under the shelter of these trees, and there is no chance of anybody disturbing you. We are going to tie you up to one of these trees for the next four-and-twenty hours."

All the insolence died out of Tito's face. His knees bowed, a cold dew came out over the ghastly green of his features. From the shaking of his limbs he might have fared disastrously with ague.

"The trees," he stammered, "the trees, senor! There is danger from snakes, and— and from many things. There are other places—"

"If this place was safe last night it is safe to-day," Scarlett said, grimly. "I have quite made up my mind."

Tito fought no longer. He fell forward on his knees, he howled for mercy, till Scarlett fairly kicked him up again.

"Make a clean breast of it," he said, "or take the consequences. You know perfectly well that we have found you out, scoundrel."

Tito's story came in gasps. He wanted to get rid of the Americans. He was jealous. Besides, under the Americanos would Cuba be any better off? By no means and assuredly not. Therefore it was the duty of every good Cuban to destroy the Americanos where possible.

"A nice lot to fight for," Scarlett muttered. "Get to the point."

Hastened to the point by a liberal application of stout shoe-leather, Tito made plenary confession. The señor himself had suggested death by medium of the devil's poppies. More than one predatory plant-hunter had been lured to his destruction in the same way. The skeleton hung on the tree was a Dutchman who had walked into the clutch of the purple terror innocently. And Pierre Anton had done the same. The suckers of the devil's poppy only came down at night to gather moisture; in the day they were coiled up like a spring. And anything that they touched they killed. Tito had watched more than one bird or small beast crushed and mauled by these cruel spines with their fringe of purple blossoms.

"How do you get the blooms?" Scarlett asked.

"That is easy," Tito replied. "In the daytime I moisten the ground under the trees. Then the suckers unfold, drawn by the water. Once the suckers unfold one cuts several of them off with long knives. There is danger, of course, but not if one is careful."

"I'll not trouble the devil's poppy any further at present," said Scarlett, "but I shall trouble you to accompany me to my destination as a prisoner."

Tito's eyes dilated.

"They will not shoot me?" he asked, hoarsely.

"I don't know," Scarlett replied. "They may hang you instead. At any rate, I shall be bitterly disappointed if they don't end you one way or the other. Whichever operation it is, I can look forward to it with perfect equanimity."

__________________

5: The Artificial Honeymoon

H Bedford-Jones

1887-1949

Weird Tales, July 1940

The first of the "professional corpse" series of stories.

FOR twelve years I've earned an honest living in a strange, perhaps a horrible fashion. Nobody in the world has ever before followed my profession.

James F. Bronson is the name. I've played a chief part in the most dramatic situations, the most pitiful and heart-rending situations, which the human brain could conceive; and in each case I've been quite oblivious to all that went on. For, during these twelve years, I've been a professional corpse— a walking dead man.

You may possibly have noticed the advertisement I've run in newspapers from time to time, all over the country. You may have wondered what it meant. It was quite discreetly worded. From the very beginning I've tried to guard against any connection with crooked enterprise. As appears in the instance of the Shuteye Medium. I didn't always succeed; and elsewhere I may have been imposed upon; but to the best of my knowledge I've never been employed toward the harm of anyone, or in contravention of the law.

Here's a sample of my advertisement:

Personal!—It is possible to simulate death, as I can demonstrate to interested parties. Endorsement of medical profession, absolute discretion. All work confidential but must be legal and subject to closest investigation. News Box B543.

3439

Had I been unscrupulous, I could have amassed a fortune through this blind ad. Each time it appeared, I've received tempting offers, some frankly illegal and others with some illegal aspect in the background.

I've never accepted one of these offers. In relating a few of my most remarkable experiences, I must protect my own identity and that of my clients; otherwise, no details will be changed or hidden. For example, in the story of the blind farmer and the strip dancer, the lady concerned is now an internationally known movie star. It would be a dastardly act even to hint at her identity. Nor do I want to do myself out of a job. Despite the thirty-one times I have been pronounced dead, and the seven times I've actually been buried, I am still in pursuit of shoes for the baby.

Before taking up my first case, the curious account of the artificial honeymoon, let me briefly sketch my history and the discovery of my singular ability.

I was born on a farm in western Canada, and had a fair education, with two years of college, before my father died and the family went broke. After drifting around and never noticing anything extraordinary about myself, I came back to the farm at the age of twenty-three, to support the women folks. I was broke. We were all broke.

I had an uncle who was also a drifter. He had been in South America, and turned up one fine day with a trunk full of junk, a lot of wild stories, and a cough that killed him two months later.

He had brought from Ecuador two tiny, shrunken human heads, the size of a billiard ball. He sent these off to a museum and the money helped to bury him. Among other things he had a bottle made from a gourd and filled with liquid, which he said was a sacred drink used by the Indians in Ecuador to produce dreams. He expected to make money out of it, but died before he could get anywhere with his schemes.

After his death I was going through his effects, hoping to find something that we might sell, for we had bitter need of money.

I came on the gourd bottle and did what only a young fool would do: I sampled it. Pouring out some of the stuff I tasted it. As it seemed harmless and I was curious to see what dreams it would produce, I swallowed the whole dose.

It burned like fire. I became rapidly drowsy, and frightfully scared. I stumbled downstairs, told the folks what I had done, yelled that I was poisoned, and then keeled over, dead to the world.

It seemed that I really was dead. Naturally skinny and none too strong, I must have looked terrible. They said that my lips were really blue.

The doctor came the six miles from town in record time. He took one look at me, put his stethoscope to my chest, felt for my pulse, and said I was dead. He stuck a pin in me, and was sure of it. He hauled open my shirt and ran his fingernail over my abdomen, and there was no reflex.

Then he turned up my eyelid, held a mirror to my nose, and changed his mind at once.

"Hello! Something queer about this; he's breathing. And his pupil's not dilated," he exclaimed. "Where's that stuff he took? Where did it come from? What is it?"

NOBODY had the answers, of course. Neither did he, but he was a shrewd man. He gave me a very careful examination, and presently slid an injection into me. It was, as he told me later, a fortieth grain of atropine and caffeine sodium benzoate. This brought me around. Had it not been for the eye-pupil and the mirror test, he would have buried me.

My only sensation was of having been asleep, and I had no ill effects. Some days later he told me in plain words what a damned young fool I was, and what was amiss with me.

"Ever been examined for life insurance?"

"Never could afford luxuries, doc," I admitted.

"Hm! A queer case, Bronson; I'd better make it clear to you. First, you have bradycardia and auricular fibrilation; in plain English, a slow heart, beating barely forty to the minute, but it flutters instead of beating. Barrel chest; the heart is back from the ribs and the stethoscope doesn't get it. Naturally not," he added grimly, "because your heart is on the right side."

This was before it had become fashionable to have the heart thus misplaced.

As he explained, the slow heart and fluttering circulation killed any pulse, and accounted for my usual pallor and my bluish lips. Also, the liquid I had taken was enough to kill anyone; a little more might have actually killed me.

"I took a sample of that stuff and had it analyzed. Here's what is in the infernal concoction," and he handed me the report of the analysis. "The protopine, of course, killed the sensory nerves; there was no abdominal reflex. You had me fooled for a minute. Luckily I gave you the right hypodermic to bring you around. Don't be such a fool again. The minute you get home throw that cursed liquid of yours away."

I did nothing of the sort. Why not? Simply because, at the time, I thought I might capitalize the local notoriety this experience was bringing me. I thought of writing a story about it, and I might need the liquid as proof. So I kept it. Here is the analysis he gave me:

Anhalonium (Peyotl)— 10%

Protopine— 8%

Bhang— 15%

Alcohol (Tequila)— 67%

Inorganic salts, minute.

Coloring matter, type undetermined.

The local newspaper told about the young farmer who had been dead and was alive, with his heart in the wrong place. Other newspapers copied the story. A Scotch surgeon came out from Edmonton to investigate me. He thumped me, measured me, examined me minutely, and after grudgingly confirming the opinion of the local doctor, went away. (Not long ago I met him again in Los Angeles, but he failed to recognize me.) Obviously, the theory was entirely correct, for since then it has served in all my contacts with the medical fraternity.

This misadventure caused me great terror; the discovery of my peculiar physical formation preyed upon me and frightened me. And yet, as a direct result of my local notoriety, I received the first lucrative inkling that I need not consider myself doomed to an untimely end. Two men in a car with a United States license showed up at the farm a few days later on, and asked for me.

THE driver was a husky, vigorous man with shrewd gimlet eyes. His left hand was gloved and dead; it was an artificial limb, but he could work its mechanical fingers very cleverly. His name was Earl Carter, and he was an attorney from the States. The man with him was a physician whom he had brought out from Edmonton.

Well aware that the family would not approve his errand, Carter got me to go out for a ride with them. Once we were out of sight from the house he drew up alongside the road. The two of them pumped me, and I was ready enough to talk about my experience. Presently Carter looked at the doctor, who nodded.

"I'd chance it, yes."

"All right." Carter handed me a crisp hundred-dollar bill. "Bronson, this is yours if you'll get that gourd bottle, take a dose, and show us you can play dead. The doctor here will take care of you and bring you around. If you can do the trick I'll pay you a thousand more and all expenses. I want you to go home with me and pull off the stunt once again, under certain conditions. I'll need you for perhaps a month. It's good pay."

"What?" I exclaimed, in swift alarm. "Take a chance on killing myself for a hundred dollars?"

"Are you worth that much alive?" Carter asked grimly. "Think it over, young man."

He made no other argument, to his credit, and none was needed. The thought of the money overbalanced my fears; at the moment, we actually had no food in the house. I made him sign an agreement to take care of all funeral expenses if I really died, however.

Then we drove back home. I sneaked out the gourd bottle, and we went to town. In a hotel room I took a dose of the stuff—and went to sleep. First, the doctor had gone over me very carefully. He was taking no chances.

When I woke up again the hundred was mine. Carter admitted, too, that he had been frightened stiff by the result of the experiment. The doctor was more enthusiastic about it. I heard them talking.

"The eyes could be taken care of," the medico was saying. "The only thing he responds to is the mirror test, otherwise. That is, if you exclude a very critical examination."

Carter grunted. "Yeah? What would take care of the eyes, then?"

"Homatropine would dilate the pupils as in death, and a little cocaine with it would obviate any corneal reflex. Except for the breathing, he was to all appearance a dead man. He could stand no fluoroscopic examination, naturally; but he'd fool many medical practitioners, especially if no laboratory facilities were at hand. A most remarkable case!"

Carter knew now that I could do what he wanted. I knew that the stunt produced no very bad effects on me, so my terror was gone.

In a very general way only, Earl Carter told me what he desired. He gave me five hundred dollars advance pay, which I turned over to the family, and we started in his car for the States.

This drive marked the great turning point in my life.

Carter would not detail his plans, but whatever they might be, I could guess that they held nothing petty or unlawful. This man was no piker. He carried a spacious air. His vast energy, his driving power, were phenomenal, and extended in a dozen different directions. He could turn his hand, even his mechanical hand, to anything, and become a master. His air of entire assurance was no mere braggadocio. It held something overwhelming. We became real friends on that trip, and Carter talked to me like a father.

"With this damnable gift of yours, Bronson, you'll have to keep a tight check-rein on yourself. If you fell into the wrong hands, if you became a tool for unscrupulous crooks, you could make a raft of money; watch out! God knows I'm no angel, and I don't believe in much of anything, but this is something that frightens me."

"You should worry," I said with youthful cynicism.

He gave me a hard look. "You don't get it. Bronson, whatever powers there may be in heaven or hell keep an eye on such things. Of this I'm convinced. I can't explain it; you're a farmer, but you can't explain how a blade of corn comes up out of a seed kernel. Still, you know it does. There's a strange and terrible certainty in the law of compensation, young man. If you should turn yourself to illegal uses, look out! I don't know what would happen, but I'd hate to be in your shoes. You can make money, and make it straight. Remember that, always."

Over and over, the lawyer harped on this theme, and drove it heavily into me. He was a fine man, the squarest man I had ever known, even if he was full of legal tricks. Square in a man's sense of the word. Angular, hard, straight as a die— foursquare.

He admitted freely that he did not serve the law, but made it serve him, and at times ran pretty close to the wind. He handed out none of the old blarney about legal ethics, which is something designed merely to help rook the sucker: On that drive he gave me a liberal education in the cold, ugly, hard-rock racket of lawyers; and more, he showed me how definitely a man must live by his own code of ethics if he is to come out on top.

If Earl Carter is still alive and reads this story I want him to realize how deeply his words sank into me, and what fruit they bore. I owe that man a great deal.

Before reaching the city that was our destination, we had a week's drive. In this time I came to learn a lot about Carter's business. He was not a mouthpiece for crooks, as he had little or no criminal practice, and wanted none. He did specialize in helping people who were in a jam— and who could pay heavily for the help.

He drilled into me that the prime business of a lawyer is to get his client's money, and that plenty of big-time legal lights with wealthy clients simply made use of the law to serve the wishes of those clients. This was only a tiny corner of the racket, but Earl Carter had turned it into a mighty big corner, for himself. No matter how respected or innocent a person might be, the law could trap him and squeeze him— unless he happened to have an attorney who could outsmart the law.

"And I'm the outsmarter, you bet," Carter told me quite frankly. We drew pretty close together in those days. "I get the sucker off the hook, and he pays through the nose for it. Thirty per cent of all business in America is run on the principle that the fool and his money might as well be parted now. We've passed the age of simple honesty; it went out with muttonchop whiskers. Only, I get his money by saving him from his folly."

"Where do I come in?" was my question.

He grinned at me. "You just obey orders. Right now, I've got a whopping big case on hand that should never come into court. That's why I took a long trip by myself; I need to cool off my brain and get ideas. When I found you, I got 'em. From the angle of legal ethics and such bunk, I ought to be shot for what I've got in mind. There's just one thing about it to remember. It's going to get an innocent person clear of a lousy mess. And if you ask me, that's pretty damned good ethics all by itself."

Before crossing the border, we stopped a couple of days in a small town. How Carter managed it, I can only surmise. When we left there, however, I had a legalized birth certificate in the name of Arthur Sullivan. As such, I came into the United States with him, and I continued to be Arthur Sullivan for some little time thereafter.

At a suburban station a few miles outside his home city, Carter let me out.

"Ride into town and go to the Grand Hotel," he said. "Get yourself some clothes and study the stock market; you're a broker from San Francisco and you never heard of me. Let your mustache grow. You'll hear from me in a week."

I obeyed orders. The Grand Hotel deserved its name; I spent money, but did not pad my swindle sheet. The mustache made a great change in my appearance, and I hung around board rooms and learned the jargon of the market, for I was anxious to make good at this job. Meantime, I heard a lot about the Petty case.

It was the biggest, juiciest and hottest scandal that had ever struck town, and when it came to trial promised to be still hotter.

Colonel Petty had died three years before, leaving a sister, a widow and a daughter. He was many times a millionaire, owning about a third of everything in the city, and his estate all went to his daughter, under the guardianship of his widow, who had plenty in her own right. And now the sister, who was one of these thin-lipped women, had chipped in to demand the guardianship, the money and the daughter, alleging that the widow was an improper person to have the child, and so forth. And they had the goods on her, too.

Around the hotel I had met a doctor named Slausson, who knew everybody in town, and I half suspected that Carter had steered him on me. We got pretty well acquainted.

"But what's the scrap about?" I asked Slausson, as we talked over the Petty case. "I understand this daughter is eighteen. Whoever wins would only get to handle the estate for three years or less. And can't she pick her own guardian?"

"Not in this state." Slausson grinned. "Minors are protected in this state, you bet! But you don't get the idea. Nobody gives a damn about the girl; it's the shakedown. This old maid sister, Tabitha Petty, has the biggest law firm in the West handling her charges. And those boys are slick. Mrs. Petty, the widow, is a frivolous, pleasant, harmless woman who likes a good time and spends her money. When they get her into court, they'll just tear her wide open, see? Misconduct, you bet, real or faked. Probably faked, if you ask me. It'll be red hot, too. She faces newspaper notoriety of the worst kind. She's sure to lose the girl, who adores her, and she'll be branded for life—unless she digs into her wad and settles things. Earl Carter won't let her get into court. He'll settle."

I remembered all Carter had said, and from what else I could gather, realized that Mrs. Petty was the sucker in the case. The trial was set over to September, which was three months away. The sucker was sure to lose. Tabitha and her law firm were utterly respectable, aristocratic, and practically saints; so upright they nearly fell over backward. Most lawyers, up against that firm, just hollered for help and paid up rather than risk themselves in court. But not Earl Carter.

"Like to meet Mrs. Petty?" Slausson said to me one afternoon. "She's giving a dinner dance tonight at the country club. We might run out there. I'd be glad to give you a guest card, too, for the length of your stay."

NATURALLY I assented, perceiving the hand of Earl Carter at work. This became quite certain with evening. Mrs. Petty not only was most gracious, but invited me to luncheon two days later. Little as I knew of society, this intimate invitation could only be explained in one way— Carter.

Mrs. Petty was pretty and light and useless as a bubble, with not enough brains to be anything but the leader of town society; just the right target for such a lawsuit. Her daughter Patricia— ah, that was different! The girl was something wonderful. There was a flame in her. She volunteered to teach me golf, and in another three days we were running around together like old friends.

I did not flatter myself that she had any personal interest in Arthur Sullivan. It was a hard job not to lose my head, what with her companionship and being invited to the house all the time by her mother, mingling with their friends and so forth. I was pretty much of a farm hand, and had sense enough to realize it, fortunately.

All this time, I had received not a word from Earl Carter, and had not seen him. I sent in my expense account each week to his office and received an envelope of cash, even to pocket money, by messenger, in return.

Then, one morning, Slausson telephoned me to come over to his office. I went. His girl attendant sent me into his private office, and he gave me a grin.

"Strip, Sullivan," he said. "I want to give you the once-over."

"What for?" I demanded, in surprise.

He cocked his head on one side and eyed me.

"Yours not to reason why, feller. Yours but to do and die. Do you get me? No names mentioned, either. I want to check up on you, that's all."

I assented with a shrug. When he applied his stethoscope to my right side instead of to my left, I knew instantly that he was working for Earl Carter; not another soul knew my secret. Evidently he was checking me over to be sure there were no mistakes, and he was thorough about it. When he got through, he gave me a bottle of liquid and a dropper.

"Complete directions on the bottle," he said. "Whenever you feel like committing suicide, Sullivan, be sure and use this hematropine and cocaine first on your eyes. Follow the directions carefully; a drop every minute for five minutes—"

Still no word from Carter, no hint of what I was to do. The suspense began to get on my nerves. So did Patricia.

Why? Well, I must be honest about it; no one could be so intimately associated with that girl, and not react to it. We got on pretty well together. She was very frank and open, a good sport in all the term implies, and pretty as a picture. She had hair like red gold, and looked like Myrna Loy in the face; when she laughed, you could hear little silver bells tinkling in the air.

She was not in love with anyone, as I had discovered. We had not mentioned Carter, nor anything out of the way in our friendship.

I knew that she was devoted to her mother and hated her Aunt Tabitha like poison, as well she might, but we had never discussed the lawsuit, of course.

Then, without warning, everything broke at once. And what a break!

It was the middle of July, and hot weather. I did a round of golf with Patricia in the morning, and came back home for lunch with her and Mrs. Petty. There was one other guest; it was Earl Carter. I was introduced to him, quite formally, and then we had lunch served out in the sunken garden behind the huge house. It was cool there, beneath a big striped awning. Also, no one could overhear what was said.

When the things were cleared away and the servants dismissed, Pat and her mother went to look at the flowers, leaving me alone with Carter. He gave me a hard, straight look.

"Sullivan, this is Tuesday. On Friday afternoon, you ask Pat to marry you."

It hit me like a bombshell. I stared at him for a moment, then got angry.

"Are you joking? No, you're not. Well, I'll do no such thing—"

"Part of the job," he cut in, chewing on a cigar. "Come on, now; straight talk. You and I and Slausson know you're going to die. These women don't. They think you're going to marry Pat, then the marriage will be annulled. You know all about the legal mess, and you've got to do the one thing that can save Mrs. Petty from the whole dirty net these swine have caught 'em in. The marriage, of course, is to be in name only."

"Why not hire somebody else for that?" I said hotly. "And then have the marriage annulled?"

"Nope. Under the state law, the one thing that can clinch our business is for Pat to become a widow—quick. Otherwise, there'd be fraud charges and hell to pay. Pat comes into her money, is free of guardianship, this damned cat of a Tabitha is helpless and so are her lawyers. And there's no shakedown. Get it?"

I grunted in dismay. "But I'll be married, tied up all my life!"

Carter chuckled. "Sure, Arthur Sullivan will. He'll be dead and buried, with a fine monument in the cemetery. You won't. You'll be James Bronson, another man."

"Damn it, I don't like it," I said bluntly. "What about Pat? Wouldn't she actually be tied up to me for life, if the truth of it ever leaked out? Isn't a marriage under a pseudonym still a marriage?"

"How can it be if the husband's dead?" Carter snapped. He reddened a bit; my question had hit him in a tender place. "Never mind all that; I'm running this business, not you. Here they come. Remember, now— it's to be annulled! That's all they know."

We rose, as the ladies returned. Carter explained that he had put the whole thing before me and I had agreed. It would all be very simple. Mrs. Petty would be able to have the marriage annulled and there would be no trouble.

"Oh, it all seems so terrible!" Mrs. Petty's nerves were shaky. "What if anything went wrong?"

Carter gave me a grim look. "Nothing will go wrong. There's not a loophole."

"But there is." Patricia flashed me a quick smile. "If Arthur were crooked, things might go frightfully wrong; but he's not. Your opinion of him, Mr. Carter, is correct, and I know him pretty well. You will help us, Arthur?"

"I suppose so, yes," I said, hesitant. "Only—"

"Only, it's a business proposition," said Pat, with a nod. "Right."

"Well, I suppose I'll have to go through with it," her mother declared resignedly.

"You will," Carter assured her. "And when you're tempted to back out, just think how Aunt Tabitha is going to foam at the mouth! Now, you young folks, get things straight. You propose on Friday afternoon, Sullivan. Pat says yes. The two of you leave for a drive in Pat's car on Saturday morning. Drive on across the state line to Cedarville; you can get a license and be married there on Saturday afternoon, which you can't do in this state. Thus there can be no court interference until Monday, when it's too late. Cedarville is a big place. Take a suite at the Hotel Cedar and stay until Monday. Then drive on clear to St. Louis, and come back here the end of the week. All set?"

It was all set. Before leaving, however, Carter had a last word with me alone.

"Sullivan, you'll pull the death act on the following Monday, at a luncheon here. I'll have just the people I want, for guests, and I'll be here as well. That evening, I'll get you out of town. Go far and stay. Shave off your mustache or grow a beard, either one. I'll give you a ring here— you and Pat will come back to this house—on Sunday evening and make sure everything's jake."

So everything was shaped up, and once I was in for the business, I could admire the ingenuity of Carter's plan.

Just the same, I was frightfully awkward when with Patricia, during the next two days. A thousand problems bothered me.

I did not know what to say or do. At length she got right down to cases with me, while we were dancing at the country club Thursday evening.

"Arthur, for heavens' sake come back to earth and be sensible! Stop flushing every time you look at me. I'm the one who ought to be embarrassed and all in a stew."

"That's the trouble," I said. "You're not. And—and I think a lot of you."

Her face got cold. "You're not jumping the gun, are you?"

"No, confound it," I said. Just then someone cut in, and we did not refer to it again.

Friday afternoon, at the country club, we played around five holes and I could not get up to the point of proposing. Business or not, I evaded it. At the sixth hole, Pat told me to get a move on. I had gone into a bunker, and the caddies were watching.

"Just what we want, Art," she said briskly. "When they see us kiss, those boys will spread the news, and—"

"All right, damn it, will you marry me?" I blurted out desperately.

She laughed. "Yes! In spite of all the world, my hero!"

So I kissed her, and she kissed me; then she drew back, a little red.

"You don't need to show too much enthusiasm," she snapped. "Remember, this is business only. Come on, finish the match and pretend you don't see those caddies snickering."

So I did.

Next morning I met Pat downtown, climbed into her car, and we were off. She said her mother was pretty near hysterical over the affair, but would come out of it all right. Pat was nervous herself, and so was I. Even in a business proposition, people have feelings.

We got to Cedarville, crossed the state line, and at the courthouse got our marriage license. This part of it was all right. We hunted up a justice of the peace and that was all right, too, until he went to work on us. Then I began to feel uneasy. When he slammed his book and pronounced us man and wife, Pat was white and shaky and I was red as a beet.

"Well, get busy and kiss the bride!" cackled the justice.

I did it, and Pat clung to me for a moment. Her kiss was sweet, and it was like fire; it went through every vein of me.

"Two dollars," said the justice. "Business is business, folks."

"A good motto to remember," Pat said to me, and I nodded dumbly.

We went to the hotel and got a suite. Pat went up with the bags, to freshen up a bit, and I got rid of the car. She met me in the lobby, and we went out to a picture show, which is the best sedative for disordered nerves. It was going to be an awkward moment when we got back to the hotel for the night, and I think we both wanted to put it off as long as possible.

However, the movie put us into humor for joking over the marriage state, and we hunted up a good place where we could dine and dance.

"What about wine?" said Pat, after we had ordered. She gave me her bright and flashing smile; there was a sparkle in her eyes. "Don't you ever celebrate your weddings with champagne, Art?"

I thought of her kiss, that afternoon, and knew perfectly well that we were on dangerous ground; I certainly was, and I more than suspected she was. All right, be damned to caution, I thought with a burst of feeling. After all, this is my wife. We are legally married. Champagne, and a big one!

So we dined and danced. Pat loved to dance, and with her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, she looked divine. When I held her close to me and brushed my lips against her face, she looked up at me and laughed.

"There's something bewitching about it all, isn't there?" she breathed. "About being alone, in a perfectly strange city, and— and—"

"And being old married folks," I said. "Yes, there is. Did you write your mother?"

She nodded. "This afternoon. And I lied beautifully so she could show the letter. I said we were married, and how happy we were, and how fine you are—"

"Was it all a lie, Pat?"

Her eyes met mine, and her arm tightened about my shoulders.

"Maybe not all, Art," she murmured, just as the dance ended and the crowd streamed back to the tables.

IT WAS late, when our taxi dropped us at the hotel. I got the room key and we went up; and to be quite honest about it, I had quite forgotten that motto the justice of the peace had quoted to us. Pat was a glorious creature, and I knew that she did like me, and she was my wife. That was enough to make anyone forget anything else.

We had a suite of two rooms with bath between. I unlocked one door and we went in, and switched on the lights. The room was empty.

"I had all the bags put in my room," said Pat, leading the way. "Come along and pick yours out. It's been a perfectly scrumptious time, Art; I've never enjoyed champagne so much in my life!"

And now it was ended. She did not say the words, but I could sense them—and I could sense the regret in them.

We went on through to her room. I picked up my bags, and then set them down again. A lump came into my throat when I looked at her, when I met her eyes.

"Pat!" I stammered. "Pat, dear—"

She dropped her cloak on the bed, rumpled up her short hair, and turned to me with a half smile.

"Yes? Not a compliment, surely?"

"You're the loveliest thing I've ever seen," I said awkwardly, and reached out and touched her. Her eyes were radiant, as she came to me.

"Just for that, my dear, you might kiss me good-night," she said.

I held her for a moment, until she pushed me away, but not completely.

"The proper thing, Art, for an old married couple to do, would be to smoke a good-night cigarette together," she said gaily. "Take your bags over, then—"

What I read in her eyes made my heart pound. I kissed her once more, quickly.

"Right," I said.

Picking up my bags, I carried them over into my own room. And when I got there, I stopped dead. Sitting in a chair, calmly regarding me, was a perfectly strange man in a chauffeur's whipcord uniform.

"Who are you?" I snapped. "What the devil are you doing in my room?"

"Jim Brady, of the Gallup Detective Agency, Mr. Sullivan. My job is to drive your car from here on, and to spend every night sleeping right with you."

For an instant I was speechless. Then I burst out hotly. He cut me short.

"Listen, Mister, it's no use talking. I'm here, and my partner's got the room across the hall with the transom open. We stick closer'n burrs until you folks get back home. And if you kick up any fuss, you get slugged and thrown into jail."

Pat, who had heard the voices, came in and stood staring. I was in a blether of rage. I thought Carter must have done this, but I was wrong. Brady was frank.

"Nope. I'm hired by Mrs. Petty, see? Now, folks, I'm mighty sorry to stop the fun, but that's my orders. You got to decide whether you want to raise hell or take it easy. I'll accommodate you either way."

I looked at Pat, and she had gone dead cold.

"Nothing to be said about it, I suppose," she observed. "It would knock everything in the head, Art, if we tried to fight—"

That was true, and I settled into a miserable resignation, and cursed Mrs. Petty with all my heart. We were married, yes, but we were up against two thugs— and publicity would upset the applecart.

And, believe it or not, that man Brady was with me closer than a burr, as he had put it, until we got back home the end of the week.

By that time, the budding dream was gone. My relations with Pat had settled down to a cool business basis. When we were ensconced in her own gorgeous home, I put in a devilish two days— congratulations on all sides, happiness to the newlyweds, gifts and so forth. And it was all a lie, had people but known it.

I gathered that Aunt Tabitha was gritting her teeth and preparing for action.

On Sunday night Carter telephoned me on the last details. Monday noon came, and with it a formal luncheon. The old family doctor was there, among others. I complained of feeling ill, left the party long enough to put the hematropine in my eyes and take a dose of the liquid from the gourd bottle, and rejoined the company. I did not care particularly whether I stayed dead or not. The whole business had rather sickened me; I had not yet become used to such things.

At the luncheon table, I went to sleep. The old family doctor took one look at my eye, felt my pulse, tried for my heart— and the fat was in the fire. Doctor Slausson was hurriedly summoned, but no use. I was dead and no mistake.

Nor did I make a pretty corpse, with my pallor, bluish lips and so forth. Carter told me as much that night, after he had revived me and taken me out of town in his car.

"You looked like the devil," he said. "Good thing I was warned about the mirror test! Watch out for it in future, if you spring this stunt, again. Luckily, Slausson took care of it; held a mirror to your lips and pronounced it blank."

He handed me my money and turned me loose with his blessing.

"Feel all right? Good. Clear out, and don't you ever came back to this town!"

"But how'll you manage the funeral?"

I demanded curiously.

"Never mind. That's all fixed, and no last views of the corpse either." He grinned at me and started up his engine. "Arthur Sullivan is dead, understand?"

It really is a beautiful tomb. I went through the city last year and stopped over just to see it. A lovely shaft of granite raised to the memory of Arthur Sullivan. And I found it had been erected by Pat's "second husband."

I've often wondered what sort of a yarn she told him about her first honeymoon!

_____________________

6: The Great Stone Face

Nathaniel Hawthorne

1804-1864

The National Era, 24 Jan 1850

ONE AFTERNOON when the sun was going down, a mother and her little boy sat at the door of their cottage, talking about the Great Stone Face. They had but to lift their eyes, and there it was plainly to be seen, though miles away, with the sunshine brightening all its features.

And what was the Great Stone Face? The Great Stone Face was a work of Nature in her mood of majestic playfulness, formed on the perpendicular side of a mountain by some immense rocks, which had been thrown together in such a position as, when viewed at a proper distance, precisely to resemble the features of the human countenance. It seemed as if an enormous giant, or a Titan, had sculptured his own likeness on the precipice. There was the broad arch of the forehead, a hundred feet in height; the nose, with its long bridge; and the vast lips, which, if they could have spoken, would have rolled their thunder accents from one end of the valley to the other.

It was a happy lot for children to grow up to manhood or womanhood with the Great Stone Face before their eyes, for all the features were noble, and the expression was at once grand and sweet, as if it were the glow of a vast, warm heart that embraced all mankind in its affections, and had room for more.

As we began with saying, a mother and her little boy sat at their cottage door, gazing at the Great Stone Face, and talking about it. The child's name was Ernest. "Mother," said he, while the Titanic visage smiled on him, "I wish that it could speak, for it looks so very kindly that its voice must be pleasant. If I were to see a man with such a face, I should love him dearly."

"If an old prophecy should come to pass," answered his mother, "we may see a man, some time or other, with exactly such a face as that."

"What prophecy do you mean, dear mother?" eagerly inquired Ernest. "Pray tell me all about it!"

So his mother told him a story that her own mother had told to her, when she herself was younger than little Ernest; a story, not of things that were past, but of what was yet to come; a story, nevertheless, so very old that even the Indians, who formerly inhabited this valley, had heard it from their forefathers, to whom, they believed, it had been murmured by the mountain streams, and whispered by the wind among the tree tops. The story said that at some future day a child should be born hereabouts who was destined to become the greatest and noblest man of his time, and whose countenance, in manhood, should bear an exact resemblance to the Great Stone Face.

"O mother, dear mother!" cried Ernest, clapping his hands above his head, "I do hope that I shall live to see him!" His mother was an affectionate and thoughtful woman, and felt that it was wisest not to discourage the hopes of her little boy. She only said to him, "Perhaps you may," little thinking that the prophecy would one day come true.

And Ernest never forgot the story that his mother told him. It was always in his mind whenever he looked upon the Great Stone Face. He spent his childhood in the log cottage where he was born, and was dutiful to his mother, and helpful to her in many things, assisting her much with his little hands, and more with his loving heart. In this manner, from a happy yet thoughtful child, he grew to be a mild, quiet, modest boy, sun-browned with labor in the fields, but with more intelligence in his face than is seen in many lads who have been taught at famous schools. Yet Ernest had had no teacher, save only that the Great Stone Face became one to him. When the toil of the day was over, he would gaze at it for hours, until he began to imagine that those vast features recognized him, and gave him a smile of kindness and encouragement in response to his own look of veneration. We must not take upon us to affirm that this was a mistake, although the Face may have looked no more kindly at Ernest than at all the world besides. For the secret was that the boy's tender simplicity discerned what other people could not see; and thus the love, which was meant for all, became his alone.

ii

ABOUT this time, there went a rumor throughout the valley that the great man, foretold from ages long ago, who was to bear a resemblance to the Great Stone Face, had appeared at last. It seems that, many years before, a young man had left the valley and settled at a distant seaport, where, after getting together a little money, he had set up as a shopkeeper. His name— but I could never learn whether it was his real one, or a nickname that had grown out of his habits and success in life— was Gathergold.

It might be said of him, as of Midas in the fable, that whatever he touched with his finger immediately glistened, and grew yellow, and was changed at once into coin. And when Mr. Gathergold had become so rich that it would have taken him a hundred years only to count his wealth, he bethought himself of his native valley, and resolved to go back thither, and end his days where he was born. With this purpose in view, he sent a skillful architect to build him such a palace as should be fit for a man of his vast wealth to live in.

As I have said above, it had already been rumored in the valley that Mr. Gathergold had turned out to be the person so long and vainly looked for, and that his visage was the perfect and undeniable likeness of the Great Stone Face. People were the more ready to believe that this must needs be the fact when they beheld the splendid edifice that rose, as if by enchantment, on the site of his father's old weather-beaten farmhouse. The exterior was of marble, so dazzling white that it seemed as though the whole structure might melt away in the sunshine, like those humbler ones which Mr. Gathergold, in his young playdays, had been accustomed to build of snow. It had a richly ornamented portico, supported by tall pillars, beneath which was a lofty door, studded with silver knobs, and made of a kind of variegated wood that had been brought from beyond the sea. The windows, from the floor to the ceiling of each stately apartment, were each composed of but one enormous pane of glass. Hardly anybody had been permitted to see the interior of this palace; but it was reported to be far more gorgeous than the outside, insomuch that whatever was iron or brass in other houses was silver or gold in this; and Mr. Gathergold's bedchamber, especially, made such a glittering appearance that no ordinary man would have been able to close his eyes there. But, on the other hand, Mr. Gathergold was now so accustomed to wealth that perhaps he could not have closed his eyes unless where the gleam of it was certain to find its way beneath his eyelids.

In due time, the mansion was finished; next came the upholsterers, with magnificent furniture; then a whole troop of black and white servants, the harbingers of Mr. Gathergold, who, in his own majestic person, was expected to arrive at sunset. Our friend Ernest, meanwhile, had been deeply stirred by the idea that the great man, the noble man, the man of prophecy, after so many ages of delay, was at length to appear in his native valley. He knew, boy as he was, that there were a thousand ways in which Mr. Gathergold, with his vast wealth, might transform himself into an angel of beneficence, and assume a control over human affairs as wide and benignant as the smile of the Great Stone Face. Full of faith and hope, Ernest doubted not that what the people said was true, and that now he was to behold the living likeness of those wondrous features on the mountain side. While the boy was still gazing up the valley, and fancying, as he always did, that the Great Stone Face returned his gaze and looked kindly at him, the rumbling of wheels was heard, approaching swiftly along the winding road.

"Here he comes!" cried a group of people who were assembled to witness the arrival. "Here comes the great Mr. Gathergold!"

A carriage, drawn by four horses, dashed round the turn of the road. Within it, thrust partly out of the window, appeared the face of a little old man, with a skin as yellow as gold. He had a low forehead, small, sharp eyes, puckered about with innumerable wrinkles, and very thin lips, which he made still thinner by pressing them forcibly together.

"The very image of the Great Stone Face!" shouted the people. "Sure enough, the old prophecy is true."

And, what greatly perplexed Ernest, they seemed actually to believe that here was the likeness which they spoke of. By the roadside there chanced to be an old beggar woman and two little beggar children, stragglers from some far-off region, who, as the carriage rolled onward, held out their hands and lifted up their doleful voices, most piteously beseeching charity. A yellow claw— the very same that had clawed together so much wealth— poked itself out of the coach window, and dropped some copper coins upon the ground; so that, though the great man's name seems to have been Gathergold, he might just as suitably have been nicknamed Scattercopper. Still, nevertheless, with an earnest shout, and evidently with as much good faith as ever, the people bellowed:

"He is the very image of the Great Stone Face!"

But Ernest turned sadly from the wrinkled shrewdness of that visage and gazed up the valley, where, amid a gathering mist, gilded by the last sunbeams, he could still distinguish those glorious features which had impressed themselves into his soul. Their aspect cheered him. What did the benign lips seem to say?

"He will come! Fear not, Ernest; the man will come!"

The years went on, and Ernest ceased to be a boy. He had grown to be a young man now. He attracted little notice from the other inhabitants of the valley, for they saw nothing remarkable in his way of life, save that, when the labor of the day was over, he still loved to go apart and gaze and meditate upon the Great Stone Face. According to their idea of the matter, however, it was a pardonable folly, for Ernest was industrious, kind, and neighborly, and neglected no duty for the sake of this idle habit. They knew not that the Great Stone Face had become a teacher to him, and that the sentiment which was expressed in it would enlarge the young man's heart, and fill it with wider and deeper sympathies than other hearts. They knew not that thence would come a better wisdom than could be learned from books, and a better life than could be molded on the example of other human lives. Neither did Ernest know that the thoughts and affections which came to him so naturally, in the fields and at the fireside, were of a higher tone than those which all men shared with him. A simple soul,— simple as when his mother first taught him the old prophecy,— he beheld the marvelous features beaming down the valley, and still wondered that their human counterpart was so long in making his appearance.

By this time poor Mr. Gathergold was dead and buried; and the oddest part of the matter was that his wealth, which was the body and spirit of his existence, had disappeared before his death, leaving nothing of him but a living skeleton, covered over with a wrinkled, yellow skin. Since the melting away of his gold, it had been very generally allowed that there was no such striking resemblance, after all, betwixt the ignoble features of the ruined merchant and that majestic face upon the mountain side. So the people ceased to honor him during his lifetime, and quietly forgot him after his decease. Once in a while, it is true, his memory was brought up in connection with the magnificent palace which he had built, and which had long ago been turned into a hotel for the accommodation of strangers, multitudes of whom came, every summer, to visit that famous natural curiosity, the Great Stone Face. The man of prophecy was yet to come.

iii

IT SO happened that a native-born son of the valley, many years before, had enlisted as a soldier, and, after a great deal of hard fighting, had now become an illustrious commander. Whatever he may be called in history, he was known in camps and on the battlefield under the nickname of Old Blood-and-Thunder. This war-worn veteran, being now weary of a military life, and of the roll of the drum and the clangor of the trumpet that had so long been ringing in his ears, had lately signified a purpose of returning to his native valley, hoping to find repose where he remembered to have left it. The inhabitants, his old neighbors and their grown-up children, were resolved to welcome the renowned warrior with a salute of cannon and a public dinner; and all the more enthusiastically because it was believed that at last the likeness of the Great Stone Face had actually appeared. A friend of Old Blood-and-Thunder, traveling through the valley, was said to have been struck with the resemblance. Moreover, the schoolmates and early acquaintances of the general were ready to testify, on oath, that, to the best of their recollection, the general had been exceedingly like the majestic image, even when a boy, only that the idea had never occurred to them at that period. Great, therefore, was the excitement throughout the valley; and many people, who had never once thought of glancing at the Great Stone Face for years before, now spent their time in gazing at it, for the sake of knowing exactly how General Blood-and-Thunder looked.

On the day of the great festival, Ernest, and all the other people of the valley, left their work and proceeded to the spot where the banquet was prepared. As he approached, the loud voice of the Rev. Dr. Battleblast was heard, beseeching a blessing on the good things set before them, and on the distinguished friend of peace in whose honor they were assembled. The tables were arranged in a cleared space of the woods, shut in by the surrounding trees, except where a vista opened eastward, and afforded a distant view of the Great Stone Face. Over the general's chair, which was a relic from the home of Washington, there was an arch of green boughs and laurel surmounted by his country's banner, beneath which he had won his victories. Our friend Ernest raised himself on his tiptoes, in hopes to get a glimpse of the celebrated guest; but there was a mighty crowd about the tables anxious to hear the toasts and speeches, and to catch any word that might fall from the general in reply; and a volunteer company, doing duty as a guard, pricked with their bayonets at any particularly quiet person among the throng. So Ernest, being of a modest character, was thrust quite into the background, where he could see no more of Old Blood-and-Thunder's face than if it had been still blazing on the battlefield. To console himself he turned toward the Great Stone Face, which, like a faithful and long-remembered friend, looked back and smiled upon him through the forest. Meantime, however, he could overhear the remarks of various individuals who were comparing the features of the hero with the face on the distant mountain side.

"'Tis the same face, to a hair!" cried one man, cutting a caper for joy.

"Wonderfully like, that's a fact!" responded another.

"Like! Why, I call it Old Blood-and-Thunder himself, in a monstrous looking-glass!" cried a third. "And why not? He's the greatest man of this or any other age, beyond a doubt."

"The general! The general!" was now the cry. "Hush! Silence! Old Blood-and-Thunder's going to make a speech."

Even so; for, the cloth being removed, the general's health had been drunk amid shouts of applause, and he now stood upon his feet to thank the company. Ernest saw him. There he was, over the shoulders of the crowd, from the two glittering epaulets and embroidered collar upward, beneath the arch of green boughs with intertwined laurel, and the banner drooping as if to shade his brow! And there, too, visible in the same glance, appeared the Great Stone Face! And was there, indeed, such a resemblance as the crowd had testified? Alas, Ernest could not recognize it! He beheld a war-worn and weather-beaten countenance, full of energy, and expressive of an iron will; but the gentle wisdom, the deep, broad, tender sympathies were altogether wanting in Old Blood-and-Thunder's visage.

"This is not the man of prophecy," sighed Ernest to himself, as he made his way out of the throng. "And must the world wait longer yet?"

The mists had gathered about the distant mountain side, and there were seen the grand and awful features of the Great Stone Face, awful but benignant, as if a mighty angel were sitting among the hills and enrobing himself in a cloud vesture of gold and purple. As he looked, Ernest could hardly believe but that a smile beamed over the whole visage, with a radiance still brightening, although without motion of the lips. It was probably the effect of the western sunshine, melting the thin vapors that had swept between him and the object that he had gazed at. But—as it always did—the aspect of his marvelous friend made Ernest as hopeful as if he had never hoped in vain.

"Fear not, Ernest," said his heart, even as if the Great Face were whispering him— "fear not, Ernest."

iv

MORE years sped swiftly and tranquilly away. Ernest still dwelt in his native valley, and was now a man of middle age. By slow degrees he had become known among the people. Now, as heretofore, he labored for his bread, and was the same simple-hearted man that he had always been. But he had thought and felt so much, he had given so many of the best hours of his life to unworldly hopes for some great good to mankind, that it seemed as though he had been talking with the angels, and had imbibed a portion of their wisdom unawares. It was visible in the calm beneficence of his daily life, the quiet stream of which had made a wide, green margin all along its course. Not a day passed by that the world was not the better because this man, humble as he was, had lived. He never stepped aside from his own path, yet would always reach a blessing to his neighbor. Almost involuntarily, too, he had become a preacher. The pure and high simplicity of his thought, which took shape in the good deeds that dropped silently from his hand, flowered also forth in speech. He uttered truths that molded the lives of those who heard him. His hearers, it may be, never suspected that Ernest, their own neighbor and familiar friend, was more than an ordinary man; least of all did Ernest himself suspect it; but thoughts came out of his mouth that no other human lips had spoken.

When the people's minds had had a little time to cool, they were ready enough to acknowledge their mistake in imagining a similarity between General Blood-and-Thunder and the benign visage on the mountain side. But now, again, there were reports and many paragraphs in the newspapers, affirming that the likeness of the Great Stone Face had appeared upon the broad shoulders of a certain eminent statesman. He, like Mr. Gathergold and Old Blood-and-Thunder, was a native of the valley, but had left it in his early days, and taken up the trades of law and politics. Instead of the rich man's wealth and the warrior's sword he had but a tongue, and it was mightier than both together. So wonderfully eloquent was he that, whatever he might choose to say, his hearers had no choice but to believe him; wrong looked like right, and right like wrong. His voice, indeed, was a magic instrument: sometimes it rumbled like the thunder; sometimes it warbled like the sweetest music. In good truth, he was a wondrous man; and when his tongue had acquired him all other imaginable success,— when it had been heard in halls of state and in the courts of princes,— after it had made him known all over the world, even as a voice crying from shore to shore,— it finally persuaded his countrymen to select him for the presidency. Before this time,— indeed, as soon as he began to grow celebrated,— his admirers had found out the resemblance between him and the Great Stone Face; and so much were they struck by it that throughout the country this distinguished gentleman was known by the name of Old Stony Phiz.

While his friends were doing their best to make him President, Old Stony Phiz, as he was called, set out on a visit to the valley where he was born. Of course he had no other object than to shake hands with his fellow-citizens, and neither thought nor cared about any effect which his progress through the country might have upon the election. Magnificent preparations were made to receive the illustrious statesmen; a cavalcade of horsemen set forth to meet him at the boundary line of the State, and all the people left their business and gathered along the wayside to see him pass. Among these was Ernest. Though more than once disappointed, as we have seen, he had such a hopeful and confiding nature that he was always ready to believe in whatever seemed beautiful and good. He kept his heart continually open, and thus was sure to catch the blessing from on high, when it should come. So now again, as buoyantly as ever, he went forth to behold the likeness of the Great Stone Face.

The cavalcade came prancing along the road, with a great clattering of hoofs and a mighty cloud of dust, which rose up so dense and high that the visage of the mountain side was completely hidden from Ernest's eyes. All the great men of the neighborhood were there on horseback: militia officers, in uniform; the member of congress; the sheriff of the county; the editors of newspapers; and many a farmer, too, had mounted his patient steed, with his Sunday coat upon his back. It really was a very brilliant spectacle, especially as there were numerous banners flaunting over the cavalcade, on some of which were gorgeous portraits of the illustrious statesman and the Great Stone Face, smiling familiarly at one another, like two brothers. If the pictures were to be trusted, the resemblance, it must be confessed, was marvelous. We must not forget to mention that there was a band of music, which made the echoes of the mountains ring with the loud triumph of its strains, so that airy and soul-thrilling melodies broke out among all the heights and hollows, as if every nook of his native valley had found a voice to welcome the distinguished guest. But the grandest effect was when the far-off mountain precipice flung back the music; for then the Great Stone Face itself seemed to be swelling the triumphant chorus, in acknowledgment that, at length, the man of prophecy was come.

All this while the people were throwing up their hats and shouting with such enthusiasm that the heart of Ernest kindled up, and he likewise threw up his hat and shouted as loudly as the loudest, "Huzza for the great man! Huzza for Old Stony Phiz!" But as yet he had not seen him.

"Here he is now!" cried those who stood near Ernest. "There! There! Look at Old Stony Phiz and then at the Old Man of the Mountain, and see if they are not as like as two twin brothers!"

In the midst of all this gallant array came an open barouche, drawn by four white horses; and in the barouche, with his massive head uncovered, sat the illustrious statesman, Old Stony Phiz himself.

"Confess it," said one of Ernest's neighbors to him, "the Great Stone Face has met its match at last!"

Now, it must be owned that, at his first glimpse of the countenance which was bowing and smiling from the barouche, Ernest did fancy that there was a resemblance between it and the old familiar face upon the mountain side. The brow, with its massive depth and loftiness, and all the other features, indeed, were bold and strong. But the grand expression of a divine sympathy that illuminated the mountain visage might here be sought in vain.

Still Ernest's neighbor was thrusting his elbow into his side, and pressing him for an answer.

"Confess! Confess! Is not he the very picture of your Old Man of the Mountain?"

"No!" said Ernest, bluntly; "I see little or no likeness."

"Then so much the worse for the Great Stone Face!" answered his neighbor. And again he set up a shout for Old Stony Phiz.

But Ernest turned away, melancholy, and almost despondent; for this was the saddest of his disappointments, to behold a man who might have fulfilled the prophecy, and had not willed to do so. Meantime, the cavalcade, the banners, the music, and the barouches swept past him, with the shouting crowd in the rear, leaving the dust to settle down, and the Great Stone Face to be revealed again, with the grandeur that it had worn for untold centuries.

"Lo, here I am, Ernest!" the benign lips seemed to say. "I have waited longer than thou, and am not yet weary. Fear not; the man will come."

v

THE YEARS hurried onward, treading in their haste on one another's heels. And now they began to bring white hairs and scatter them over the head of Ernest; they made wrinkles across his forehead and furrows in his cheeks. He was an aged man. But not in vain had he grown old; more than the white hairs on his head were the wise thoughts in his mind. And Ernest had ceased to be obscure. Unsought for, undesired, had come the fame which so many seek, and made him known in the great world, beyond the limits of the valley in which he had dwelt so quietly. College professors, and even the active men of cities, came from far to see and converse with Ernest; for the report had gone abroad that this simple farmer had ideas unlike those of other men, and a tranquil majesty as if he had been talking with the angels as his daily friends. Ernest received these visitors with the gentle sincerity that had marked him from boyhood, and spoke freely with them of whatever came uppermost, or lay deepest in his heart or their own. While they talked together his face would kindle and shine upon them, as with a mild evening light. When his guests took leave and went their way, and passing up the valley, paused to look at the Great Stone Face, they imagined that they had seen its likeness in a human countenance, but could not remember where.

While Ernest had been growing up and growing old, a bountiful Providence had granted a new poet to this earth. He, likewise, was a native of the valley, but had spent the greater part of his life at a distance from that romantic region, pouring out his sweet music amid the bustle and din of cities. Often, however, did the mountains which had been familiar to him in his childhood lift their snowy peaks into the clear atmosphere of his poetry. Neither was the Great Stone Face forgotten, for he had celebrated it in a poem which was grand enough to have been uttered by its lips.

The songs of this poet found their way to Ernest. He read them after his customary toil, seated on the bench before his cottage door, where for such a length of time he had filled his repose with thought, by gazing at the Great Stone Face. And now, as he read stanzas that caused the soul to thrill within him, he lifted his eyes to the vast countenance beaming on him so benignantly.

"O majestic friend," he said, addressing the Great Stone Face, "is not this man worthy to resemble thee?"

The Face seemed to smile, but answered not a word.

Now it happened that the poet, though he dwelt so far away, had not only heard of Ernest, but had meditated much upon his character, until he deemed nothing so desirable as to meet this man whose untaught wisdom walked hand in hand with the noble simplicity of his life. One summer morning, therefore, he took passage by the railroad, and, in the decline of the afternoon, alighted from the cars at no great distance from Ernest's cottage. The great hotel, which had formerly been the palace of Mr. Gathergold, was close at hand, but the poet, with his carpetbag on his arm, inquired at once where Ernest dwelt, and was resolved to be accepted as his guest.

Approaching the door, he there found the good old man, holding a volume in his hand, which he read, and then, with a finger between the leaves, looked lovingly at the Great Stone Face.

"Good evening," said the poet. "Can you give a traveler a night's lodging?"

"Willingly," answered Ernest. And then he added, smiling, "Methinks I never saw the Great Stone Face look so hospitably at a stranger."

The poet sat down on the bench beside him, and he and Ernest talked together. Often had the poet conversed with the wittiest and the wisest, but never before with a man like Ernest, whose thoughts and feelings gushed up with such a natural freedom, and who made great truths so familiar by his simple utterance of them. Angels, as had been so often said, seemed to have wrought with him at his labor in the fields; angels seemed to have sat with him by the fireside. So thought the poet. And Ernest, on the other hand, was moved by the living images which the poet flung out of his mind, and which peopled all the air about the cottage door with shapes of beauty.

As Ernest listened to the poet, he imagined that the Great Stone Face was bending forward to listen, too. He gazed earnestly into the poet's glowing eyes.

"Who are you, my strangely gifted guest!" he said.

The poet laid his finger on the volume that Ernest had been reading.

"You have read these poems," said he. "You know me, then,— for I wrote them."

Again, and still more earnestly than before, Ernest examined the poet's features; then turned toward the Great Stone Face; then back to his guest. But his countenance fell; he shook his head, and mournfully sighed.

"Wherefore are you sad?" inquired the poet.

"Because," replied Ernest, "all through life I have awaited the fulfillment of a prophecy; and when I read these poems, I hoped that it might be fulfilled in you."

"You hoped," answered the poet, faintly smiling, "to find in me the likeness of the Great Stone Face. And you are disappointed, as formerly with Mr. Gathergold, and Old Blood-and-Thunder, and Old Stony Phiz. Yes, Ernest, it is my doom. You must add my name to the illustrious three, and record another failure of your hopes. For—in shame and sadness do I speak it, Ernest—I am not worthy."

"And why?" asked Ernest. He pointed to the volume. "Are not those thoughts divine?"

"You can hear in them the far-off echo of a heavenly song," replied the poet. "But my life, dear Ernest, has not corresponded with my thought. I have had grand dreams, but they have been only dreams, because I have lived— and that, too, by my own choice— among poor and mean realities. Sometimes even— shall I dare to say it?— I lack faith in the grandeur, the beauty, and the goodness which my own works are said to have made more evident in nature and in human life. Why, then, pure seeker of the good and true, shouldst thou hope to find me in yonder image of the divine?"

The poet spoke sadly, and his eyes were dim with tears. So, likewise, were those of Ernest.

At the hour of sunset, as had long been his frequent custom, Ernest was to speak to an assemblage of the neighboring inhabitants in the open air. He and the poet, arm in arm, still talking together as they went along, proceeded to the spot. It was a small nook among the hills, with a gray precipice behind, the stern front of which was relieved by the pleasant foliage of many creeping plants, that made a tapestry for the naked rock by hanging their festoons from all its rugged angles. At a small elevation above the ground, set in a rich framework of verdure, there appeared a niche, spacious enough to admit a human figure. Into this natural pulpit Ernest ascended and threw a look of familiar kindness around upon his audience. They stood, or sat, or reclined upon the grass, as seemed good to each, with the departing sunshine falling over them. In another direction was seen the Great Stone Face, with the same cheer, combined with the same solemnity, in its benignant aspect.

Ernest began to speak, giving to the people of what was in his heart and mind. His words had power, because they accorded with his thoughts; and his thoughts had reality and depth, because they harmonized with the life which he had always lived. The poet, as he listened, felt that the being and character of Ernest were a nobler strain of poetry than he had ever written. His eyes glistening with tears, he gazed reverentially at the venerable man, and said within himself that never was there an aspect so worthy of a prophet and a sage as that mild, sweet, thoughtful countenance with the glory of white hair diffused about it. At a distance, but distinctly to be seen, high up in the golden light of the setting sun, appeared the Great Stone Face, with hoary mists around it, like the white hairs around the brow of Ernest.

At that moment, in sympathy with a thought which he was about to utter, the face of Ernest assumed a grandeur of expression, so full of benevolence, that the poet, by an irresistible impulse, threw his arms aloft, and shouted:

"Behold! Behold! Ernest is himself the likeness of the Great Stone Face!"

Then all the people looked and saw that what the deep-sighted poet said was true. The prophecy was fulfilled. The man had appeared at last.

________________

7: Black Light

Henry Leverage

1885-1931

Scientific Detective Monthly April 1930

TWO men sat in the back room at McGann's. One was a big man with a scar. The other was Rake Delaney.

The big man leaned over the table and coiled three powder-stained fingers about a shell-glass of whiskey.

Delaney glanced down his long lashes and stared into a bubbling circle of imported ginger ale.

"Here's tu crime," said the big man who was sometimes called Big Scar, alias Illinois Pete.

Rake Delaney, otherwise Edwin Letchmere, more often known as Sir Arthur Stephney, frowned swiftly, as he did most things, and eyed the whiskey disapprovingly.

"A man never opened a safe on that stuff, Scar."

Big Scar flushed with a livid V showing through the stubble upon his jaw. "I'm takin' a vacation. Rake!"

Rake tilted a plaid cap from his forehead and leaned back. He roamed the room with a dart of his light-grey eyes. He crossed one leg over the other and drew out from an inner pocket a platinum and gold cigarette case from which he removed a cigarette that was neither monogrammed or branded.

Lighting this cigarette with a scratch of a match on his heel, he said, between intakes of smoke:

"Speakin' of cribs and crimes— strong boxes and repositories of wealth—have you noticed the news items on the green glow?"

"Green wot?" Big Scar shelved forward a bushy pair of iron-grey brows. He eyed Rake. "Come clean!" he rumbled. "Talk down tu me. None ov that highbrow patter."

Rake doubled the fingers of his right hand and gazed at his polished nails. They were as slender and as almond-shaped as a woman's.

He lifted his stare and locked glances with the big man. "The Green Ray, or Glow, Scar," he said, "is the very newest thing out in the field of electricity and research. It has been promised for some time. A British review foretold the discovery. It remained for Professor Pascal of Ossining to supply the missing link— a prism made of a rare crystal found only in Boulder, Colorado."

"Wot's that got to do wid us?"

"You remember how we took the big box in 'Frisco with thermite?"

"That was hell's own stuff. I burnt my earth-pieces." Big Scar called his feet "earth-pieces" or "dogs."

"And the cannon-ball safe in Salt Lake City? Do you recall how we cracked that?"

"With soup, dinny an' nitro after yu had painted a back-curtain tu th' jewelry store wot was so real I bumped into it."

Rake rubbed his nails on the palm of his left hand.

"The Green Ray," he said, "is the last word in camouflage— a much-worked term. It was discovered too late to be used in the war."

"Wot is it?"

"Absence of most light. Polarized light. A cold light that's green as grass. A vibration from a common center that acts just opposite to the rays of ordinary light."

"I don't get yu."

"You will. Suppose light is caused by heat. Then what would you get by subjecting the same light-forming filament to extreme cold down to a degree or so above absolute zero?"

"You'd get nothin'."

"Oh, yes, you would! You'd get almost negative-light. I understand that Professor Pascal has been working twenty years on the invention. He holds that his discovery would have revolutionized methods of warfare—that men would have fought in the darkness of their own making —that day would have been turned into night within a radius limited by the power of the Green Ray apparatus."

"Wot good would it be tu us?"

"What good was thermite, or the oxy-acetylene blow-pipe or the electric-arc or freezing a strong-box after filling it full of water so that the door will come off when the ice expands?"

"They helped make th' coppers wild?"

"Yes! And the Green Ray will make wilder, Scar. See the game? A Green Ray outfit set down by the door of a bank in the daytime. The switch turned on. The place becomes greenish— a pit where striking a match is like putting it in ink. Nobody can see anybody. We put the cleaner on the vault and go out through a window."

"How far does this green thing glow?"

"Professor Pascal announced at the meeting of the Illuminating Engineers of America that he already had succeeded in getting almost complete darkness within a radius of seventy feet. The darkness thins out then for another thirty feet. That was with the energy necessary to run a quarter-horse-power motor— the same size as was in that electric drill you threw into the Chicago Drainage Canal when we got that Post Office on LaSalle Street."

A steely glitter showed in the yegg's eyes. He up-ended his whiskey glass and wiped his mouth with his left hand.

"You're a clever brain-worker," he said, "but this green thing is tu damn deep fer me. How can we get one ov 'em?"

Rake glanced around the room and then drew a newspaper clipping from his pocket. He slanted it toward the light which came from a cluster overhead.

"Planet," he said incisively. "Ad in the Planet this morning. Professor Alonzo Pascal—'A.P. of Ossining'—wants a staid reliable butler with references from former employers. English preferred. Happened to see it, connected his initials with his name, connected the name with green darkness and the meeting of the Illuminating Engineers where he spoke. All follows clear."

"Clear as mud!"

"Easy, easy," Rake whispered without moving his lips. "Deduction works for us as well as the police. You are going to Ossining tomorrow and get that job. I'll fix up your references—one from England—one from Canada and one on Plaza stationery."

"Hell no!"

"Oh, yes, you are." The cracksman's voice changed to a metallic command. "You're going up there and be Professor Alonzo's butler. You'll locate his drawings and blue-prints on the green glow apparatus. Perhaps he has a laboratory in the house. We'll steal his idea and rip the country wide open from New York to 'Frisco. We'll make a million in twenty days!"

Big Scar's eyes gleamed with prospects of sudden wealth.

"Why not go up there an' cop th' machine?" he asked. "That would be quicker."

"We don't know where it is, yet. It may be there and it may be somewhere else. It is up to you. Scar, to locate it. Then we'll act!"

"How about clothes?"

"I'll supply them."

"An' th' reference?"

"I know a place on Grand Street where I can get anything printed from a passport to a bank note. I'll have the letters written on three kinds of typewriters and aged with coffee."

Big Scar square-set his jaw.

"Mitt me!" he said, thrusting over two fingers. "I'm going tu blow now, Pal. I'll see yu here in th' morning. I've got a meet with a broad on Third Avenue. 'Mary Pickpockets' is her moniker. Some they call her Melissa, but her name is Mary."

"Look out for the ladies," said Rake as the big safe-blower rose and started for the side door of McGann's.

The voice that rumbled back was also a warning:

"You're no one tu tell me that, Rake."

Rake lifted the ginger-ale bottle from its holder and poured the remains of the fluid into his glass. He rose after drinking the liquid, laid a bill upon the table and glided toward the narrow entrance to the "temperance bar."

HE passed through and out into the street. He hurried south and signalled a taxi three blocks away from the saloon. He spent the early evening in fevered work. The letter-head forms were upon a press as he left the printing office which was run by a proprietor who scanned the news from Russia like a bomb-thrower.

The matter of the butler's costume for Big Scar was attended to. The clothes were packed into a kit-bag which was plastered with English labels. These objects Rake purchased from a half-fence, half-pawnbroker on the Bowery, who kept open after six o'clock.

He met the yegg at McGann's saloon in the morning. Rake's instructions, shot through clean teeth and narrowed lips, were direct enough to resemble a field marshal's.

"Get up to Ossining with this keister!" he ordered. "Go right to Professor Alonzo and tell him you've come to stay. Force yourself on the job. Telephone me here at the first chance. We must have the blue-prints and specifications of the green glow apparatus by this day, week."

Big Scar already looked the part of an English butler a little down on his luck. His'collar was low. His vest was almost white. He had shaved to a blue-quick. His nails were trimmed.

He took the keister, or kit-bag, squared his shoulders and said before he left the saloon:

" 'E's probably a rum cove, that perfessor. 'E's goin' tu look these phony references over wid a microscope."

"Let him look! They're gilt-edged. The thing to do is to get planted in his house. Look out for the skirts in his establishment. Remember it was a moll who beat us on that New Orleans touch. You told her too much, Scar."

"You're no one to warn me," chuckled the yegg. "It's booze that gets some ov us and it's the' joy broads that get th' others. You're softer than I am when it comes to a real, fine skirt. So long. Pal."

Rake sat down at a table in the back room and
reviewed the plan he had laid out for the theft of the blueprints or the salient ideas connected with the green glow apparatus. He mentally pictured the professor as a doting old fool who would be easy. He saw visions of a dash across the continent and a trail of wrecked banks behind him. It was an idea worthy of a master criminal. It would be new. Also, there were no women to frustrate the course of action.

Women, reasoned Rake, were the yeast and the leaven of this life. They were the unstable compound in any crime. A coldly calculated plan might vanish into nothing if a woman were involved. They acted by no set rules. He recalled a number of instances where great jobs had been spoiled by the female element.

There was little Mickey Gleason with his tray of diamonds and Fanny Burke who insisted on wearing them to a Police Chiefs' Convention. There was Saidee Isaacs who sent her unfaithful lover to prison in order to be sure that he was true to her.

It was with relief that Rake learned, in the late afternoon, that Big Scar had secured the job at Ossining. The yegg's voice was elated as he related his experiences over telephone wires between a Westchester drug store and McGann's sound-proof booth.

"And there's no skirts in th' house," the safe-breaker said. "There's nobody but me, now and th' perfessor—a queer bloke. Something happened, Rake. Every servant blew out ov th' perfessor's shack. There's burnt matches in th' pantry. There's a bloomin' window or tu smashed. There's a part ov a coat hangin' tu a spike on th' back fence."

"He must have turned on the Green Ray, Scar."

"That's it! There's a work-place in th' basement with three bull-locks on th' door. He's roaming around th' house an' shoutin' fer more servants. He must have had five or six. Two maids, a valley, a chauffeur and a chef. They all blew! That's why he advertised in the Planet ."

"A chauffeur ?" asked Rake. "I can drive a car."

"COME up, then, Pal. Take th' valley job. I'll tell th' old cove I know ov one what worked fer Sir Hector MacKenzie. I'll describe yu. We'll sap th' old guy on the beezer an' cop th' works."

"Easy on that rough stuff," Rake said as the telephone diaphragm clicked. "Go easy, Scar. Tell the professor that there's a high-class valet coming north and you'll intercept him. Tell him not to get any more servants. We want to be alone in that house." Rake hung up the receiver and stepped from the booth. That afternoon he went to Ossining by train.

Gliding along swiftly he covered the mile and a half from the station to Professor Alonzo's mansion which was perched on a hill overlooking the Hudson and the grey walls of Sing Sing.

Rake's costume would have delighted his underworld admirers. His prematurely grey hair was covered by a loud plaid cap. His suit was black. His shoes were square toed and brilliantly polished. The bag he carried had been the property of a broken sport who had been thrown upon the harsh shores of the Bowery.

Rake carried a blued-steel automatic in a sling under his arm. His cuff-links were hollowed out to receive two one-thousand-dollar bills. His fountain pen was a flash light. There were saws, such as are used by jewelers, in his heels. A collection of keys on a ring would open most any ordinary door. The references he carried were calculated to disarm suspicion. One was from Sir Hector McKenzie of Ottawa. The other two went on to state that James Beaucannon was a "faithful valet of the superior order."

"Ah, Joimes," said Big Scar opening the professor's door after Rake had sauntered up a driveway and had shuffled his feet along a leaf strewn porch. "Ah, Joimes, so yu've come?"

"Is the professor in?"

"Right this woiy, Joimes, I'll take yu tu 'im."

Rake followed the yegg down a long, chilly hallway and into a room with a low ceiling whose walls were hung with oil paintings.

Professor Alonzo Pascal sat huddled between an open fireplace and a mahogany table that was strewn with sheets of paper and reference books.

Rake saw, with a sidelong glance, a polished head, a beetle-brow, pinched cheeks and lack-lustre eyes set in sunken sockets, like ultramarine jewels.

"The valley!" said Big Scar ponderously. "The man I spoke tu yu about, perfessor."

Rake drew forth his references. He passed them across the mahogany table. Dry fingers sorted them after a hand had hooked a pair of tortoise-shell rimmed glasses upon a hawk-like nose.

Pascal said nothing. He handed the references back to Rake. He turned to Big Scar in the doorway and pointed upward. He swiveled and started fingering sheets of paper with a dismissing gesture.

"A rum cove an' a miser," whispered the yegg as he showed Rake the old valet's room. "A bad guy tu work fer. No wonder th' other bunch blew. He's payin' me th' sum ov thirty dollars a month. He's got a bull-lock on th' wine cellar. It's alongside th' laboratory. There's wires enough running into that place tu start most anything."

"Easy," said Rake. He tossed his bag on a narrow bed and prepared to change clothes by stripping off his coat and vest. "Don't queer the game until I look around. Pascal may have dictaphones all over this house."

A day and a night of inspection passed before Rake obtained a working knowledge of the house and its eccentric owner.

He kept away from Big Scar for fear the safe-breaker might drop an under-world term which would be caught by the professor. He explored the upper floors on a pretense of putting things in order. He found a wall-safe with a three-tumbler combination, behind a picture in the master's room. This safe came open under his skilled fingers after thirty-two minutes of work. There was little in it save a safe-deposit box receipt with Maynard Trust Company printed on the top. The box number was 713, which Rake memorized before he replaced the receipt fn the safe.

Two other articles in the repository were interesting. One was the photograph of a girl which had been taken by a photographer in Portland, Maine. The other article was a package of letters written in a woman's angular chirography. They were dated ten years back and showed signs of fading.

RAKE tossed these letters into the box with the photograph, then, thinking of his hasty action, he arranged them exactly as he had found them and closed the circular door with the combination at the same notch on the nickel-plated dial. It would never do to be careless in little matters.

Abandoning the upper part of the house, Rake looked over the basement and the main floor of the mansion. He thoroughly examined all of the professor's papers. He opened a score of books on Illumination and Light and Violet Rays and Higher Refraction in Relation to Modern Researches on Polarization.

Rake's fountain-pen flashlight spotted a telegram dated a week before he had arrived at the professor's. This message was from Boulder, Colorado. It stated that part of a Molobenthan crystal had been found. "Prepare to come," the telegram ended.

"Ah!" said Rake, "I'll stall the old boy West so Big Scar and I can prowl the laboratory."

He spent two hours over the professor's notes which'he held to the moonlight which streamed through a window. The word Molobenthan occurred frequently. It was a kind of crystal sometimes found in Colorado. There were also references to high-frequency generators, amplifiers and negative rays.

Rake tiptoed to the table, arranged the professor's notes, then went upstairs to bed. He planned out each move. They dovetailed. He rose at sunup and strode through the kitchen where Big Scar was sitting, with an egg beater in his hand.

"See you later," said Rake over his shoulder, "I'm going to the telegraph office."

The professor was deep in his notes at ten A. M. when a messenger boy from Ossining arrived and rang the front door bell. Rake brought in the message, which he had prepared by bribing a night operator who was just going off duty.

"Wire for you, sir," he said, passing a tray over the table toward Pascal. "I signed and paid the boy ten cents for bringing it out, sir."

The professor seized the yellow envelope and tore off one end with shaking fingers. He rose and glanced at a little gold clock.

"Pack my bag!" he ordered. "I've got to go to Colorado."

A taxi churned to the gate after Rake had telephoned the station and the nearest garage. Pascal stood on the front porch. He repeated his instructions as to the ice, the windows and the furnace. He said going down the steps:

"Don't allow any of my relatives to come in the house. I received a letter from Maine, the other day, regarding one of them. Throw her out, if she comes."

Rake showed Big Scar the telegram as the auto honked and was gone. It read:

"Come to Boulder, immediately."

"Just enough and not too much," he said. "It worked!"

The yegg started toward the basement steps.

"Where are you going?" asked Rake.

"Fer some wealthy water from th' wine cellar. We can have a swell party. Old four-eyes won't be back fer two weeks."

"Hold on, Scar! No wine or women in this venture. Business first!"

The yegg frowned fiercely. He wet his Kps and stared at Rake. A flash passed between the two men. It changed to concern as a whistle sounded outside. Footsteps grated across the front porch. The bell rang vigorously.

"Wot's that, Rake?"

Rake crouched and reached for the automatic. He straightened with a sudden laugh.

"Go to the door," he said.

Big Scar arranged the buttons on his white vest and lumbered through the portieres and along the hall. He peered between chintz curtains.

"Gor blyme!" he growled, "it's the postman!"

"Take the letters," said Rake.

BIG SCAR opened the door. He spoke to the village postman. He closed the door and came through the portieres.

"Says 'Alonzo Pascal,' on the outside!" he exclaimed as he passed over a single letter. "We better not open it."

The cracksman pinched the envelope, reached over the table, lifted a pen-holder and thrust its thin end beneath the flap. He rolled the pen-holder until the flap was loosened completely.

Big Scar stared at Rake whose darting eyes swept across the message.

"It's from a woman, Scar. I'll read it. 'Betty, whom you have never met, will reach you early tomorrow morning. Take care of her, Alonzo, and listen to what she has to say. We are in dire poverty. Your sister, Grace.' "

Rake dropped the letter to the table.

"A skirt coming?" exclaimed Big Scar.

"Betty is coming. I wonder who Betty is?"

"Sounds like a hick name, Rake."

Rake shot a glance over the library. He remembered the child's photo and the bundle of letters he had seen in the safe in Pascal's room. Was there a skeleton in the old man's closet?

"Get busy!" he said tersely. "Lock all the doors and latch all the windows! We're going to rip open that laboratory and get away with the Green glow apparatus before Betty shows up. We've got all night."

"Let's wait an' see th' dame. Didn't th' scratch say that Betty never met th' old geezer?"

"It says that, Scar, but it doesn't concern us. What did I say about molls and this job? They're out of it!"

The yegg shrugged his shoulders and started examining the catches to the library windows. He passed into the hallway and placed a chain on the door. He made the rounds of the lower floor of the house and then came back to Rake.

"All set, Pal!" he said. "Let's go an' see what that miser has in th' basement. Me fingers have been itching tu rip off those bull locks."

Rake led the way into the hall and to a door beneath the front steps which opened upon a short landing above a narrow flight leading to a concrete floor.

He whipped out his fountain-pen flashlight as Big Scar felt around in the gloom. The three locks to the laboratory were a kind known as 'thiefproof.' Rake waited until the yegg had struck a match and touched it to a gas jet. He pocketed the fountain pen flashlight and stared upward. He pointed a steady white finger.

"Power meter," he said. "See, it is for power service only. Those leads run into the laboratory."

Big Scar scowled at the three locks belligerently. Rake glanced around the floor, stepped to a furnace room, groped about and returned with a short bar of iron.

"Goin' to jimmy th' hasps?" asked the yegg.

"No! Look out! I've got the key to these locks. Dutch Gus taught me this trick."

Rake turned the lower lock upside down, thrust two fingers through the hasp and struck a sharp blow on the bottom. It flew open. "Next," he said. "There's nothing man ever put together that another man can't take apart."

Big Scar swung open the laboratory door and glared inside.

"Smells like acids," he said withdrawing his head.

Rake flashed his pocket lamp and advanced slowly. He snapped on an electric bulb which was set in a stone wall. He studied the room. It was disappointingly small. A workbench ran across one end. A table stood in the center. A rack of tubes, retorts, chemicals, phials and glass-stoppered bottles, was against the dividing wall that separated the laboratory from the wine cellar.

Objects began to stand out as he focused his eyes. He saw a rotary-transformer in one corner. Leads ran from this up to a junction box. Spirals of insulated wire looped over the table upon which was set an ebony-based instrument that resembled a flaming arc with solenoids and green carbons and a zinc cross to which was attached fine silk-covered wire.

"I know what that is," Rake said pointing to the cross. "That's the greatest anomaly in electricity. A cross of two metals which produces cold instead of heat."

Big Scar worked his brows up and down. He roamed the room with his eyes. "Looks like a place where they make th' queer," he ventured. "Maybe th' old miser is a coiner."

To Rake, who had studied electricity for the purpose of outwitting bank protection, there was no great mystery in Pascal's machine to produce a green glow, save one element. That was a hood which could be raised or lowered over the contact points of the arc. The hood was neither glass nor any familiar crystal. It was green in color. There was a tiny crack at its upper end.

Rake touched this crack with his fingernail.

"They call this stuff Molobenthan,"

he explained. "It's an extremely rare crystal. Perhaps the name was made up— I never heard of it before."

"Maybe you'll never hear ov it again, Pal."

"Pascal went to Boulder, Colorado, to try and get another one. The chances are, Scar, this crack puts the end to our plans. I don't believe it works. Extreme cold caused it to split."

Rake glanced at the ceiling. He reached and drew down the two insulated wires. He opened the screws of a pair of binding-posts in the ebony base. Then, remembering the switch on the wall, he stepped over the concrete floor and saw that the handle was pulled out.

"We've got to be careful," he said. "I don't know what voltage is on the line. We'U start the rotary transformer and see if the green glow operates. You better stand near the door."

Rake connected the two leads, lowered the crystal over the arcs, tested the fine wires which led to the zinc-composition cross and then stepped to the switch.

"Look out!" he warned Big Scar.

A sparking showed at the double brush holder of the transformer. It moved, hummed and then whined. A click sounded as the two green carbons drew apart. A turquoise light filled the room. This light changed shade and became peacock blue. The glow merged into deep blue and then swiftly into green darkness.

"Strike a match!"

The astonished yegg cursed as he struck a dozen without seeing a light.

"Go up stairs," shouted Rake above the whine of the rotary transformer. "Notice how far you have to go before you can distinguish anything. Go through the house and out in the yard."

Rake waited and listened. He reached a hand up to the switch and clasped the insulated handle. He heard Big Scar's oaths as the yegg stumbled over the top of the stairs and then against the hall-tree by the front door. The purring transformer — the hissing arc— the frost which was already in the air, made Rake fear for his own life. He pried his eyes open with his left hand and attempted to see a rift in the veil. There was none.

Footsteps, halting and uncertain sounded finally, as Big Scar searched his way back through the hall until he reached the basement stairs. He came down with a curse at each step.

He grasped the edge of the door leading into the laboratory.

"You there yet, Pal?" he throated. "Shut that damn thing off."

"How far does the green glow extend?"

"To th' front gate! I couldn't see a star or anything until I crawled that far. Then I saw lights ov th' town. Th' smoke gets thin about sixty feet from here."

"Smoke is good," chuckled Rake. "What did the house look like from the gate."

"Looks like a green hole in th' night. For Gawd sake, shut off that thing! Me eyes hurt"

Rake jerked the switch down. The transformer ceased whining. A deep blue filled the room. This changed to peacock blue and then to turquoise. The lamp on the side of the wall started to glow like a worm in a bottle. It flared to brilliancy as the two carbons of the arc clicked together.

Rake strode to the lamp and examined it carefully.

"One hundred and ten volts, direct current," he said. "That's low. The transformer steps the voltage down to about thirty. Say, Scar, we can put this whole apparatus in a suitcase."

"How?"

"Easy— if the case is big enough. We can do away with the transformer by substituting about fifteen batteries — small ones. We don't need to cut holes in the case or make an opening with celluloid, such as is used in the back curtain of an automobile. The green glow is like an X-ray— it penetrates everything."

"I couldn't see a glim in th' house when I crawled out."

"The machine makes anti-light or minus-light. It'll extinguish any light known, Scar."

The yegg stepped through the door. He turned his head and squinted toward the wine cellar. He stopped and picked up the bar of iron which Rake had used in opening the three bull locks.

"Th' old geezer," he said, "is well stocked with wealthy water. It's me an' you, Rake, for a quart ov fizz apiece. We'll drink tu th' light an' all the kale it's goin' to bring to us."

Rake heard the yegg attempting to open the lock on the wine cellar door. He smiled. The trick was not as easily done as it appeared. It was ten minutes before Big Scar appeared in the doorway of the laboratory, with two bottles under his arm.

"Come upstairs," he muttered. "We'll celebrate th' occasion by startin' th' radio an' drinkin' up. In th' morning we can tend to th' suitcase an' batteries." Rake glanced about the laboratory. He turned out the light on the power circuit, closed the door, hung the locks upon the staples and followed the yegg up stairs. They drank and Big Scar went for more.

Rake came to his senses as the little gold clock on the mantel in the library struck twelve notes.

He turned down his glass when the yegg reached a bottle across the table.

"No!" he declared earnestly. "Finish that bottle and let's get to work. We've got plenty to do. I want a big suitcase from the professor's collection in the spare closet. I want storage batteries. We must be ready to leave here at the crack o' dawn, Scar."

"Aw! Let's hang around a day or two. We can get some girls up from New York. Th' old miser is about hittin' Buffalo. He's going a long ways on th' cushions."

Rake's glance drilled through Big Scar's fuddled brain.

The yegg set down the bottle. His blue-stained fingers coiled and uncoiled. He wet his thick lips thirstily. Then, both men turned their heads as the front door bell rang.

Both rose and started toward the portieres which were draped across the doorway leading to the hall.

"The perfessor!" guessed Big Scar.

"Betty!" Rake exclaimed. "Here is Betty! She's ahead of time!"

The yegg tiptoed across the floor and lunged through the hall. He came back with the planks creaking.

"Skirt outside," he said deep in his throat. "Hick kid with pasteboard keister an' a flopping hat—o ne ov them big picture things like they wear when they come to town. What'll we do?"

"Let 'er in," said Rake. "I'll be the uncle she never saw."

"She might queer everythin'."

"Go on, Scar! Let her in!"

"What'll I say?" '

"See what she says."

The yegg hesitated, caught a flash from Rake's eyes and hurried to the front door.

"This way tu y'ur Uncle Alonzo!" Rake heard Big Scar announce.

The portieres parted and let in a slender girl whose cheeks were the color of russet apples and whose eyes were filled with tears. She advanced as Big Scar set down a papier-mache suitcase.

"Well?" said Rake. "Well, is this Betty?"

"Y-e-s. And this is uncle?"

"Surest thing you know— little girl."

"I came to see you because mother sent me. Here is a letter from mother for you."

Rake stared at the girl's lips as she plucked an envelope from her breast.

She handed it over. Big Scar coughed distressingly. Rake read the letter. He glanced up and ordered:

"Butler, show Miss Betty the room we always keep for relatives. See that she has everything. I suppose you're tired?" he added, smiling at her.

"I came right through. Mother thought I should remain in the waiting room at New York until morning. I couldn't wait. I didn't believe all the harsh things she said about you."

"Do you believe them now?" Rake questioned.

"You are so different than I thought you were."

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen, uncle."

Rake dropped his eyes to the letter. He lifted it, then laid it down again. He stared over the girl's shoulder and flashed a warning to Big Scar.

"Tomorrow," he said, "you can tell me about your mother and yourself. I'll think over the letter, in the meantime. You get a good sleep, Betty."

"And will you help mother?"

"Sure!"

"Oh, I'm so glad."

The girl started around the table. Her hands went out. Tears brightened her eyes. The creamyness of her neck reddened and welled to her cheeks. A lock of hair dropped over one ear. She tripped on the edge of a rug.

Rake caught her gallantly. He said to the yegg:

"Take her bag! She will follow you upstairs. See that there is everything in the room— towels and soap and a little supper. There's tongue and milk in the ice box— then lock her door and come down to me."

The girl paused in the hall.

"Good night, uncle."

"Good night, Betty."

Ten minutes ensued before Big Scar strode down stairs and stumbled into the library. He tossed Rake the key to the bedroom door.

"Wot was in that letter?" he asked. "You're gettin' soft, Pal."

Rake glanced at the table.

"This is a different thing from what I expected, Scar."

"Are yu goin tu give up th' green glow idea?"

"No! But—

"But wot?"

"The professor robbed Betty and her mother of their fortune. He copped their coin."

"He looked like that kind ov a guy!"

"He is! He left them to starve. They couldn't prove their claim. There was a will which was never found. Alonzo made himself executor. He abandoned them on a ten-acre farm in Maine. He used the money in scientific experimentation. It amounted to seventy thousand dollars."

"Wot? Does it say all that in th' letter?"

Rake picked up the envelope and crammed it in his pocket. He stared at the little gold clock on the mantel piece.

"It's three," he evaded. "We'll get busy! No sleep for us! We'll fix up a suitcase with the green glow apparatus. We'll get batteries in the morning. Then we'll leave this part of the world."

"How about th' skirt upstairs?"

Rake answered:

"We can help her, someway. We'll make old Alonzo come across with money for her, or we'll keep his papers and notes on green light. He's been working years on 'em."

"He may call th' coppers."

"Let him! We've got to do something for Betty."

"I told you to look out for the skirts, Pal."

"You didn't tell me. I told you! But this is a different situation than I figured on."

"Oh, she's silk. She wuz sayin' her prayers when I locked her door."

The two crooks went to the basement and started ripping the wiring from the table in the laboratory and unscrewing the ebony base. Rake examined all of Pascal's tools on the work bench. He found what he required in the way of screw drivers and pliers. He sent Big Scar up stairs for the largest suitcase in the professor's collection. The yegg came down with a dusty leather bag.

MORNING dawned before the job was completed. The flaming-arc apparatus was fastened to the bottom of the bag. A switch was rigged which could be turned on and off when the case was shut. A place was partitioned to hold the batteries. These would have to be small in size to take up their number. "Ten-ampere hour batteries," Rake explained. "We probably can get them in the city. We want fourteen or fifteen to give us thirty volts of direct current."

Blocking the green crystal so that it would not touch the carbons, Rake carried the bag up stairs, after Big Scar snapped shut the three locks and followed him.

The bag was deposited in a closet. Rake went into the library. He raised the blinds and glanced out. Cold dawn was coming up over the world. He was tired from the night's exertions. He lay down on a couch between two book cases; braced his head with his hands and said to Big Scar:

"Clean up! Shave! Get breakfast for Betty. I hear her stirring in the front room."

"Wot?"

"Do as I say. We'll divert her suspicion. Tell her that her uncle expects her down in twenty minutes."

"I can't shave an' make omelets an' coffee an' do all that in twenty minutes, Pal."

"You can try!"

Big Scar lumbered toward the kitchen. He went upstairs by the back way and entered the bathroom.

He announced breakfast by knocking upon, the girl's door and saying:

"Your uncle, Professor Alonzo, is awaitin' yu, for breakfast."

"All right!" sounded in silvery warmth. The girl appeared. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes were held demurely down.

"This woiy!" said Big Scar. "This woiy tu th' breakfast room."

Rake sat at the table in the little dining room between the library and the kitchen. He rose as the girl stepped in. He bowed and motioned for Big Scar to hold back her chair.

"Good morning," he greeted her. "Did you sleep well?"

"Wonderfully well, uncle."

Rake leaned forward and studied the girl as she attempted to cut her grapefruit with a knife. He saw her hands drop to her sides. She puckered her lips and attempted to hold back a rush of tears. She bent toward him, and sobbed short, distressing sobs that drove through his conscience.

"What's the matter, Betty?" he queried. "Don't you trust your uncle?"

"Oh, I do! Oh, you're so different from what mother said you were. I thought you were old. I thought you were a miser. I don't know what to think. I'd better go home."

Rake stared at Big Scar who was standing in the kitchen doorway.

"Butler, step out!" he said incisively.

The yegg waited twenty minutes in the kitchen. Once or twice he started toward the dining room. Each time he heard Rake's voice reassuring the girl that he was going to see that her fortune was restored.

The big yegg threw down hfs hands with a final gesture.

"It's all off," he growled. "Th' skirt is goin' tu beat us!"

Rake appeared in the doorway.

"Butler," he said, "have you a telegraph blank?"

Striding close to the yegg, Rake whispered:

"You and I are going to leave her in the house. Get ready to go to New York. We've got time. We'll get the batteries on Cortlandt Street. You stall around and make a pretense of dusting off things in the library until we're ready to go. Look up the southbound trains."

"What's th' goime, Pal?"

"A professional try-out. She told me about her fortune and her mother's fortune. Pascal was her father's brother. He stole the will and the securities. He's got some of them planted. I know where they are. They're not in the wall-safe upstairs. There's a receipt there for a safe deposit box in the Maynard Trust Company on Fifth Avenue. We'll rent a box this afternoon. While we're renting it, we'll get the will and the bonds and the securities that are in box number 713."

"Aw, cawn't we blow west with th' machine?"

"No! We'll try it on the hardest job first. If it works there we can rip the country wide open, Scar."

"What about th' dame?" Big Scar pointed his thumb toward the dining

Bake's face softened.

"An angel," he whispered. "I can't pass up doing her a good turn."

"Aw!"

The yegg glanced around for a duster as Rake hurried to the dining room. He strode through the hall and said from the library portieres:

"There's no telegraph blanks, sir. Shall I ask th' neighbors fer some?"

"Let them go, Jones," said Rake. "We can send a wire from New York. I want you to carry my bag to the station. Be ready in a half hour."

Betty's face was radiant. She stood on the porch when Rake and Big Scar turned at the foot of the steps and glanced at her.

The yegg had drawn a hat down over his tell-tale scar. He was slightly bent with the weight of the bag he carried. His eyes glinted like steel drills as Rake mounted a step and clasped the girl's hands.

"What time will you be back, uncle?" she asked.

"Seven, or seven thirty. I'll bring all of the securities and the will. Your mother's letter has touched me. I know that I have done wrong in the past. We're going to forget it— you and I. I never knew I had so charming a niece."

Big Scar coughed with a distressing hack in his throat.

Rake lifted his cap as he let go the girl's hands. He smiled keenly.

"Good-bye till seven or a little later. Don't let anybody in the house, Betty. You just play lady. There are three chickens in the chicken yard and there's music on the piano. I'll telegraph your mother that the fortune will be restored to her— and you."

A grateful ripple shone from Betty's eyes. Rake turned away from her and hastened through the gate and down toward the railroad station after Big Scar.

They reached New York at ten A. M. Chartering a taxi at the Grand Central, Rake covered a number of important points in getting ready the green glow apparatus. He purchased a small rheostat on Forty-second Street. He requested the driver to turn down Fifth Avenue. Both men peered at the ornate exterior of the Maynard Trust Company. They sank back upon the seat with a double sigh of satisfaction.

"We'll go to the Bowery," said Rake. "I want to see little Mickey Gleason. He can give me a puff of TNT and two or three double-X detonators—we'll need them."

The yegg waited in the taxi when Rake sprang out and after a ten-minute search found Mickey Gleason— a battered and resourceful safe-blower of the old school.

Their next stop was on Cortlandt Street where Rake succeeded in purchasing a set of thirteen storage batteries, fully charged and equipped with leads.

"They were used for a radio," he explained to Big Scar as he carried them out to the taxi. "See if they will go in the bag."

The batteries fitted with an inch or more to spare. The connections were made in the ride uptown. The rheostat was placed in series with the green arc and the batteries. It needed but a turn of the switch, hidden in the leather folds of the bag, to start the apparatus.

"It's crude," said Rake, glancing at the bag between Big Scar's feet, "but it may do the work. We should take the Sub-Treasury with it."

"Let's take that, then, an' forget th' skirt. Wot's th' use ov wastin' our time on a little job?"

"This is a try-out. It's some bank, too."

The taxi slowed for the curb in front of the Maynard Trust Company. Rake leaned out and said to the chauffeur:

"Goon! Go on to the next square."

Springing from the cab. Rake walked rapidly down the Avenue, removed a card from his coat pocket and, stalking by the doorman, turned and went down a flight of marble steps which led to the vaults of the Maynard Trust Company.

A guard sat at the desk in front of the vaults. To him Rake imparted, as he handed out the card:

"I'm Doctor Bloodgood of Yonkers. I want a rather large box, by the year. Something around ten or fifteen dollars."

The guard rose and led the way into the vault. He showed Rake several boxes. Each time they were too large or too small. Rake's eyes were keen. He finally located box number 713. It was the seventh from the top in the thirteenth row from the open steel-grill door that led into the vault.

Sizing up this box, with its two flat key-holes. Rake secured one near it and paid the guard fifteen dollars after signing "Dr. Bloodgood" and obtaining keys and a receipt.

"I'll be back presently," he announced. "I'll have my man bring down some things I want to store away."

Big Scar was peering from the cab when Rake approached it. The chauffeur had the engine running.

"Get around the corner and wait," said Rake. "We will be gone but a minute."

The driver rounded the block. Big Scar climbed out with the bag. Rake gripped his arm and led him to the entrance of the Trust Company.

"Size up the get-away," he whispered. "Remember where the cab is."

The big yegg felt himself urged through the marble portals and down the flight of marble steps. He set the bag on the floor in front of the guard's desk, as Rake requested:

"Here we are! Will you open my box for me?"

The guard took the key Rake extended. He walked toward the grilled-gate to the vault. He had almost reached the opening when Rake bent, snapped the switch on the side of the bag, and glided toward the back of the building.

A hissing sounded. A violent glow filled the basement. The light from the bag deepened in color. The guard, the grilled gate, the locked boxes, the white marble all faded as the overhead lights twinkled faintly and then were gone in the darkness that fell like a veil.

"Get the guard!" shouted Rake. "Don't let him by. Stand across the entrance!"

A shuffling of feet echoed from the vault. Curses and groans filled the pit. A man went down. Another worked in greenish gloom.

Big Scar heard the clerks and special officers shouting, at the top of the stairs. They called to each other. They stumbled and fell as they attempted to find their way to the street. Someone shouted "An eclipse." This cry was taken up.

There followed, within a few seconds, a roar and a rack of an explosion. No light showed through the pit. An acrid odor of TNT readied Big Scar's nostrils. He groped and struck the outstretched arms of the vault's guard. The two men gripped and went to the floor together.

"All right!" shrilled Rake. "All right, get the bag, don't snap off the switch; follow me upstairs!"

Big Scar hooked his right elbow and crushed his fist under the guard's jaw. He searched about the basement for the bag. He touched the edge of a desk. He heard a hissing at his feet. Stooping he lifted the bag. He felt along the stone wall until he had reached the first step.

"Where are yu, Rake?" he shouted huskily.

"Right here, Scar!"

The yegg felt Rake's breath on his neck. They started up the stairs. Turmoil was in the corridor of the Trust Company. A panic-stricken group of depositors surged together in the blackness.

"Turn to the left!" ordered Rake coolly. "Now, through here! Now, to the left again. Now this way. We're on the sidewalk."

"Good Gawd!" was all that Big Scar could say.

They felt their way along the side of the building. They reached and tapped the stones ahead of them with their toes. Like two blind men they progressed in the direction of the taxi. The greenish glow grew thinner.

A woman shopper bumped into the bag. It slipped from Big Scar's arm and fell to the flagging. The arc flamed through the leather. It died and allowed the afternoon sun to penetrate the veil. Both crooks stood near the curb and rubbed their eyes. Bake glanced back.

The men at the entrance to the Trust Company were staring confusedly around the Avenue. An ambulance rang a warning from a side street.

"Come on!" ordered Rake. "You broke the crystal when you dropped the bag."

Big Scar grinned at a frightened woman who had shrunk into a doorway.

"Th' skirts again!" he muttered, lifting the bag and hurrying after the cracksman.

They piled into the taxi. Rake ordered the driver to take them to Sixth Avenue and uptown.

"What happened?" asked the chauffeur. "Fire?"

"It's out now," said Rake. "Step on the throttle and get us to the first subway express station."

"How about Times Square?"

"All right, hurry!"

Big Scar opened the bag. He touched the carbon and searched for the crystal. He found a number of fragments and showed them to Rake.

"Th' skirt done it!" he exclaimed. "If I hadn't bumped into her—"

Rake gripped the yegg's arm.

"You were careless."

"Me! Me eyes were blinded."

"We got everything that was in box 713, Scar. That's enough for one day."

"Let's see 'em, Pal."

Rake opened his coat and glanced inside his pocket.

"Looks like stocks and bonds and legal papers," he mused, without drawing them out. "This should right the wrong Pascal did to Betty and her mother."

"Where will we get another crystal? I kinda like this machine. I need it in me business."

Rake stared at the subway kiosk they were nearing. He sprang to the curb and paid the driver.

Clutching the yegg by the wrist he urged him into the express statibn where they took a train for Van Cortlandt Park, then changed to a surface car that passed through Yonkers and Hastings.

A second taxi was chartered to finish the journey to Ossining. Night had fallen before they wound through the village and were guided up the hill that led to Pascal's house.

Betty heard the honk of the horn, and came out on the porch. Rake told the taxi-driver to wait. He entered the house and said to Big Scar:

"Leave the bag in the hall, Jones. Go upstairs and pack Miss Pascal's suit-case. She's going home, soon."

"Did you get the things for mama?" she asked him concernedly. Rake waited until the yegg had reached the top of the stairs.

"Yes, I got them! Here's the stocks and bonds. They were your father's. Now, they are yours. I give them to you gladly."

Betty took the packet. "How can I thank you?" she said to the cracksman.

Rake's face pressed close to hers.

"By leaving here," said he. "By leaving me and forgetting you ever met— your uncle."

"I don't think I can ever do that."

The tail-light of the taxi that carried the girl vanished over the hill in the direction of Ossining and the railroad station by the river.

Big Scar leaned against a porch-post at the head of the steps. He clumsily rolled a cigarette, and pasted it together. He poised it between his thick lips, then struck a match.

"Pal," he saidt "Say, Pal, th' skirt beat us."

Rake stared at the road over which the girl had gone.

"Pal," repeated the yegg. "We c'uld ov used that crystal on a First National crib an' copped all ov a million in kale."

"I'm glad we didn't!" declared Rake. "Betty's good will is worth more than a million dollars."

"Can't we try another crib?"

"We— might— if we could get another crystal. Where are we going to get one? Pascal won't supply it. Remember he was stalled west on a fake telegram. The Green Glow may never be created again."

_________________

8: The Crimp

Henry Leverage

Argosy  13 Nov 1920

THE law as set down for sailing masters offers a fair measure of protection for seamen.

Captain Gully, of the steam whaler Bowhead, was familiar with this law. It prevented him from completing his crew. Men of any kind were scarce in San Francisco. Cargoes rotted in ships' holds while the wages of ordinary seamen mounted to impossible heights.

The Bowhead was ready to steam for the Arctic and Bering Sea whaling grounds. Her boat-steerers, harpooners, mates, engineers, and twelve of a crew were aboard. Captain Gully dared not cat the anchor without eighteen men before the mast. He needed six more hands in the fo'c's'le.

"Hansen," he told his first mate," lower the dinghy and go to the Blubber Room on East Street. Ask for Abie Kelly. Bring Abie out with you."

"The crimp?"

"You know him."

"Ja! I dank I know him."

"Bring him to me!"

Hansen returned at nightfall. He steadied the bosun's ladder that hung from the taffrail and watched Abie Kelly climb to the deck.

Captain Gully greeted the crimp like a long-lost son. They descended to the whaler's cabin while Hansen was hooking the dinghy's bow to a dangling fall.

"To be brief as possible," said Gully after pouring out a generous portion of rum," I want six men before midnight, when the tide turns."

What kind of men, cappin?"

"Any kind, so long as they are husky— Chinks, Kanakas, dock-rats, mission-stiffs."

Abie the Crimp, as he was known along the Barbary Coast, upended the rum, wiped his mouth, and stared at the skipper of the Bowhead.

Captain Gully was tall, thin, and weather-beaten. Abie was slight. He had hawk eyes, black as beads; a hawk's long nose and a disappearing chin. He had been born in San Francisco. His mother owned the dive known from the Golden Gate to Vladivostok as the Blubber Room.

"Cap," said Abie, "I'd like to assist you, but you know the law."

"Time was when you didn't speak to me of any law."

"That time is gone, cap. The Seamen's Union is hostile to shanghaiin'. The crews of all ships going out must sign before the proper authorities."

Captain Gully knew Abie's former price.

"There's a hundred dollars advance for every man you bring aboard who won't care what he signs."

"Blood money?"

"Yes. I'll pay it to you out of hand." Captain Gully touched his right breast, where a bulging pocket showed.

Abie the Crimp needed money. Six hundred dollars was a fair figure to pay for six men.

"There's only one way to get them," he said.

"What is that way, Abie?"

"Th' same way I fixed up old Cappin Pike of th' Norwhale, season before last. He went north with twenty-two good men. I furnished them all except three."

There was pride in Abie's voice. Captain Gully worked on this. He suggested:

"I only want six. Why, that ain't many for a runner like you."

"Not many? I should say it was, the way things are ashore— Seamen's Union, Coaster Unions, Shipping Board paying eighty dollars a month for ordinary sailors. No, it isn't many, but they are going to be hard to get. Make it one hundred and twenty-five dollars a man."

"How are you going about getting them aboard, Abie?"

"A new idea with me. I'm a government detective, see. I know the hangouts and scatters of all the crooks in San Francisco. I know where they're coinin' the queer. I know of a few stills. I heard yesterday of two new hop joints right on Dupont Street."

"You'll represent yourself as an officer of the law?"

"I've got a gold badge. I'll make the pinch, turn them over to an assistant detective who will bring them out to this ship, and you can do the rest. They'll be glad enough for getaway when I get done with them."

"I'll make it one hundred and twenty- five, Abie, if you hurry."

The crimp paused with one foot on the ladder which led to the quarter-deck of the Bowhead.

"There's a detective in town, cap, nobody ever saw as far as I can find out. His name is James Keenon. They're afraid as hell of him. I'll be Keenon to-night. I'll make six quiet pinches and send the men out to you."

"But they might start trouble before they sign on for the voyage."

Abie the Crimp laid his hand over his heart.

"Cap," he declared, "there's men ashore— Chinks and crooks— who would pay you five hundred dollars to get away from Keenon. See the point?"

Captain Gully nodded.

"All right, I'll be waiting, Abie. Do you need a boat?"

"Lend me your dinghy. Let me have that mate, Hansen. He's got a pair of blue pants on— just the thing to imitate a copper's."

"Where will the boat be if I want it?"

"At the foot of Meigg's wharf."

"What time are you going to send out the first men?"

" God knows, cap; but it's an awful crooked part of town where I'm going to make those phony pinches in."

Captain Gully followed Abie up the ladder. Hansen took the skipper's orders, touched his cap, pulled the dinghy along-side the rudder-post, and motioned for the crimp to slide down.

The seaman hitched the painter to a pile at the foot of Meigg's wharf after a swift row over the bay, and followed the gliding figure of Abie along East Street until the Blubber Room was reached.

"We'll get some hardware," explained Abie. "Come in the back room. Sit down. If you want a drink, tell my mother you're with me."

The crimp appeared within ten minutes. A black, soft-brimmed hat hid his sharp eyes. A long raincoat reached to his heels He looked the part of a sleuth, except his weak chin.

"Where are you going, Abie?" asked his mother.

Abie the Crimp leaned over the bar and touched his lips to a muscular arm. He was a good son in many ways.

"We'll try a place I heard of in Jackson Street," he told Hansen after they had climbed the stairs from the Blubber Room. "Here, take these handcuffs and this badge. It's a building inspector's. Nobody will know the difference where we're going."

The seaman crammed two pairs of rusty handcuffs in the side pockets of his pea-jacket. He pinned the badge on his vest.

"I'm James Keenon," explained Abie. "No crook or Chink knows Keenon in this town. He's the man behind. He works up the case, scouts around, and lets somebody else do the pinching. He don't testify at the trials. He's the brains. The detectives you hear about are his tools."

"I dank that's a good way," said Hansen.

"Of course it's good— for me! All I have got to do is say I'm Keenon, flash my badge, and you make the arrest."

Abie opened his raincoat. He ran a finger through an armhole of his vest. A gold insignia flashed beneath the shielding coat as the crimp pulled out a suspender strap.

"That's where all the good ones wear it," he explained. "But you want yours in sight. You're the tool, to-night."

The mate was a big man. He would have made two of Abie. He lacked the crimp's energy and assurance. He dropped back one stride and followed Abie up a hill, through an alley and over a roof.

"Nothin' doing," said Abie after glancing at three windows. "This used to be a creepin' joint where sailors were trimmed. The creepers have crawled away. Guess the police were wise."

The crimp led Hansen through a maze of courts, covered arches and hallways. They started descending cellar steps. Musty bales loomed before them. It was the place of Wan Fat, dealer in li-she nuts. I

Abie recalled a brief-caught conversation which he had overheard in the rear of the Blubber Room. Wan Fat, and his brother Sing Fat, observed the law. Next door, however, lived Hong Kee, who was known to have a supply of choice Victoria opium. The matter of the opium was common gos- sip along the Barbary Coast. Hong Kee did not know Abie.

The crimp's pride had been awakened by Captain Gully. Here was a chance. He tiptoed between Wan Fat's bales of nuts, drew Hansen to his side, and pointed to a low door.

"Bust through there," he whispered. "You won't need no gat. I'll go all the way up-stairs. We'll trap the rats."

Hong Kee and two of his patrons were enjoying themselves around a layout tray when Abie, armed with a rusty revolver, dropped through a roof-scuttle and Hansen broke down the door.

The placid faces of the Chinamen underwent several changes after the crimp ripped open a chair's cushion and pulled out five toys of opium. He had learned of the hiding-place while listening to the conversation of two hop fiends in his mother's dive.

He convinced the Celestials that he meant business. He explained that he was the much-feared Keenon. The mere possession of five cans of hop called for years in prison. Hong Kee and two coolie friends were taken by a roundabout route to Meigg's wharf. Hansen did not need to handcuff them.

Captain Gully, on watch, held up three fingers when Abie was rowed from the dinghy whaler. The crimp had half filled the contract.

"I dank it will be easy to get the others," said the mate, whose slow brain had finally grasped Abie's big idea.

"We should have no trouble at all," Abie answered. He relaxed into silence and was rowed ashore.

Rain fell athwart the city. A mist rested on top of Knob Hill. Abie, hidden beneath the slouch hat and raincoat, entered several opium dens in hopes of catching some one napping. He was recognized in one of these. This would not do. He was supposed to be Keenon, a detective.

"We'll try for a big haul," he told the faithful mate. "We'll break in where men are making money."

The method pursued by the crimp to find the location of the coiners he had in mind was an involved detour which took all of an hour of precious time.

Mother Kelly, on duty as barmaid at the Blubber Room, supplied the necessary information. The Yetsky Wop, who had fortunately tried to pass a smooth two-bit piece on Abie's mother the day before, had never met Abie. His address was on Lower Mission Street, between a Chinese laundry and a ship's outfitter.

The crimp acted energetically. He dragged the mate out from a crowd that surrounded a soap-box preacher at Mission and East Street. He crossed the sidewalk, loosened his revolver, and started mounting flights of stairs which were steep as the shrouds to a topmast.

The Yetsky Wop, a meek-eyed Italian and his assistant coiner, had a crucible on a stove and three plaster-of-Paris molds ready for filling. Both raised their arms when Abie, backed by the mate, came around by a fire-escape.

The crimp took no chances with the coiners. Yetsky 's brother was known in the city as Angel Face. He was credited with five murders.

Hansen securely handcuffed the prison-
ers. He waited while Abie searched the room. A plating outfit, a box of copper and zinc, and a double handful of smooth quarters were hidden beneath the floor.

"I'm Keenon of the Secret Service!" said Abie. " My man will take you out to the revenue cutter. You go to the Federal prison."

Yetsky and his brother had feared Detective Keenon for over four years. They were plastic as their own plaster-of-Paris in the mate's hands. They jumped to his proposal of letting them get away on a whaler. Had not they been caught red-handed? It was bad enough to have queer money in one's possession, but double worse to have both the money and the molds. The sentence given by the Federal courts on similar charges had been five years for each offense.

Abie waited at the shore end of Meigg's wharf for the mate to return from the whaler Bowhead. He had done remarkably well in the matter of getting Captain Gully a crew. There remained one more man to secure. The crimp had his pride. He had promised six.

The rain was a dampener to his hopes of getting this man. It would be useless to send out anybody except one who feared the law more than a whaling voyage.

Yetsky, Angel Face, Hong Kee and the two coolies would sign any paper at midnight. They did not need to be urged to leave San Francisco.

"Having put the fear of Keenon into their hearts," Abie told Hansen, when the mate came ashore, "we'll proceed to find the last man. What did Captain Gully say?"

"I dank he say nothin'. He is sitting on the booby-hatch holding down the crew."

Abie led the mate toward Mission Street. The two men paused a moment in the shelter of an awning. The soap-box preacher had guided his flock of derelicts into the Beacon Room.

The Beacon Room was a long saloon made over into a mission hall. The windows were silvered with Rochelle salts. A tramp stood at the entrance. He shivered in the rain, opened the door, and went inside. The sound of voices came through the transom. They were pitched in many broken keys.

"Holy Joe's Place," was the name given to the Beacon Light by the denizens of the Barbary Coast. Holy Joe had long been a figure of prominence along the water-front. He took in seamen, runaway apprentices from British ships, and the flotsam of the West Coast. He fed them, prayed for them, and sent them forth strengthened in body and spirit.

Abie knew Holy Joe by sight. The missionary and preacher had frequently visited the Blubber Room. It was rumored that he was not averse to taking a drink.

There existed an antipathy between the crimp and the preacher. Abie Kelly believed Holy Joe to be a sickening fraud. He had told his mother so. The missionary's visits to dives and saloons led the crimp to presume he was seeking whisky. Moreover, on one occasion, Abie had seen Holy Joe staggering.

"I've got my man! " said the crimp. "I won't need you any more, Hansen. Go to the boat and wait for me."

"I dank I better stay around."

Abie drew himself up to his full height of five feet four inches. "I've my man located," he said. " He's the preacher— Holy Joe!"

The mate shook his blond head. "Did he break a law?"

"Break th' law? He's lucky to stay out of San Quentin— what I know about him."

Abie knew nothing more about Holy Joe than the Barbary Coast gossip that the missionary was a gad-about and a nuisance. He was anxious to get rid of the mate. The time was short for him to supply Captain Gully with the sixth man.

"At the foot of Meigg's Wharf."

Hansen strode stiffly toward East Street. He vanished around the corner. Abie dived toward the Blubber Room. He went through the back door, reached under an old icebox, and pulled out a tiny vial. It was filled with a mixture of chloral-hydrate and morphia— two drugs which would pro- duce a deep sleep if taken in quantity.

Mother Kelly supplied Abie with a half-pint of bar whisky. Into this the crimp poured a tablespoon of the drug. He estimated the knockout dose for an average man to be fifteen drops of chloral and morphia. He had some experience in that line. The flask he pocketed and carried back to the Beacon Light was known as a "shoo-fly."

Abie's new idea was to get rid of Holy Joe and satisfy Captain Gully at the same time. His professional pride had changed to the soul-pleasing belief that the skipper of the Bowhead should be handed something as a reminder of the old days of shanghaiing. It would not be good ethics to let him get off without a hot one. The hot one being Holy Joe, who most certainly would make trouble.

From Abie's view-point all men were equal. He slipped into the Mission Hall like an eel. He took a shaky seat between a frowsled seafarer and a water-rat. He stared over the sw'aying heads of the congregation to where Holy Joe loomed upon a platform.

The preaching went on after a suggestive pause. The presence of Abie, the crimp, had almost brought forth a remark from the missionary. He recognized Mother Kelly's unsavory son. He changed the text and spoke of prodigals.

Abie was all eyes. He pretended to be deeply interested. Back in his brain his plan took form. He reviewed exactly what he was going to say to Holy Joe. It would take finesse to land the last man on the deck of the whale-ship. The service closed with the hymn:

"Salvation, Salvation—" changed to "There's a Light in the Window."

The meeting began to disperse. Abie waited until Holy Joe descended the plat- form and started down the aisle.

"A minute, preacher," he said. "You know me, don't you?"

Holy Joe, so called along the water-front, dropped a lambent glance upon Abie's glossy hair.

"How are you, boy?" he asked. "I'm glad you came to-night. I hope to—"

"Cut that," said Abie, remembering his role. "You see, I came to you because you was the only man who could help."

"Help what?"

Abie paused a suggestive minute. He stared around the rapidly emptying mission room.

"There's a man dyin' out in th' fo'c's'le of th' whaler Bowhead, preacher. " He ain't got nobody to pray for him. His name is Yetsky. He was hit by a Chink. He'll die and they'll throw him overboard to th' fishes."

Holy Joe, as Abie the Crimp expected, became interested.

"I'll be with you in a minute," he said, glancing at his flock going out the door.

"No! It's life or death, preacher. The Yetsky Wop—"

"The Yetsky Wop?"

"Sure, preacher. D'ye know who I mean now?"

"Yes. I've been watching his progress for years. He's one of my particular— converts."

"He's in bad now. Keenon, of the Secret Service, pinched him for makin' queer money. The detective let him go when he promised to stay aboard the whaler until it went out."

The lambent light in Holy Joe's eyes died to a restrospective glitter. Abie, keenly alert, detected a resolute movement of the missionary's lips. They closed in a straight line.

"I've heard of Keenon, Abie. So he arrested one of my converts? That is too bad!"

"Got him dead, bang right! Caught him with th' goods— molds and copper an' a platin' outfit. Then this Keenon let's him go"

"Were there any witnesses to the raid, Abie?"

"Sure! A mate of th' Bowhead saw th' whole thing."

"What is the mate's name?"

"Hansen."

"How— did the Yetsky Wop get injured?"

"A Chink hit him on th' head. The Chink's name is Hong Kee."

Abie thought he might as well pile matters on thick enough to make sure of getting Holy Joe out in the dinghy. Hong Kee was a well known Barbary Coast character. The crimp was not surprised when Holy Joe started buttoning up a long black coat and looking about for a hat.

"You're comin' with me, preacher?"

"Most certainly! I shall be of some service, I hope. You haven't explained how Hong Kee came to go to the whaler."

"Oh, Keenon caught him with five cans o' hop. It was good hop. I saw it with my own eyes."

Abie was the only man in San Francisco who knew where the five cans were hidden at that particular minute. He intended selling them when the Bowhead was well out from shore soundings.

"You get me," he told Holy Joe after they left the mission hall. "You get me, preacher, when I tell you that I am Keenon. It's not generally known."

The missionary did show some surprise.

"Why, I never suspected that," he said. "Are you the government detective?"

Abie opened his coat, ran a thumb with- in the arm-hole of his checked vest, and showed the gold insignia that was pinned to his suspender strap.

"United States Secret Service," whispered Holy Joe. " I never knew it, Abie."

"Sure! I pinched those guys to-night, then I changed m' mind an' let 'em go— to th' whaler. They started fightin' among themselves— there's some more out there— an' Captain Gully sent word to me that Yetsky Wop was dyin' an' needed a preacher. I thought of you."

Abie searched for sign of Hansen at the shore end of Meigg's wharf. He whistled shrilly. The mate, sleepy and damp, emerged from the shelter of a shed.

"Right out to th' Bowhead!" command- ed the crimp. " I've kept my promise to Captain Gully. This is the man! "

The mate was a silent soul. He started rowing with long whalerman's strokes.

Abie sat on the after thwart with Holy Joe. They faced the seaman whose glance was directed toward the Market Street ferry-house.

The Bowhead was some little distance from the shore. It showed a pale riding- light on the foremast. No other ship was near the whaler.

"So you are Keenon?" said the missionary suddenly.

"Bet I am, preacher! Even my mother don't know it."

"It's a bad thin" for a son to keep anything from his mother."

"Got to! My life's always in danger." Abie reached into his hip-pocket, brought out the half-pint of whisky, and pulled the cork with his teeth.

"Have some?"

Holy Joe moistened' his straight lips. Abie could not see the preacher's expression on account of the darkness. A light smacking indicated that the bait was acceptable. Holy Joe had been seen in too many dives and saloons along the coast of Barbary to refuse a drink.

"With my blessing," said the preacher, handing back the flask.

Abie pretended to take an enormous swal- low. He pressed his tongue over the mouth of the bottle. Even then he tasted the bitterness of the chloral-hydrate and mor- phia. He wondered how Holy Joe stood the decoction. The preacher commenced swaying on the thwart. He rocked the small boat slightly. Hansen glanced at him.

"Abie," said Holy Joe in a low voice, "I'm not pleased with that whisky."

"Oh, it's all right, preacher. You know we make it in the cellar. We got a private still. You see, me being a government man allows us to do it."

"It was bitter, Abie."

The crimp realized that he would have to be careful if he wanted to deliver Captain Gully's last man. Holy Joe was apparently going under. There was a quarter-knot to be rowed before the Bowhead could be boarded.

" What's the matter, preacher?" he asked. " Are you prayin'?"

"I'm thinking, Abie, of what you told me about Yetsky Wop. Did Hong Kee strike him with provocation?"

"The Chink ran amuck. He tried to kill Yetsky 's brother."

"Angel Face?"

"Sure! The one they want for five murders. I found him with Yetsky when I made the pinch. I'm going to let them go. I've changed heart, preacher."

Holy Joe wound his arms around Abie's waist, and lurched to an erect position. Abie experienced the sensation of having his pockets picked. He wondered if the preacher had been seeking the flask of whisky. It was a strange action for a missionary. He attributed it to the effects of at least fifteen drops of chloral hydrate.

The dinghy swung its bow. Hansen drew in an oar. The dark outlines of the Bowhead were ahead. Captain Gully stood on the forepeak. He lowered a bo'swain's ladder.

"Up we go," said Abie. "Go right into the fo'c's'le, preacher. There's Yetsky Wop an' Angel Face an' Hong Kee waitin' for you."

Captain Gully unbattened the booby-hatch. He stepped aside. He leaned against a pinrail. Holy Joe, staggering and mumbling, crossed the whaler's planks, turned, and descended the greasy steps.

Abie grinned at the pleased skipper. "Six," he whispered. He reached for the rusty revolver which should have been in his pocket.

He had lost it during the boat ride! It was the weapon he intended using on the missionary. A light tap behind the ear would finish the work of the narcotic.

Abie was resourceful. He thought in split seconds. He heard voices below. One was Yetsky Wop's.

"My last man's all right," he assured the captain. "I'll put him in a bunk."

The scene in the fo'c's'le of the whaler was not exactly to the crimp's liking. He turned from the foot of the ladder and searched the gloom for Holy Joe.

The missionary struck a match. The yellow flame passed from bunk to bunk. Evil, vice-stamped faces, answered the search. The match went out. Abie, crouching with a belaying-pin in his hand, suddenly felt his wrist gripped with compelling fingers.

He writhed. His arm was bent back. Holy Joe's voice was low and demanding.

"Drop that! Now turn. Now go up the ladder. Follow me. Don't twist. It's no use at all, Abie."

The astonished skipper of the Bowhead was a witness to Abie's forced exit from the booby-hatch. Holy Joe, so called along he Barbary Coast, hurled the crimp against the life-rail on the foremast.

The preacher's smile was bland. He swiftly closed the hatch. He drove in a holding-pin with his right heel.

He turned to Abie:

"I didn't drink the knockout drops. I poured it down my shirt-front. I didn't leave the mission because I like the atmosphere of this whaler. You see, I am interested in Yetsky Wop' and Yetsky's brother, Angel Face, the coiner. He is wanted by the government. I'll be promoted for capturing him."

Abie did not need to be told Holy Joe's
right name. He pieced events together. They dove-tailed. The reason for the mis- sionary showing interest in Yetsky Wop— his habit of visiting the hang-outs of crooks— the adept manner in which he picked pockets, all pointed to a crushing conclusion.

"You're Detective Keenon!" declared the crimp.

The Secret Service man turned up the lower left-hand corner of his vest and showed the insignia of his office.

He said with the politest kind of a bow, after glancing at the hatch:

"Thanks, Abie!"

________________

Screwball humour from a past master of screwball humour

9: Birthday Present

Thorne Smith

1892-1934

Redbook Magazine, Oct 1934.

THE GALTS as a family are emotional about the doorbell. It seems to appeal to their lowest instincts. Whenever it rings they revert, losing all poise and frequently some clothing. Dropping whatever they are doing, forgetting whatever they are saying— and the Gaits are forever saying something— they rush to the front door, impelled thither by the two fundamental impulses of curiosity and fear. In every stage of dress or undress save the final one in either direction, they converge from their various rooms in the narrow reaches of the hall. There, forming themselves into a sort of flying wedge of Galts, they advance to discover who on earth could have conceived the astonishing idea of ringing their bell. From their actions one would be led to believe that no one ever rang their bell; whereas, in truth, the Gaits' bell is always being rung for some irritating reason or other.

Inevitably there is much fumbling and fussing with the door latch. It is doubtful if the Galts' front door has ever been opened in one swift and decisive motion. The deed is usually accompanied by a certain amount of rattling and muttering, caused by a characteristic lack of teamwork. Too many nervous hands.

Rarely does the caller have a chance to grow impatient. He becomes far too absorbed in what is going on behind the Galts' door.

"You look a sight," he hears someone whisper. "Drag your stocking up."

"You're not so hot yourself," the criticized one snaps back.

"Either pull your wrapper together or turn your back to the door."

In between these exchanges, as well as during them, the other Galts ask questions such as, "Who is it?" "Is somebody there?" "Who rang our bell?"

These questions take on the monotonous rhythm of a chant.

"Why doesn't the person speak?" a Galt demands the moment the door is opened.

"He just stands there looking," another one complains.

One Galt alone has refused to become a party to these unseemly exhibitions of undisciplined curiosity. This one is Galt himself. He has remained decently above the battle and contemplated his flesh and blood with repugnance made endurable only by the philosophy of despair. With a mixture of pain and unwilling admiration he has time and again noted that the woman who has so casually presented him with all these unsatisfactory children is always well up in the lead in these impassioned stampedes to the door. As harassed and exhausted as she vigorously proclaims herself to be, she nevertheless seems to possess a sufficient reserve of energy to make herself a serious contestant for first-place honors whenever the doorbell rings...

On a certain day not completely buried in the past Red Galt was seated dispiritedly before his drawing board, brooding over the vast futility of all creative effort. He was doing this in the privacy of a small back room which he was allowed to use as a studio whenever no one else had need of it. At his right was the back door, which gave uninviting access to the gloom of the outer hall. In front of him a series of equally gloomy rooms telescoped into a sort of dim obscurity. Those rooms alone were sufficient to make any sensitive spirit break out into violent protest; but being an eminently unsuccessful artist, Red Galt was the only member of the household who was given no opportunity to express his temperament in public. Little good would it have done him had he attempted to do so. In that family he could seldom make himself heard and but rarely understood. For the simple reason that his wife and his children shared the same sort of lunacy, they considered themselves entirely normal, while to their way of thinking he— the only sane member of the family— was as mad as a hatter. They rather liked and pitied him for it.

From the front of the flat came the clamorous voices of his contentious brood. In loud, exacting voices his sons were demanding coffee, his daughters passionately accusing each other of both grand and petty larceny, while the twins— the youngest of the lot— were being implored by everybody not only to get out of the way but also to remain always and forever out of the way. Exactly where such a place could be was somewhat obscure to the twins, because wherever they went they seemed to encounter a seething mass of Galts. Consequently they stayed where they were and contributed their share to the general confusion.

From time to time the distracted voice of the artist's wife could be heard assuring the entire family that the good God in the press of business had seen fit to give her only one pair of hands, that everyone very well knew how nervous and shaky she was, and that someday in the almost immediate future the whole confounded lot of them was going to be immeasurably sorry for the way they had treated her and this prediction also held for that disgusting lump of a father of theirs, who did nothing all day but sit comfortably in his chair pretending to be an artist, while others slaved and died at his great ugly feet.

Galt was desperate, because on the morrow his wife would come into another birthday. Even though she had passed an unpleasant remark about his feet, he still felt the desire to give her a present. Every member of the family save himself would be giving her a little something. To this end, his children one after another had levied heavily on his small supply of cash. He was now completely deflated. The money thus wheedled from him he had planned to expend in the purchase of a pair of shoes for those same great ugly feet. Now there would be no shoes, and his feet would continue on in their unlovely condition. Looking at them, Galt found it difficult to bear with them himself. What chance would they have with the office boys and reception clerks who guarded the sacrosanct corridor of the better advertising agencies?

The small amount of money remaining in the house was in the possession of his wife Sue. Only too keenly did he realize how impossible it would be to pry any of this loose from that one. So long as he had enough tobacco for his pipe Sue considered the man well fixed. After all, he was little better than a semidomestic animal with red hair at one end and big feet at the other. Money would do him no good. It might give him delusions of grandeur.

Impatiently Galt unfolded himself from his chair and began prowling about the small room. His slipping on a short length of lead pipe almost put an end to this mild emotional outlet. Cursing the pipe bitterly, be stooped and picked it up. Idly he tapped it against the palm of his left hand; and as he did so a desperate enterprise sprang full-armed into his mind.

Was not this an era of violence and direct action? It was. All over the country, all over the world, individuals no less than nations were taking by force what they wanted. Why should he alone of all the human race remain at peace with his fellow men? No, he should not. At this moment he needed money, needed it desperately. Not for himself did he need this money, but for the mother of his children. What simpler way to get it than through the medium of a lead pipe?

In this dangerously exalted frame of mind he recommenced his prowling. He was plotting evil against mankind for the first time in his life. He was quite impersonal about it. Little did it matter to him whom he hit upon the head with that lead pipe, as long as it was an expensive head with lots of cash on hand.

While engaged in these dark meditations Galt became vaguely aware of the sound of refined tapping on the door of the outer hall. He stopped in his tracks and looked at the door. He even scowled at the door as if it were a living adversary. Who could be standing on the other side of it? No one ever used that door. Had Providence provided him with a victim?

Without further hesitation Galt crossed the room and opened the door. A surprisingly well-preserved face, for the amount of russet beard that adorned it, presented itself to the momentarily unhinged artist. A pair of mild but myopic eyes peered into Galt's. The artist with his keen perception noted that the face looked like an expensive face, and that the body to which it belonged appeared to be expensively garbed. Then the mouth of the face opened, and words came from it.

"I beg your pardon," began the face in a cultured voice, "I was wondering if—"

At that moment the face ceased to wonder about anything. With the precision of one who had been slugging heads with lead pipes since early adolescence, the desperate artist now slugged this one. Automatically he reached out with his left hand and snatched a wallet from the gentleman's breast pocket. Then, completely losing his nerve, he slammed the door on his victim's expressionless face, idiotically muttering as he did so the single word "Beaver."

For a moment Galt leaned weakly against the door while on the other side of it the assaulted gentleman did likewise, but with more justification. Then, pulling himself together in all his trembling parts, the criminal artist, now thoroughly cowed, thrust the wallet from his sight as if it were already accusing him of murder. He hid the wallet behind a picture— not behind one of his own pictures, but behind a large photograph of a family group which he especially disliked. He had no desire to have either himself or anything he had ever created associated with the mute witness of his one criminal act.

In the meantime the assaulted gentleman, accompanied by his beard, rolled rather than staggered along the wall of the outer hall, eventually bringing up with a thud against the front door of the Galts' flat. With his rapidly failing strength he pressed a limp finger to the bell push, then abandoned himself to a vacuous twilight which at last grew dark...

At the sound of the bell the strident voices of the Galts were hushed as if all tongues had suddenly been gagged.

Then came the rush for the door, the sound of piercing whispers, and the fumbling of many hands. Finally the door was opened, and all the Galts looked. Then they blinked and looked again. Here was something indeed worth looking at, something to break the monotony of the daily routine— of which there was scarcely any in the Galts' establishment.

"Ooo!" breathed a thin girl of seventeen. "He's all bluggy."

"It's a murder," pronounced Mrs. Galt in the voice of one who had been long suspecting just such a contingency. "A corpse, no less."

"Then shut the door," some callous soul suggested.

"Oh, look at the murdered gentleman's beard," the twins chanted in unison. "Isn't there a lot of it?"

"Altogether too much of it," someone said fastidiously. "I loathe such facial adornments."

"It would be just our luck," Tom, the eldest son, was heard to mutter. "A murdered body would have to call on us! Let's have a cup of Java."

"He's in our flat," objected Mrs. Galt's spinster sister in a slightly outraged voice. "Somebody push him out."

"It's against the law to disturb a dead body," proclaimed Tom, who knew his detective stories and very little else.

"Well, this dead body started in disturbing us first," argued seventeen- year-old Fanny. "Does the law expect private families to keep open house for any old corpse that feels like dropping in?"

"Maybe he's just drunk," suggested the spinster sister. "Most men are, you know."

"His beard is doubled up," one of the twins morbidly observed.

"It continues to grow after death," contributed Dora, a plump child of fifteen. "I forget how long it grows, either in time or space."

In spite of having associated with her family for so many demoralizing years, Mrs. Galt still managed to retain a small shred of decency. She knelt and examined the crumpled results of her husband's enterprising act.

"He doesn't smell drunk," she announced, looking up at the others with her large, slightly wild eyes.

"What does he smell like?" Dora wanted to know.

"Why, I don't know," she replied innocently. "He smells like a man, I suppose."

"How horrid!" murmured the spinster sister.

"He's still breathing," Sue Galt suddenly announced. "Quick, everybody! Help me to get him into bed."

"Into whose bed?" several voices aggressively demanded.

"Into my bed, then," Sue replied wearily, not wishing to start a family brawl.

Motivated more by a desire to close the front door than out of any consideration for the potential corpse, the Galts dragged the body into the room, and after nearly dismembering it in their general carelessness and lack of co-ordinated action, finally succeeded in dumping the unconscious man on the bed jointly shared by Galt and his wife.

"Dear me!" panted Mrs. Galt. "That was a battle royal. If he wasn't dead already he should be now."

"I'm strained for life," declared Dora. "I had practically all of his left leg."

"I had what it grew out of," said Fanny.

"Why, I had his feet— one foot, anyway," replied Tom.

"I wasn't referring to his feet," the girl told him with quiet dignity.

Eventually Mrs. Galt succeeded in gathering her family round her in the front room.

"What are we going to do next?" she asked helplessly. "We should get a cheap doctor—don't you think so?"

While this conference was in progress in the front room the cause of it was growing increasingly terrified in the back one. He was afraid to be alone with himself. For the first time in years he preferred the company of his family to his own. On passing through his room he saw in the dim light the form of a perfect stranger seemingly sleeping comfortably in his bed. Not noticing the stranger's beard, Galt rushed to the front room and confronted his wife.

"What do you mean by letting a stranger go to sleep in my bed?" he demanded. "Haven't I any place left in this house? Why, I'll tear the beggar limb from limb. I'll—"

Galt stopped suddenly and swung round to face Fanny.

"What the devil are you laughing at?" he demanded.

"I don't know," declared Fanny, struggling to throttle her mirth. "It just struck me funny, that's all. You see, that man in there is dying, and when you mentioned tearing him limb from limb— well, I don't know— we've just had a go at that."

"What does she mean?" asked the mystified artist, turning once more to his wife.

"She means," said Mrs. Galt coldly, "that some homicidal maniac has hit that man on the head with a blunt instrument. And I hope you give me credit for having better taste than to prefer a man with a couple of yards of beard— although I shouldn't expect much, seeing that I married you."

Galt was too stunned to take up the insult. When he reached the bed he roughly turned the body over. Then with shrinking eyes he looked down on the bearded face of the ruin he had created.

"Quick!" he called out. "Somebody run for a doctor. If this chap dies your father is a murderer."

Immediately the room was jammed with Galts, all talking at the same time.

"How do you mean, you're the murderer?" his wife wanted to know.

"I did it," said Galt hoarsely. "I nipped him over the head with the twins' lead pipe."

Mrs. Galt's furious eyes sought for and found the twins.

"What did I tell you about that pipe?" she cried. "Now see what you have done! You've made your father a murderer, that's what you've done; and God knows he was bad enough as he was. I've thrown that pipe away, and what happens? Back it comes. Back comes the pipe. Right into the house." Pausing for a much-needed breath, she turned on her husband: "Why did you nip him over the head?" she inquired in a perfectly matter-of-fact voice.

"Well, you see, my dear," Galt began in a weak voice, "tomorrow is your birthday, you know, and quite naturally I wanted to give you a bit of a present, and I didn't have any money at all; so when this chap—"

"Don't go on," interrupted Mrs. Galt. "Don't reconstruct the crime. Save it for the judge." Helplessly she looked at the assembled faces. "Isn't this terrible?" she demanded. "Isn't it? Think of it, children! Your father has given your mother a bearded cadaver for a birthday present! Nice of him, wasn't it? Jolly. Many happy returns of the day." She laughed hysterically.

"But, Susie," protested the artist, "I didn't have any money, and—"

"Don't call me Susie at a time like this," his wife cut in. "Don't call me Susie at any time unless you want to start a riot; I won't be called Susie by a man with blood on his hands. And he gives me a corpse for a birthday present! I can't get over that. A corpse with a flaming beard. And I'm just fool enough to tuck it into our bed, beard and all. What a birthday present!"

With a pained expression Galt gazed back at his wife.

"A nice family," he muttered. "Just a lot of pals. There you stand, the lot of you, callously laughing your father into the electric chair, when you should be getting a doctor."

Sue Galt doubled up and pointed to the still figure in the bed.

"My present!" she gasped. "All mine." She straightened herself again, and with brimming eyes regarded the demoralized face of her husband.

"Had I known you enjoyed murders so much," he re-marked, "I'd have taken up the practice earlier."

To the infinite surprise of everyone present Sue Galt suddenly flung her arms around her husband's neck and hugged him ruthlessly.

"What a man!" she said to his neck. "What a man! To give his wife a birthday present he'd actually commit murder! I must have at least one kiss."

She had it, while Galt remained stupefied. Such endearments had become rare.

"We haven't any time for all these goings on," he said rather feebly. "Must get a doctor."

"You go," replied his wife. "Look for a cheap one."

"I can't be seen on the streets in these shoes," he protested, looking at his feet.

Sue's eyes followed his gaze, then fairly snapped to the feet of the man in bed.

"Borrow his," she said. "They're dandy. Might just as well make some use of him."

"Do you mean," said Galt, "that you actually suggest I step into a dead man's shoes?"

"Easier to step into a dead man's shoes than a live one's," his wife logically replied. "And anyway, he's not dead yet— not entirely."

Fearfully the artist allowed his gaze to rest on the feet of his victim; and as he did so he experienced a pang of envy. Those turned-up feet were shod in exquisite boots. And they looked to be about the right size. As if fascinated, he moved to the bed and began to unlace the shoes.

"I'll just try them on," he muttered. "Just to prove to you they won't fit."

While Galt was straining at the injured man's feet the stranger suddenly opened his eyes and gazed at the artist with an expression of dying reproach. Breaking out into a cold sweat, Galt sprang from the bed.

"He opened his eyes," he quavered, "and he rolled them at me."

"Nonsense," said Sue briskly. "The way you go on, one would think he flung them in your face. Here, let me at those feet."

In a businesslike manner she began to tug at the man's shoes. A hollow groan escaped his lips.

"Oh, God!" exclaimed the artist, clapping a hand to his forehead. "I can't stand here watching this. The poor chap is groaning in anguish."

"He's got nothing on me," complained Mrs. Galt. "I'm actually grunting. Ah! Off they come! Did you ever see snappier shoes?"

In the privacy of his studio Galt put on the shoes of the wounded man. They fitted his feet perfectly; and in spite of his self-repugnance, his spirits rose a little. When he returned to the bedroom they fell with a decided thud. It seemed to him that all the hands in the Galt family, including those of the twins, were on some part of the man's person, the majority being in his pockets.

"He's practically penniless," complained Sue. "So far we've been able to find only three dollars and seventeen cents. A man who wears such expensive shoes should carry a fat wallet. We must have money, you know."

At the mention of the missing wallet Galt turned even paler than he had been before. He had not the heart to tell his wife that in addition to brutally assaulting the man he had also stolen his wallet. It seemed to him that there was a little more dignity in being a murderer than a common thief.

"I'd leave him to his own devices," he said, "until the doctor gets here. If you keep on tossing his body about we won't need a doctor."

A quarter hour later, when Galt returned with a doctor, the artist was both gratified and surprised to find his victim still alive and intact. The first thing the doctor wanted to know was the name of the patient.

"It doesn't matter who he is so much as how he is," Mrs. Galt answered.

"Madam," said the doctor sharply, "I'm not going to argue with you."

"Thank God for that!" said Mrs. Galt.

The little doctor made no reply. Instead he devoted a vast amount of nervous irritation to the man in the bed. When he had finished examining the wound and dressing it he turned and faced the standing army of Galts.

"What," he demanded in an exasperated voice, "are all these strange- looking people doing in here? It looks like a mob scene. Those small, soiled children should be removed at once."

"It's affection," said Mrs. Galt promptly. "Pure affection. How is he, Doctor?"

"The patient is a very sick man," replied the doctor. "Must have absolute quiet. Can't be moved or disturbed in any way. A slight concussion, but it can be dangerous. Very."

"How long will he be in my bed?" Red Galt wanted to know.

"Our bed," corrected his wife.

"Maybe two weeks. At the least, ten days," said the doctor. "That is, if he lives."

Galt drew a quick breath.

"Who is he?" asked the doctor.

"He's our uncle," was Mrs. Galt's unexpected reply, while the rest of the Galts stared at her in astonishment.

"Whose uncle?" snapped the doctor. "There are all sizes and ages present."

"Oh," replied Sue vaguely, "you know. He's everybody's uncle. It's like that."

"He isn't my uncle," retorted the doctor. "What's his name?"

"Uncle Galt," said the artist's wife.

"It isn't enough," replied the doctor with rapidly rising impatience. "Hasn't he any more to his name than that?"

"No," said Mrs. Galt. "He might have had once, but we just call him Uncle Galt. You know how it is."

"I do not," retorted the doctor. "And I can't bring myself to write out prescriptions just for Uncle Galt. It would look silly. Can't you remember the rest of it?"

"George Washington," said Mrs. Galt explosively. "That's it, George Washington Galt."

"That's something," replied the doctor as if talking to himself, which was a much wiser thing to do when one was dealing with Galts. "George Washington Galt," he went on. "Sounds a lot like Harlem. It doesn't matter." Here he ceased muttering, to scribble off several prescriptions, which he handed to Mrs. Galt. "Get these filled at once," he told her, "and follow instructions closely. Take his clothes off and put him to bed. No noise at all. How did it happen?"

"He ran into a door," said Mrs. Galt.

"They all do," replied the doctor cynically. "I'll be back this evening."

"Must you come back?" asked the lady in tones of deep anguish.

"Certainly," snapped the doctor. "Unless you want George to die."

"That would never do at all," hastily put in the artist. "We want George to live. You don't know how much we do, Doctor."

"Well, he may pop off anyway," the little man heartlessly observed. "I know I would, with all these faces around me. Chuck 'em out of the room. That will be five dollars."

"If everybody will stay here," said Sue Galt, "I'll go get it." At the door she paused and looked archly back at the doctor. "I have to keep the money hidden," she explained. "There are so many thieves about."

The little doctor started slightly, then surveyed the assembled thieves with professional interest. The thieves in turn calmly surveyed the doctor.

That evening the stranger unexpectedly regained consciousness. The circumstances attending his return to reason were not auspicious. It so happened that the twins had selected that moment for a minute examination of this new and altogether fascinating face. The room was quite dark when the patient came to and found himself being unwinkingly stared at by two pairs of large round eyes. In his fevered imagination the man concluded that these eyes, so close to the ground, could belong to nothing less than a couple of wild animals. Uttering a shriek of mortal terror, he fell back into bed in another dead faint. The Galts, always willing to run in any direction, ran madly in the direction of the shriek and began to chatter round the bed with all the sparkle and animation of a French picnic.

"Has he passed beyond?" asked the spinster sister in a hollow voice.

"I hope so," replied Mrs. Galt, "if he's going to kick up a racket like that."

"He's passed beyond the limits of good taste," observed Fanny. "I hate shrieks in the night."

Galt laughed mirthlessly.

"That's one of the few things this house is ever full of," he said. "Shrieks by day, and shrieks by night."

"You'd better go shrieking for that doctor," Mrs. Galt told him.

This time the little doctor was even more disgusted than on his first visit.

"Why don't you ask in the neighbors," he inquired in a nasty voice, "and make a real party of it?"

Not a Galt answered. They were impervious to any form of sarcasm or insult. Then a voice spoke weakly from the bed, and all eyes turned in that direction.

"Doctor," complained the voice, "is this place a railroad station or a skating rink? More people come dashing back and forth through this room than in the Grand Central Terminal. A moment ago I caught a couple of animals trying to crawl into bed with me. I never saw such people. Don't they ever sit down?"

"Don't you call my children animals," Sue Galt cried, angrily confronting the sick man. "I'll have you to know they're my twins. Look at them, Doctor."

"Why?" demanded the doctor. "Why should I look at your twins?"

"I don't know," replied Sue. "I'm rather tired of looking at them myself; but just the same, they're not animals."

"Madam," said the doctor severely, "I have neither the time nor the inclination to discuss your twins. My duty in this house is to protect this patient. I must have a nurse."

Had the doctor deliberately striven to drive the Galts into an emotional frenzy he could not have set about it more expeditiously. He was almost mobbed.

"A nurse!" cried Mrs. Galt. "That's just great, isn't it? And what are we going to use for food— the nurse? And who is going to pay her wages? The NRA, I suppose."

"By rights," said the doctor calmly, "you should have two nurses."

"Did you hear that?" Mrs. Galt whispered. "If that man keeps it up I'll need a couple of nurses myself. What does he think this is— a death watch?"

While this was going on Red Galt was trying to avoid the eyes of the stranger. At any moment now the artist expected to be discovered and denounced. Once he caught the man gazing intently at his feet. Galt broke into a cold sweat.

"Doctor," said the stranger, "I don't seem able to remember a thing. I don't even know who I am."

"That's easily settled," the doctor told him. "Your name is George Washington Galt, and, according to this lady, you're all these people's uncle. Does that make you feel any better?"

"My God, no!" said the man. "It makes me feel worse. Can't I go home?"

"You are home," continued the doctor soothingly. "You live right here with your family."

For a full minute the stranger savored the honor of this shocking information, then turned his eyes to the doctor.

"I must have led a terrible life," he observed. "Perhaps it's just as well I've forgotten most of it. It's better to be among one's own, I dare say. I'd not like to be obligated to strangers."

"What's that he said about not being obligated to strangers?" Sue Galt broke in. "Why, that man owes me five dollars already, not including the prescriptions; and now with the expense of the nurse—"

"Madam," interrupted the doctor, "your own flesh and blood, remember."

"I won't have any of his flesh and blood," Mrs. Galt answered furiously. "He's my husband's brother. He's not mine."

"And he's not our uncle," put in one of the twins— only to have his mouth covered by half a dozen hands.

"How did this happen?" asked the stranger. "Was I in an accident?"

"We won't worry about that now!" said the doctor.

"No," agreed the artist quickly. "Don't worry your head about how you got hurt. It's important to all of us that you get well."

"You might as well tell him," said Mrs. Galt in a malicious voice. "He's your brother, and he should be told." She turned to the man in the bed. "If you must know, George," she continued, "you came home that way again, and after falling all over the place you ran into a door."

"Do I get drunk?" asked the stranger, his eyes bright with alarm.

"Do you get drunk?" Sue Galt repeated, and answered her own question with a harsh laugh.

This was too much for Fanny. She covered her face with her hands and leaned weakly against her father.

"Is that girl one of my nieces?" asked the stranger. "She is," replied the doctor.

"Then I have very little to live for," murmured the man.

As a result of the presence of a nurse in the house, the spinster sister was forced to sleep on the sofa, while the artist and his wife occupied chairs. Whenever Sue awoke during the course of the nights that followed she made a point of thanking her husband for his lovely birthday present. The children with their customary generosity remained comfortably in bed.

In compensation for the discomfort she was forced to endure Mrs. Galt succeeded in borrowing every penny the nurse possessed, so that the poor woman was forced to become a part of the family, whether she liked it or not.

At the end of his first week in bed the stranger was eating his head off. As a consequence the Galts became more deeply indebted to the local provision dealers. The doctor insisted that George Washington Galt should be given only the best and most nourishing of food.

Red Galt was by this time wearing his victim's suit as well as his shoes. Sue wanted him to make use of the man's socks and underwear, but this the artist refused to do. Attired in this borrowed outfit, he had made the rounds of the advertising agencies and had landed a few cash jobs. In spite of this slight relief, however, the problem of maintaining the recently acquired uncle was daily becoming more serious.

As soon as the man had regained his strength Galt made a daily practice of taking him out for long walks and trying to lose him. Frequently it was the stranger who found his way home first.

"You can't tell me there's anything wrong with that chap's memory," Galt complained to his wife after one of these unsuccessful expeditions. "I've left him in every out-of-the-way corner of this city, and damned if he doesn't get back like a homing pigeon. He must have been a postman once."

Mrs. Galt grinned at her husband.

"Next year," she said sweetly, "I'll be satisfied with just a couple of elephants for my birthday. Nothing elaborate, you know."

Then the arrival of a long letter from their eldest daughter Bonnie, who was studying music in Rochester, momentarily created a diversion— not that diversion was necessary in the crowded days of the Galts. The young lady wrote to inform her mother that she would be almost immediately among them. Something had happened which was worrying her greatly, and she felt sure that her mother would be helpful.

Sue put down the letter and looked thoughtfully at her family, including Uncle George.

"I hope," she said quite distinctly, "I'm not about to become an illegitimate grandmother."

On the day of Bonnie's arrival Red Galt played his last card. He took the stranger to one of the busiest places he knew. It was a railway terminal where trains, subways, taxicabs, and humanity struggled for survival. Here he excused himself for a moment, and never came back. When the artist got back to the flat he was jubilant over his success. The stranger had not preceded him. But as the hours passed he found himself strangely missing the man he had both assaulted and abandoned. His feelings seemed to be shared by the other members of the family.

The nurse, who by this time had been taken almost too fully into the confidence of the family, sat rocking placidly.

"It leaves me in a difficult position," she observed. "Here I am a nurse without a patient."

"We're all patients," declared Mrs. Galt. "This family should live under observation, especially its criminal head."

"Mr. George, or whatever his real name is," went on the nurse, "admitted to me that he didn't dislike you all too much. I don't myself. Do you think there's ever going to be any money?"

Mrs. Galt thought not, but a sudden ringing of the front doorbell put an end to the conversation. Everyone save the artist hurried nervously from the room. He rose and stood listening anxiously.

"Dear, dear me!" he heard his wife exclaim in the hall,

"My birthday present is back again. Where have you been, George?"

Before George could say where he had been Red Galt heard the voice of his eldest daughter.

"He's been wandering around the station dressed like a tramp," she said. "That's where I found him."

"Why, Bonnie," said Mrs. Galt reproachfully, "he's wearing your father's best and only suit. You shouldn't say such things, even though they're true."

"Well, I'd like to know," the artist heard his daughter say, "why on earth my fiancé is wearing my father's suit?"

"He's been doing more than that," came Sue's reply. "He's been sleeping in your father's bed. Tell me, dear, just who is this gentleman?"

"His name is Worthing Wright Taylor, and—"

"You don't mean the famous art critic and collector?" broke in Mrs. Galt in an appalled voice.

"None less," replied her daughter. "And he is going to become a member of your family."

"He already has," said Mrs. Galt.

"On the day he so strangely disappeared," Bonnie continued, "he was coming to call on you. He doesn't know what happened to him."

"Now I do," came the familiar voice of the erstwhile George. "The pleasant shock of so unexpectedly encountering you, Bonnie, has completely restored my memory of things past and present."

Upon the reception of this news a low groan escaped the artist's lips. Retreating to the next room, he hastily divested himself of his borrowed clothing and placed it on the bed. It was quite a blow to his feet to be separated from the shoes. Then he stood listening fearfully as the family trailed into the front room. Mrs. Galt was laughing softly.

"Do you remember everything?" she asked the restored mind.

"Too much," replied the great man.

"That's just wonderful," said Mrs. Galt. "Then you can appreciate how funny it all is."

"Oh, fully," replied Mr. Taylor. "In all its phases. But it's hard to figure out who the joke is on."

"My husband will be so happy when he hears about all this," added Mrs. Galt. "He has a remarkable sense of humor."

"Why does she torture me?" Galt miserably asked himself.

He was stricken by the enormity of his crime. He had assaulted his future son-in-law, one of the wealthiest and most influential art collectors in the country. Not content with that, he had stolen the man's wallet, bereft him of his clothing, and repeatedly tried to lose him. One man could hardly do more to another fellow creature.

It was at this low tide in the life of Red Galt that his twins came staggering in from the outer hall with their arms laden with toys and their mouths filled with candy. With a suppressed exclamation Mrs. Galt collared them.

"Where did you get all those things?" she demanded.

"A nice man gave them to us," mouthed one of the twins without the slightest hope of having his invention accepted.

As he spoke a fat wallet slipped from his blouse and fell with a dull plop to the floor.

"At last!" exclaimed Mr. Taylor, stooping to pick it up. "I remember this too. It's mine."

When he opened the wallet Mrs. Galt turned pale at the sight of so much money.

"God will never forgive you," she said in a choked voice to the twins, "for keeping all that money from your mother."

Unable to look on the scene longer, Galt removed his eye from the slit in the portières and fled in his underwear to the studio, where he stood looking about like a trapped animal. A voice from the doorway made him whirl about.

"My brother!" said Mr. Taylor, smiling at him enigmatically from the doorway. "Don't you recognize your brother George? I drink, you know."

Without attempting to reply to this playful greeting, Galt picked up the lead pipe and handed it to the man.

"Go on," he said. "It's your turn now. You will find your clothing neatly folded on the bed."

With the lead pipe nicely balanced in his hand, Mr. Taylor followed the artist across the room.

"You perhaps are not aware of it," he said, raising the pipe to a striking position as Red Galt flinched, "but that oil thing over there is a little masterpiece. Splendid, really. What price?"

"Absolute silence," answered Red Galt in a low voice. "Is it a deal?"

"Done!" cried Mr. Taylor. "And I'll throw in my shoes to boot."

_____________________

10: The Glasgow Phantom

Guy Gilpatric

1896-1950

The Saturday Evening Post, 15 July 1944

MR. COLIN GLENCANNON emerged from the shipyard gate, dodged through the traffic to the bus stop, which lay like a life raft in the slush, and stood gazing rapturously about him.

"Home!" he breathed, the steam billowing up through his walrus mustache and making the Scotch mist Scotcher. "Home! Braugh! How lovely!"

Save that most of the workers' tenements which had stood in an endless row along the inner side of the Dumbarton Road had been blitzed to rubble by the Luftwaffe, the scene was exactly as he had remembered and yearned for it through many a weary month. In both directions, as far as he could see in the gathering dusk, were ships— some of them gaunt skeletons, some nearly completed, and others, including the Inchcliffe Castle, of which he was chief engineer, grim veterans up from the sea to heal their wounds of war. Masts, funnels, derricks and gantries fringed the river like burnt cypresses beside the Styx, while above them, ghostly in the scudding fog, barrage balloons tugged, swaying at their cables, waiting for the bombers which now so seldom came. The air was murky with soot, vibrant with the clang of machinery and bitter with a blended stench of hot metal, anticorrosive paint and tidal mud.

Having just returned from the tropical Orient, with its sapphire seas, spice-scented breezes and kindred foreign flummery, Mr. Glencannon knew, as indeed he had always known, that no other spot in all creation was a tithe so bonnie as these bonnie banks of Clyde. Humming a little song to that effect, he swung aboard a bus, found a seat next a window and settled down to enjoy the ride into Glasgow.

While the city bore scars which caused him to growl anathema upon the Hun and all his horrid works, he could not but concede that things might have been worse and that bombing even had its compensations. For example, where once had stood a venerable seat of culture known as The Gents' and Scholars' Bar, there now was but a yawning crater with a puddle, a heap of broken bottles and a crumpled brass spittoon at the bottom of it.

Shocked and saddened by the sight, he yet hastened to take out his account book and scratch an item of sixteen shillings from the debit side. "Every little bit helps!" he consoled himself, rolling his eyes toward heaven. Farther on, the Balmoral Street police station, painfully familiar to him as the lair of a malignant and muscular desk sergeant named Hoof MacCorkle, was reduced to a mound of blackened bricks beneath which the sergeant as well as the desk might easily have been flattened, and probably were.

"Ah, weel, the auld place was an architectural eyesore anyway!" he murmured resignedly.

Turning his attention to the pedestrians on the sidewalks, he was gratified to find them outwardly unscathed by war's ravages and looking keen and healthy as of yore.

"Is it the oatmeal, the whusky or both?" he wondered. But as he sat studying the home-going throngs, he became aware of something a bit unusual about them— something he couldn't quite define. For block after block it eluded him, but at last he saw what it was.

"Newspapers!" he exclaimed. "Why, proctically everyone in the crowd— mon and woman, soldier and civilian— has got a newspaper! Great swith, I wonder what has happened?"

Obviously, only an event of world-shaking importance could have caused so many of his fellow Scots to squander their pennies for news when they could learn it for nothing by eavesdropping on a neighbor's radio. Had Hitler choked on a gluten biscuit? Was the second front opened at last? Had the cosmic plumbing system burst its valves and flushed Japan with a salutary tidal wave? Overcome by curiosity, he leaned across the aisle and indicated the folded journal projecting from a lady's shopping bag.

"Pairdon me, modom," he said, baring his pyorrhea in a charming smile. "I wonder if ye'd pairmit me to glonce at the news for half a minute. I—"

The lady turned a flinty eye upon him. "It's not the News!" she snapped. "It's The Glesga Evening Guardian, as ye can plainly see. Ach, dinna attempt yere masher's wiles on me, ye sliddery auld snit, or I'll have ye thrun off the bus!"

Feeling the scowls of the other passengers scorching through his mackintosh, Mr. Glencannon eased back into his seat and resumed his study of the passersby. Yes, they all had newspapers, sure enough, but not a soul in the crowd was reading; instead, they were carrying them ostentatiously, expectantly and even a trifle defiantly, like a damsel at a blind date hoping to be recognized by her red carnation, but fearful that some lurking rival may beat her to it.

Mr. Glencannon knitted his brows in perplexity. "Foosh! How utterly boffling!" he muttered.

More baffling still, however, was his discovery that among those tens, those scores and hundreds of papers, there was never a News, a Gazette, a Scots Presbyterian Churchman nor a Weekly Turf Indicator, but only copy after copy of The Glasgow Evening Guardian.

He remembered the Guardian as a third-rate rag of meager circulation which had once referred to him in connection with a barratry case as "that sinister ruffian, Glen Cohen"; he had never forgiven it for misspelling his name, and so was chagrined as well as astounded to behold its overwhelming popularity.

Still muttering over the enigma, he got off the bus at Sauchiehall Street and made his way through the crowd toward the High Pressure Tavern, a gathering place for marine engineers which had nightly served as a setting for his dreams in the remote Pacific, and thus done much to temper the rigors of war. He had not gone far when he espied an elderly gentleman of nautical cut shaping a course in the same direction, although with a marked tendency to yaw. Like everyone else, this person was carrying a Guardian, but from the erratic manner of his progress and the fumes he left in his wake, it was apparent that the paper was a minor part of his cargo.

"Ho, losh!" exclaimed Mr. Glencannon. "It's auld Lochy MacBoil, o' the Penarth Queen! Noo, at last, I'll get the explanation, the solution, o' this vexing Guardian mystery!" Speeding his pace, he overtook the other and slapped him on the shoulder. "Weel, weel, weel!" he greeted jovially. "Here's a happy meeting indeed!"

Mr. MacBoil wheeled so abruptly that he made three complete revolutions before Mr. Glencannon could check him. He raised his Guardian on high and struck a heroic attitude, his eyes beaming as though they beheld a celestial vision. Actually, they were rather more than thirty degrees out of parallel and so beheld two separate visions of nothing in particular.

"Look, Lochinvar!" Mr. Glencannon snapped his fingers. "I'm richt here in the middle! Just tak' a steady aim alang yere nose and ye canna help seeing me, lad!"

Mr. MacBoil hiccuped thrice and squinted his eyes into an approximate focus. His face fell and only the other's restraining grip prevented the rest of him from following suit.

"Colin!" he croaked tragically. "Colin Clolclollin!"

Mr. Glencannon chuckled. "Weel, at least ye've got the general idea! Speak up, Lochinvar, and say ye're glod to see me!"

Instead, Mr. MacBoil burst into a storm of tears. "Baw!" he wailed, burying his face in his Guardian. He was still sobbing as Mr. Glencannon led him through the doorway of the pub.

At that late hour of the afternoon, the High Pressure Tavern should have been filled with gentlemen of the merchant navy catching up on their whisky, and vice versa. Its sole occupants, however, were a brass-haired barmaid and a guest at a corner table who sat scowling at the Guardian and cursing throatily to himself. He transferred his scowl to the new arrivals.

"H'mph!" he grunted.

"Alec! Alec Ogilvie!" cried Mr. Glencannon. "Losh, ye're a treat for sour eyes! How are ye, dear lad, how are ye?" He paused in his effusions and awaited a response, but all he heard was the echo. "Er— haw!" he resumed, lamely but gamely. "As for mysel', I'm feeling vurra fit indeed, thonk ye, and deeply touched by the rousing weelcome given me by my friends."

"H'mph!" Mr. Ogilvie grunted again. "I heard the Joponese had chopped yere head off." He emptied his glass and returned to his study of the paper.

Mr. Glencannon stood uncertain for a moment, then installed the weeping Mr. MacBoil on the bench behind the table and himself beside him. He cleared his throat, smacked his lips and glanced at Mr. Ogilvie, but without result.

"Ah, weel," he sighed, turning toward the barmaid. "Duggan's Dew o' Kirkintilloch, if ye please, muss."

"Oh, all richt, since ye're so persistent aboot it!" said Mr. Ogilvie.... "A dooble o' the same for me, muss, and ditto for Muster MacBoil. It shud help straighten him up."

Mr. Glencannon winced. "Weel, after all, a mon doesna come hame every day," he mused. "Tell me, Alec, where are all the auld crowd this evening?"

"Oot carrying," said Mr. Ogilvie.

"Oot— er— carrying? Oot carrying— oot carrying what?"

"Oot carrying the Guardian, o' course! I was oot carrying it mysel' till two o' my bunions exploded. I—"

"Baw!" Mr. MacBoil drowned the words with a fresh torrent of grief. "Oh, domn ye, Glencollin! I thocht ye were he and that he had snopped me, but ye were only ye and he hadn't!"

"There, there, Lochinvar!" Mr. Ogilvie hastened to pacify him. "Drink the nice whusky Glencannon has bocht for ye, there's a guid lad!"

"But wait— noo wait a minute! Let's get this straight!" said Mr. Glencannon, his perplexity mounting to new heights. "Why is everybody oot carrying the Guardian, pray tell me that? And who did Lochinvar think I was that I wasn't, and why shud I have snopped at him with what, even if I had been?"

"I— I thocht ye were the Ph-ph-phantom!" wailed Mr. MacBoil.

"The Phantom? Swith! Ye mean there's a Jock the Ripper loose in the town?"

Mr. Ogilvie laughed mirthlessly and shoved the Guardian across the table. "Here!" he said, jabbing his finger at the boldface headlines on the front page. "Read it! Read it and weep!"

The item read:

£25! £25! £25!

THE PHANTOM PHOTOGRAPHER PAYS £25 EACH DAY

TO A LUCKY GUARDIAN READER!

He Takes Your Picture and You Take the Money!

Has He Snapped You Yet?

Right now—this very minute—the mysterious Phantom Photographer is roaming the streets and public places of Glasgow, waiting to take your picture with his invisible camera! All you have to do is carry a copy of The Glasgow Evening Guardian in plain sight; then, if the Phantom snaps your picture, you simply snap up the money! But you won't recognize the Phantom. You won't even see him! You'll never know or guess when or where he's right there beside you—or before you—or behind you—ready to click his shutter! So, wherever you are, wherever you go,

BE SURE TO CARRY THE GUARDIAN!

Has the Phantom Photographer snapped you yet? Turn now to Page Three, and see! If your picture is printed there, come to our main office tomorrow morning between the hours of nine and twelve noon and

GET YOUR £25 PRIZE!

"Twenty-five poonds! Ah, whurra!" Mr. Glencannon breathed reverently. "No wonder the whole city's gone daft! Twenty-five poonds is a noble sum and not to be lichtly sneezed at! Let's see what today's winner looks lik'!"

"Ach! Him! Ye'll find he looks lik' the fulthy scoondrel that he is, whoever that may be!" Mr. Ogilvie snarled savagely. "As a matter o' fact, when ye came stoggering in here just noo, I was busy cursing the luck that wud bring twenty-five quid to a swine lik' him, but leave upstonding men lik' me in penury and want."

"Aye, weel, he certainly is an ugly brute, the ugly brute!" agreed Mr. Glencannon, viewing the picture with distaste. "He's got all the earmarks o' a confirmed alcoholic, and I hope ye'll no' attribute my estimate o' him to envy or sour grapes. H'm! It says here in the caption that the Phantom snopped him in the gentlemen's waiting room o' the St. Enoch Square railway station."

"Exockly! That proves he's either a pickpocket or a confidence mon, else why wud he be honging aroond in such a place?" cried Mr. Ogilvie, with heat. "Oh, I tell ye, gentlemen!" He raised his fists above his head and shook them tensely. "I tell ye that when a mere depraved scum can pick up twenty-five poonds by getting his yowp printed in The Glesga Evening Guardian while I and we cannot, then— then, I say, there is no justice under heaven!"

Mr. Glencannon finished his drink and sat back, frowning darkly. "Aye, ye're rabsolutely— ric!— richt there isn't!" he said. "The more I think o' it, the plainer I see this thing is an affront, a scondal and an ook!— pairdon me— an ootrage! But what can we do aboot it?"

"Baw!" blurted Mr. MacBoil, overflowing again.

Mr. Ogilvie extended his handkerchief and took a firm grip on the weeper's nose. "Blow, Lochinvar!... What can we do aboot it, ye osk? Why, we'll never do anything aboot it, if we just sit sitting here! Order another roond o' drinks, mon, and let's start thinking up some way to swindle the Guardian and get our richts!"

When the drinks came, the three refreshed themselves copiously and sat back, seeking inspiration. Their thoughts were interrupted by a withering salvo of hiccups from Mr. MacBoil. He raised his hand to stifle them in accordance with the rules of etiquette, but, in his intense preoccupation, he raised it to Mr. Glencannon's mouth instead of to his own. The prickle of bristles informing him that something was amiss, he looked up questioningly, then sat as one transfixed.

"Haw!" he cried, his hand still pressed to Mr. Glencannon's mustache and his face suddenly radiant. "Haw!"

Simultaneously, Mr. Ogilvie emitted an astonished gasp.

"Why, o' course!" he cried. "Colin! Colin, he's got it! Lochinvar's got it, I tell ye!"

Mr. Glencannon peered uneasily from one to the other of them. "Ye— ye mean he's got the deleery and tremens again?"

"No!" Mr. Ogilvie seized Mr. Glencannon by the arm and dragged him over to the mirror. "There, Colin, just cover up yere mustosh and tell me who ye look lik'!"

"M'm," said Mr. Glencannon, considering his reflection even as did Narcissus at the pool. "H'm!" With rare skill, he picked up his drink and stimulated his perceptive faculties without removing his hand from his mustache. "Weel, if ye mean I look lik' the Archbishop o' Dundee, I suppose I canna dispute ye. After all, his father on his mother's side was a cousin o'—"

"Archbishop, blosh!" scoffed Mr. Ogilvie, in the nick of time snatching his own glass from Mr. MacBoil and draining it at a gulp. "No, no, no, domn it! Withoot yere mustosh, ye're proctically the chewing, spitting image o' that lout in the picture! Noo do ye get what Lochinvar's driving at?"

"Aye!" Mr. Glencannon exclaimed delightedly. "Aye, o'course I do! Losh, losh, what a grond idea! I thocht from the ootset that yon photo looked strangely familiar!"

"Weel, no wonder!" Mr. Ogilvie chuckled. "It mak's this whole thing as easy as ruling off a log! The mon in the picture is wearing a gray felt hat, but I've got one exockly lik' it aboard the ship. Lochinvar's got a Shetland greatcoat that's a guid match for this fellow's, and it will fit ye to a tea. All that remains, then, is to shave off yere mustosh, go to the Guardian office, tell them that yere name is John Smith, and glaum the money."

"Ah, but it's the office part that worrits me!" said Mr. Glencannon. "Suppose this other gentleman turns up while I'm there? Judging from his picture, he is a substontial and vurra high-closs citizen, so I micht have some difficulty in exposing him as an impostor."

"Ye needna give it a thocht!" Mr. Ogilvie assured him. "All ye need do is get there early, the vurra feerst thing, and sumply beat him to it. But if by chonce he shud have the hard luck to turn up while ye're inside— weel, I gorontee that he'll no' get in till ye get safely oot!— If then!"

"Ye mean ye'll be stonding guard in front o' the building?"

"Aye! And Lochinvar will be stonding guard at the back—just in case ye shud absentmindedly attempt to sneak oot that way when ye've collected the money."

"Ah, noo," Mr. Glencannon pouted, "yere remark is uncalled for and unkind! E'en though you and Lochinvar are taking only a minor part in this enterprise, ye can depend upon me to treat ye fairly, squarely and hondsomely when I mak' the finoncial settlement."

"Ye mean ye can thonk Lochinvar and me for allowing ye to keep a one-third share!"

"What? A mere eight poonds, six shillings and eight pence? Ah, foosh and foosheroo!" Mr. Glencannon snorted, "The mustosh alone is worth twice the price!"

"I cud skin a rat and mak' ye a better one for nothing," Mr. Ogilvie retorted calmly. "Anyhow, eight quid, six-and-eight is what ye'll get, and nary a bawbee more." Dismissing finance with a shrug, he took off his shoe, shaded his eyes with it and peered at the clock. "H'm! Ick's noo exockly six-frorty-foo, or whatever it is, and the nicht is yet young! Later on, we can all go aboard, get the hat and coat and hat, and attend to the shaving. But never fear, Colin. MacBoil and I and Lochinvar will be keeping ye plainly in sicht till we've got the money, so ye micht as weel loosen up and buy a few drinks meanwhile."

"Haw!" said Mr. MacBoil.

"Haw indeed, Lochinvar!" agreed Mr. Ogilvie. "Noo ye can stop licking oot those empty glosses."

THE EARLY HOURS of morning found the trio in the engineers' messroom of the S.S. Penarth Queen, where they had gone to pick up Mr. MacBoil's greatcoat and lingered to view his extensive collection of lithographic prints. Contributing immeasurably to their enjoyment of this aesthetic treat, the specimens were mounted on the original bottles and the bottles were, at the outset, full. As was but natural in such circumstances, the thought and conversation of the company rambled along artistic channels, until at length Mr. Glencannon was moved to compose a poem.

"Read ish toosh again, Colin!" Mr. Ogilvie was urging him. "Thish time, read ish shlower, and try nosh to sh yere eshes."

Graciously indicating his acquiescence by lowering his bottle from his lips, Mr. Glencannon braced himself against the table and read:

"Alock, alosh, my braw mustosh,

By dawn I will have slew ye!

Adieu! Adieu! A Duggan's Dew

I quaff, and strain it through ye!

I doot if mortal hirsute root

Will ever sproot

Another beaut

Lik' thee, sweet Highland Mary.

So, on Crochallan's something braes

Come, let us spend the something days,

My bonny Peggy Allison."

He was applauded to the echo. "Ah, it's a lovely thing, a pairfick-ick-ick thing!" Mr. MacBoil declared. "Most poetry doesna mak' a domn bit o' sense, but not that one, if ye follow me!"

Mr. Glencannon flushed with pleasure. "Weel, I must confess I am indebted to Robert Burns for the last four lines," he said, and his modesty was charming. "However, if I'd only had a bit more time, I believe I cud have spewed up the whole thing singlehonded."

"Ah, and speaking o' time—" Mr. Ogilvie produced a hard-boiled egg from his pocket and squinted at it gravely. "H'm— yes, I see it's aboot time we went alang to shy mip, my ship to get the fray gelt— er— gray felt hat and let Glenshrannon shrave— chave— or, if ye prefer, shave."

After a final toast to the successful gouging of The Glasgow Evening Guardian, they assisted one another over the doorsill in courtly fashion and emerged upon deck. The Penarth Queen was in dry dock, but though day had already dawned, the fog around her was so dense that she might have been a thousand miles at sea.

Mr. MacBoil groped to the rail, peered down into the yawning chasm that lay between the vessel's side and the wall of the dock, and then at the ramshackle gangplank that spanned it.

"Brrh!" He swayed dizzily. "Noo that I've shobur dup, I doot if I cud walk acrosh that breakneck controption withoot breaking my neck!"

Mr. Glencannon looked, shuddered and closed his eyes. "Fronkly, I doot if— ick!— cud mysel'," he confessed.

"Neither cud I cud either," said Mr. Ogilvie. "We've all got a touch o' the vertigo, that's our trouble. It comes from breathing certain types o' pollen. I foncy the only way we can get across is to lash oorsels together with a bit o' rope, lik' the Swish shki jumpers do in the Olps Moontains." He took up a flexible wire cable from the deck and passed the end of it to Mr. Glencannon. "Mak' this fast aroond ye, lad, and then Lochinvar and I will do lik'wise." He tugged at the cable to get more slack, but in vain. "Wait, it must be fouled on something."

Cursing the fog, he followed the cable inboard to a winch and cast it loose. It was whisked violently out of his hand by an unseen force. Simultaneously there came from overhead a resonant, deep-toned "Twang!" like the note of an archangel's harpstring, then a swishing, rushing sound as of an earthly body soaring aloft to answer the celestial summons.

Mr. Ogilvie looked up, but saw nothing. "Must be the seagulls carousing aroond again.... Allricht, Lochinvar; noo it's yere turn," he said, stumbling back to the rail. "Sumply bend a loop in the— the— Great gobs, mon! What ails ye?"

Mr. MacBoil was standing with his mouth open, staring wild-eyed into the fog directly above him. "G-g-gone!" he managed to stammer. "G-glencannon's Glengonnon!"

"Gone?" thundered Mr. Ogilvie. "D'ye mean to say ye let him escape, ye besotted auld glaggy? Quick, then!" He seized the other by the collar and dragged him backward across the perilously swaying gangplank, like a chamois traversing a crete on the Matterhorn. "I'll domn weel teach him that he canna sliv the glip to— ick!— to Alec Ogilvie!"

Meanwhile, Mr. Glencannon felt himself falling, falling, falling through endless, fog-filled space. Though instinctively he clutched the cable, he realized that his murderers had cut it at the instant of pushing him overboard. His stomach quailed with the speed and his very soul cringed with horror as he pictured the impending spatter on the hard concrete below. But the mind works like lightning in the shadow of death, and even as he thought of the dry dock's bottom, he also thought of his own. For it wasn't concrete, and it hurt. Had the assassins hamstrung him? It felt so! Twisting, turning and half dazed though he was, he yet managed to reach around aft and explore the seat of the pain. He found that he was sitting trapeze-fashion in the loop he had made in the wire and that it was cutting a groove in him crosswise. So he wasn't falling, falling, but rising, rising, rising! Suddenly the whole vile plot became clear to him.

"Fiends!" he croaked. "Foul munsters! They tricked me into tying mysel' to a barrage balloon and then cut the domn thing loose! Ach, horrors, Glencannon, ye're speeding toward a frichtful doom!"

Helpless, hopeless, he peered around him. Visibility was zero, but from the buzzing in his ears he judged his altitude to be considerable. "Whoosh!" He gasped the rarefied air. "If the domn thing drogs me much higher, my eardrums will collopse for lack o' oxygen!"

The buzzing became intense, head-filling, like the sound of an electric motor. As, at that moment, he was swinging past the motor cabin of a gantry less than ten feet distant in the fog, this was not surprising.

The motive of the crime was obvious. The unspeakable Ogilvie, sans mustache and properly dressed, would look almost as much like the man in the picture as would Mr. Glencannon. Instead of whacking up the money three ways, the sinister twain could split it fifty-fifty. At thought of their treachery, the victim writhed helplessly in his sling and groaned as the cable bit into him anew.

"Whither, oh, whither are we drifting?" he asked himself miserably. "If the wind is from the east, I'll droon in the Atlontic. If it's oot o' the west, I'll droon in the North Sea. If I blow ower Germany, the Huns will shoot me doon with rockets. Weel, I'll go doon fighting, anyway!" His hand sought his coat pocket for his brass knuckles. It closed upon a bottle and he remembered that the coat was Mr. MacBoil's. "Duggan's Dew!" he read the label. "Thonk heavens! Noo I willna starve, at any rate!" Passing both arms around the wire, he removed the stopper and supercharged himself for action in the stratosphere.

By the time he had boosted his manifold pressure to fifty-three inches, an acute dizziness made him aware that he was spinning on the cable's end like the rotor of a turbine. He would whirl perhaps two hundred revolutions in one direction, stop, and then unwind an equal number of turns in the opposite sense. So great was the speed of rotation that centrifugal force, acting upon his considerable liquid content, caused it to work its way outward into the remotest nooks and crannies of his system. Soon the peripheral portions of his brain were flooded with practically pure whisky, while the center was drained bone dry and stone sober. This duplex mental condition had certain advantages, but they were outweighed by the drawbacks. Theoretically, of course, the sober central spot provided a vantage point from which to study his binge from the inside— a unique opportunity which should have enabled him to perceive and remember all the cosmic truths, dazzling logic and gut-busting humor which are born of the bottle, only to be lost in the inevitable black agonies of hangover. Unfortunately for the world's store of knowledge, however, the roistering, alcoholized areas resented the presence of the austere, sober center as though it were a teetotaler who had crashed the party and spread the figurative wet blanket. They became self-conscious, sulky, surly. Just as the opposing elements seemed on the verge of an ugly brawl, Mr. Glencannon stopped spinning and his brain went back to normal— which is to say, it was uniformly saturated throughout.

A gale of hurricane force struck him from ahead, blew for several seconds and then suddenly shifted astern. This was repeated again and again, each time with increasing violence. He realized that now, instead of spinning, he was swinging back and forth, back and forth, and that he was actually the business end of a gigantic pendulum. The balloon was still hidden in the fog overhead, but he judged the amplitude of the arcs to be at least five hundred feet. His speed was terrific; in fact, during the backward swoops, the whisky became so solidly compressed at the bottom of the bottle that he was obliged to suck it out, whereas in the forward swings, it gushed into his mouth like soda water.

The motion made him lightheaded. He had long since lost all sense of time, and though he tried to gauge it by the falling level of the whisky, somewhat on the principle of the hourglass, the readings were of doubtful accuracy.

"I only know it's later than I think," he said. "The main question is: Where am I?" He felt a slight shock on his right instep, as though a shoe lace had snapped. Looking down, he was a porcelain insulator and a length of radio aerial dangling from his foot. Simultaneously he swung out of a dense fog wall into a comparatively clear spot, and saw just below him the innumerable roofs, steeples and towers of a great metropolis.

"Berlin!" he gasped. "The crafty Huns have comouflaged it to look exockly lik' Glesga!" He drained the bottle and with a mighty oath sent it hurtling into the busy street below.

MANY A reputable citizen of Glasgow will maintain to his dying day that Superman came to town that foggy morning. Literally hundreds saw him run after a bus down Dundas Street, catch up with it at twenty-five miles an hour, and then, just as a collision seemed inevitable, leap clear over it and land a full block in the lead. Others confirming the story will add that no sooner had the leaper landed than he went into reverse, rushed at the bus backward and hurdled it by so comfortable a margin that he came to rest on the topmost cornice of the Stock Exchange. A lady of gentle birth and unimpeachable morals has testified under oath that she saw the strange visitant kick a pigeon out of the air above Kelvingrove Park, while the fragment of his trousers which still clings to the weather vane of St. Andrew's Church has become one of the city's chief items of interest.

Swooping and swinging, running and leaping, Mr. Glencannon was too busy keeping pace with the balloon, avoiding collisions and hoping the cable would not bite him in two, to notice his fatigue. It was just as he was girding his loins to hurdle the chimney pots on the roof of what he recognized to be the Buchanan Street Opera House that a sudden blessed relief came to his galled crupper and he knew that he was free. The cable swished by him, curling snakily, and vanished in the fog.

"Ah, whurra!" he gasped, sitting down on the roof. "Ah, whurra!" he gasped, standing up again. He tottered to the balustrade and stood leaning against it, listening to the pounding of his heart. Presently the pounding subsided and all he heard was the gurgling of his liver, like the babble of a Highland brook in springtime. "A-weel," he panted, "the feerst thing to do is to get doon oot o' here. The second thing is to buy mysel' some liniment. The theerd is to commit a couple o' guid, thorough homicides!"

Descending the fire escape into the alley behind the auditorium, he limped between crates and musty scenery to a side thoroughfare and thence around the corner into Buchanan Street. A crowd had gathered on the opposite sidewalk and a police car was just drawing up to the curb. A pair of constables shouldered their way out of the group of bystanders, dragging two badly battered gentlemen handcuffed together. By an effort, Mr. Glencannon recognized them as the Messrs. MacBoil and Ogilvie. Behind them, calmly tucking a rubber blackjack into his pocket, walked a malignant and muscular gentleman who wore a gray felt hat and a Shetland greatcoat.

"Foosh!" exclaimed Mr. Glencannon. "'Tis he! 'Tis him! 'Tis the mon in the Phantom's picture! And he— he is none other than Hoof MacCorkle, who used to be desk sergeant in the Balmoral Street police station! No wonder he looked so familiar—even though I'd never seen him withoot his unifurrm!"

Chuckling, he watched the car depart with captor and captives. Still chuckling, he glanced at a sign, The Glasgow Evening Guardian, on a building farther down the street. There was a hatter's shop nearby and a barber's just across from it. Somewhere in the distance, a clock was striking nine.

___________________

11: Rejuvenation

Arthur Gask

1869-1951

Chronicle (Adelaide) 3 Sep 1942

MATHEW Ponting Brown lived a very humdrum life, and no one could have called it a happy one. At forty he was an old man with an habitual worried expression upon his face. He was short and slight of figure, his hair was greying, and he actually sported whiskers. As long as anyone had known him it was said he had always worn the same suit. That was not, however, true, for he bought a new one every four or five years. Still, as each new suit was the exact copy of the one before it in style, cut and color, it can easily be understood how the legend of the eternal durability of his clothes arose.

He was a bachelor, living in lodgings in an unpretentious street in North Adelaide, and his way of life was the same from one year's end to another. A ledger clerk at Boomer and Hunt's, he had been with the firm since he was seventeen, and was considered steady and trustworthy.

Of very limited intelligence, however, he had never risen from a very subordinate position. By his fellow clerks and the employes of the firm, generally, he was called "Doormat," and he never seemed to resent the implied contempt in the nickname. He had no vices and no hobby. He didn't drink, he didn't smoke, he never went to races, and he had never been known to address any member of the other sex by her Christian name.

Every Sunday, morning and evening, he attended a little church of some queer sect in a little bye-lane near Ovingham, but he never was seen to open his mouth there, and his interest in the affairs of the church appeared to end when he had come out of its doors.

So, with no relations or friends, his surroundings were as lonely as possibly could be, and he slunk through life a very ghost of a man, interested in no one and with no one interested in him.

With his habits very simple, he was not troubled with any form of ill-health until well into his fortieth year. Then he began to suffer from what for a long while he thought was only indigestion. He did not take much notice of it at first but, the discomfort in the pit of his stomach continuing and getting no better, he suddenly started worrying that, perhaps, some dreadful disease might be setting in.

Reading his morning paper from end to end, as he did every day, from its advertisement columns he had acquired a most comprehensive knowledge of the many ills which many quack doctors were anxious to treat, and so was mentally ripe for the suggestion of almost any kind of affliction. Getting thoroughly frightened at last, he decided to see a doctor, but, knowing none, he could not make up his mind which particular one to choose. Then, remem-bering the advertisement of a Chinaman which had often caught his eye, after a lot of thinking, he came to the conclusion he could not do better than go to him.

The Chinaman was a Wei Hung Ling, who lived in a little bye street off King William road. To Mathew's simple mind it seemed he must be a man of great knowledge, ministering, as he was able, according to his advertisements, to almost all the ailments human nature was prone to. He described himself as a natural healer, specialising in eyes, nose, throat, heart, lungs, and other less romantic parts of the human body. Apart from this extensive repertoire, the Chinaman was also a psychologist, a hypnotist, and a vocational adviser. His advertisement, moreover, suggested he might be consulted about the stars.

Altogether Mathew thought he would be quite safe in consulting him, and, accordingly, one afternoon, upon leaving Boomer and Hunt's, he made his way to the Chinaman's place of practice. Now, whatever may have been the attainments of this Wei Hung Ling in the healing art, he was certainly a pretty shrewd judge of human nature, for directly he clapped eyes on the nervous, shrinking Mathew Brown, he saw possibilities of good profit. If rightly handled, the little chap was just the very kind to be kept hanging about for years.

Swallowing hard in his nervousness, Mathew described his symptoms, and, asking many questions about his occupation and mode of life, short of exactly finding out what his salary was a week, the Chinaman was speedily in possession of nearly all there was to learn about his new patient. Then he made him partly undress, and having prodded his stomach very hard and listened to its rumblings through a stethescope, he tut-tutted very gravely many times.

Finally he gave his verdict.

It was a good thing he had come to him he told Mathew solemnly, for he had come only just in time. The pain and discomfort he had suffered from were far more than an ordinary indigestion. They were the first stage of a very serious trouble. Still, with patience and extended treatment, he was most hopeful everything would come all right in the end. Mathew must have X-ray treatment, the galvanic battery and massage, as well as medicines. He must come to be treated three times a week. As to fees, Ling couldn't say how much it would cost, but with such treatments it was, of course, customary to pay something on account. Mathew was thoroughly frightened, and with no demur parted with five one pound notes on account. The treatment was started at once with a dose of the battery, which made him feel rather faint and sick. Indeed, he looked so white and shaky, that the Chinaman produced a good-sized tumbler full of port and insisted upon his drinking it.

Never having taken alcohol before, Mathew responded at once to the heavy wine, and, except for rather wobbly legs, expressed himself as feeling much better. Finally, Ling bowed him out with a little box of evil-looking pills and the strict injunction he was to return in two days' time.

Mathew walked slowly down King William road towards the stop, where he would pick up a North Adelaide tram. He had to walk slowly, because not only could he not trust his legs overmuch, but also there was a blurred mist before his eyes. However, he soon reached the stop, and was crossing over to the safety zone when everything seemed to go black and he felt faint again. It was only for a few seconds, and then he felt all right.

His tram arriving, he mounted the step and sank grate-fully into a seat. Really, he told himself, that Chinaman's medicine had been very strong. He had no idea it was just ordinary port wine he had been given.

That night, according to instructions, he took two pills and two more the next morning. He felt astonished with the effect they had on him. It was not only that they took away the pain in his stomach, but they gave him also such a feeling of well-being. He felt he was treading upon air and was so lighthearted, too.

Passing out through the garden of the house where he lodged, he plucked one of his landlady's prize rosebuds, strangely enough not caring whether she saw him or not. He knew she would be very angry if she did, as she was showing a bouquet of roses at a local flower show the following week.

Arriving early at the office, he almost ran into one of the other clerks, pretty little Dolly Thompson, in the passage. They were the first to arrive.

"Now then, Doormat, dear," she called out gaily, "where are you going? But how nice you smell! Who on earth gave you that dinky little rose?"

"I acquired it by conquest, pretty one," replied Mathew grandly, and it seemed to him it was some other person speaking. "In other words, I stole it from my landlady's garden."

"You wicked man," exclaimed the girl disgustedly, "give it to me at once," and then, when he had smilingly handed it over and she was busy arranging it in her dress, he bent over and gave her a resounding kiss as near to her mouth as he could get.

"You little beast, Doormat!" she exclaimed, pushing him away indignantly. "How dare you do that? Why, I'm almost inclined to scratch your eyes out, you wretch!"

"No, my dear, you're not," he retorted firmly. "And you'll say nothing about it either, and then I'll buy you a box of chocolates."

"A shilling one?" she queried scornfully.

"No, a five shilling one." And again it seemed to him someone else was speaking, as he added importantly, "Don't tell anyone, but I've come in for a bot of money. My old aunt died last week and left me a few hundred."

"Really?" asked the girl with her eyes opened very wide. "Then buy yourself some new clothes at once, and get your hair cut, too. It's the way you dress and those awful whiskers you've got that make you look such an old corpse."

She pretended to look coy.

"Why, I've let men much older than you take me out, when they dressed properly and looked decent."

Mathew had his hair cut that very day, and at the same time was measured for a suit of clothes by one of the best tailors in Adelaide. He had plenty of money, for he had saved more than £400.

When on the evening of the fol-lowing day he kept his appointment with the Chinaman, and told him delightedly how much better he felt.

"My indigestion is all gone, and I feel quite different all round." He laughed. "Why, I even see now when a girl's good-looking or not, and I haven't noticed that for years. Those pills of yours must be very strong."

Wei Hung Ling nodded.

"Yes, they are restoring your vital energy and that's what I meant them to do." He smiled a cunning smile. "But it is not only the pills which are making you feel so much better." He fixed Mathew intently with his eyes and added very solemnly, "You didn't know, did you, that I had hypnotised you! Well, I had, and I had willed you should become young again." He spoke as one with great authority. "You do as I tell you and in six months I will have taken twenty years off your life."

Mathew was thrilled and, at the Chinaman's suggestion, so that there should be no slipping back, paid down a further two pounds for pills of an even stronger nature.

And in the months which followed, although he was being well and consistently milked by Wei Hung Ling he never for one moment regretted having gone to him. His whole life was altered in a most extraordinary degree. He had be-come sharp and quick, where before he had been dull and slow, and, indeed, was now so capable, in everything he undertook that he soon found he was being given responsible duties, with his salary being raised accordingly.

After working hours, too, everything was different. He took Dolly Thompson out quite a lot, and both his kisses and his presents were now accepted as a matter of course. Indeed, the office was expecting that an engagement would be announced any day.

Mathew, however, was taking his time there.Appetite had grown with eating and, although very taken with the charms of the fascinating little Dolly, he had several other little flirtations in hand at the same time. He had moved to a good-class guest home and a lively young widow there was beginning to regard him as her private property. Also, he was sweet on a girl in a lawyer's office. Her name was Penelope and she had a good eye for the main chance.

And not only was Mathew prospering in his work and his love affairs, but he was also most fortunate in other ways. Attending the local race meetings and knowing nothing whatsoever about horses, time after time he made quite useful sums of money by backing certain animals, either because he liked their names, or else because the numbers on their saddle-cloths coincided with those which he had cause to remember for some particular reason, quite unconnected with racing.

One afternoon, for instance, he had a pound on a horse because its number was 20 and he had suddenly remembered the Chinaman had said he would take that number of years off his life. The horse won and paid £185 10/ in the totalisator.

Splashing his money about as he now did, everyone seemed to want to be friendly with him and, going out quite a lot, he was always meet-ing people, anxious to share in his good fortune. Strangely enough, however, he had developed a great shrewdness of character and always managed to avoid the pitfalls which were being set for him. He flattered himself he could pick out the go-getters from the honest ones every time.

Instead of the little packet of measly sandwiches and the glass of milk which in the days gone by consisted of his lunch, he now made a substantial meal at a good-class cafe, and sitting always at the same table, got to know a young fellow who generally came to sit opposite to him. Just nodding casually at each other, at first, it was some weeks before they began to talk of themselves, and then Mathew learnt his new acquaintance was a clerk in a lawyer's office, was twenty-six years of age, and half engaged to a very pretty girl, but had very poor prospects of being able to get married. He was always hoping, however, that one day some great happening would avalanche into his life, and everything would be quite different. He was a great believer in Fate.

"We can't help ourselves," he said. "We're running in a groove, and everything we say or do has been arranged years and years be-fore we were born, to fit in with the lives of other people."

"Then why was it fated," smiled Mathew, "that I should come and sit down at your table."

"Don't know," replied the young fellow. He smiled, "Perhaps it was to teach me not to take so much salt. It was you who told me about it first, and I've learnt since then it makes your arteries grow hard as you get old." He nodded. "So, perhaps, just from this chance meeting with you, I may live ten or fifteen years longer than I should have done if it hadn't happened."

Mathew nodded back, feeling quite a thrill at the important part he might be playing in this boy's destiny. One lunch-time the boy arrived looking very preoccupied, and after a long silence said earnestly:—

"Look here, Mr. Brown, do you ever speculate? Do you ever take a risk?"

Mathew laughed. "I'm middle-aged with a bit of dough, and if I take a girl to the pictures and squeeze her hand in the dark, why, it's always on the cards that she'll be thinking I ought to mean business and start to sue me for breach of promise the next morning." He seemed very amused. "Yes, I'm accustomed to take risks."

The young man laughed back. "I didn't mean in that way. I meant do you ever speculate in stocks and shares?"

Mathew shook his head. "Don't know enough about them." He was anxious. "But what makes you ask?"

"Because," said the young man solemnly, "I'm pretty certain I've got some information about a certain gold-mine which may send the shares up from the few pence they are now to as many shillings, or, perhaps, even pounds. Oh, yes, I know a bit about gold shares. My Dad lost all his money in them and that's why we're so deuced poor to-day."

Mathew expressed his interest, and having promised the young man profound secrecy, the latter went on. "Listen, last month the Silver Moon people took over an other gold mining property, a badly worked mine which so far has done no good, and everyone was very curious why they did it, for they are known as a very shrewd lot. Their shares now stand at seven pence."

"Seven pence!" exclaimed Mathew. "Surely that's not much for a share in a gold mine."

"Often too much," smiled the young man. He went on. "Now her comes the funny business. Next door to us lives a chap called Entwhistle, a retired mining engineer. He's really given up active work now but sometimes he's still consulted because he's supposed to know more about gold mining than any man in Australia. People don't go to him often, because he charges a deuced big fee. Well, yesterday, he received a telegram, and, because that storm we had has flattened all the telephone posts in our road, the wire was delivered by hand, with the boy, as usual, waiting to know if there was any answer."

The young man spoke very solemnly. "Well, here Fate steps in. I was in our garden when Entwhistle came out of his front door to give the boy the reply to the telegram and as the old man is very deaf he shouted what the words were, 'Halliday, Silver Moon, Kalgoorlie,' he bawled,' "Accept terms— coming by plane tomorrow, Entwhistle."

"Then what does it all mean?" frowned Mathew.

"That they think they've struck it rich," was the instant reply, "and they want Entwhistle to as-sure them it's worth while going to the expense of putting down new machinery." He nodded, "And I'll bet they paid him a huge sum. He's always vowed he'd never set foot in a plane under five hundred guineas."

"And what do you think'll hap-pen?" asked Mathew.

"The shares'll go up at once the moment it leaks out that Entwhistle's been called in. I shouldn't wonder if they don't go up tuppence or threepence this after-noon."

A short silence followed and then Mathew said with decision. "Look here, my boy, I'll go in with you. We'll buy a thousand shares each, at once, straightaway within the hour."

The young fellow got very red.

"Can't do it, sir," he said. "I've no spare cash."

"Well, I'll lend it to you," nodded Mathew. "No, that's all right. It'll be a little excitement for us whatever happens. Now how do you set about getting these shares."

So it ended in the two hurriedly making their way to a stockbroker the young man knew. But the stockbroker was out and to fill in the few minutes before he re-turned, they went into a hotel and had some drinks. Under the in-fluence of two sloe gins, Mathew took a most rosy view of everything and it ended in him buying two thousand shares for himself and one for his friend. They cost him, with commission, a little over £100.

Nothing happened for three days, and then the boy came rushing excitedly into the cafe at lunch time to give the startling informa-tion that not an hour previously Silver Moons had jumped from eightpence to two shillings.

"It's leaked out that Entwhistle was over there," he whispered hoarsely, "and some say he's given them a marvellous report."

And exactly what report the mining expert had given Mathew never knew. All that interested him was that he found himself being carried violently forward in the crest of a tremendous boom in Silver Moons. The shares soared and soared, from two shillings to five, from five shillings to a pound and then up, up, up until seventy odd shillings was reached. Then, upon the advice of his friend, Mathew sold out, finding himself in the possession of more than £7000

Keeping the whole matter to himself for a couple of weeks, he at last went to the heads of the firm and told them what had happened. They were aghast, but, their first surprise over, regarded him with great respect.

"Well, well, Mr. Brown," said old Boomer, "you do astonish us. Certainly, of late you've given us good reason for surprise in many directions, but we didn't think you had as much go in you as this." He frowned. "And now, of course, I suppose you will be leaving us. You will want to—"

"No, no," broke in Mr. Hunt with a significant look at his partner, "decide nothing precipitately, Mr. Brown." He coughed. "Don't say anything for a few days, and we may have a suggestion to make to you." He smiled. "You know we are both older than we used to be, and don't want to go on working for ever."

In the meantime, Mathew's love affairs were becoming rather involved, and it seemed he was in the way of getting himself into trouble. He was inclined to think something of his good fortune must somehow have leaked out, as all his lady loves were most actively pushing their claims. He was practically engaged to Dolly Thompson on the quiet; he had been taking the little widow out and buying her expensive presents, and he spent as much time as he could with Penelope of the lawyer's office, when he could safely get away from the other two. Strangely enough, his deceit did not worry him in the least. Indeed, he never gave it a thought, taking all his love adventures as the natural result of the rejuvenation Wei Hung Ling had promised him.

He was free of the Chinaman now, and that did not trouble him either. A month back he had seen in the newspapers that the premises off King William road had been raided, and Ling committed for trial for trafficking in forbidden drugs.

Late one night Mathew took counsel of himself in his bedroom. Things had become very awkward, and a crisis was certainly approaching. That afternoon the partners had annonced to their other employes that they were taking him into partnership, and Dolly had at once triumphantly broadcast their engagement.

Yet, the previous evening after sitting with the widow on the parklands, and overcome by her caresses and the fragrance of the particular scent she had been using, he had asked her to marry him. Also, that very morning he had lunched with Penelope at a fashionable hotel, and snatched a passionate kiss from her in a secluded corner of the lounge when no one else was by. He had arranged, too, to spend the following Sunday with her at her home.

He looked into the mirror and thoughtfully regarded the image reflected there. He saw a distinguished, handsome man who did not look a day older than thirty; a man with a strong, clever face, and calm, confident eyes.

"What a change from what I was six months ago!'' he nodded. "Yes, it's exactly six months to day, on May 2nd, since I first visited old Ling, and what a lot has happened in that time!"

He went on. "Sure, you ought to go a long way, Mathew, for nothing now is beyond your grasp. A partner in an important business firm, you must get on the city council. Then it will be only another step to becoming the lord mayor. After that— who knows? You may be Sir Mathew very soon."

He undressed himself and quickly got into bed.

"I must get a good sleep now. I have a busy day tomorrow. Dolly, Penelope and Susan, how shall I manage them all?" but, his head touching the pillow, his thoughts trailed away into nothingness and.... he was asleep.

ONE OF THE house surgeons of the Adelaide Hospital was showing two interested elderly ladies over the new wing of the building. As they entered a small ward, some nurses were putting a screen round one of the beds.

"A patient just died?" whispered one of the ladies sympathetically.

The house surgeon nodded.

"We expected it. A bad accident case! He hadn't a chance when they brought him in."

"How long ago, since it happened?"

The house surgeon considered. "Three days last Tuesday evening, May 2nd, he was knocked down by a motor lorry in King William road whlie waiting for a tram. His injuries were shocking. Fractured base of the skull, five ribs broken and a compound fracture of the thigh. But it was probably mostly his own fault, as he reeked of port wine when he was picked up."

"Was he a young man?"

"No, about forty, so his firm told us. He was a clerk in a soft-goods warehouse and, apparently, without any relations or friends, as not a soul's been to see him since he was brought in."

"Oh, what a dreadful death."

The house surgeon smiled. "The accident was dreadful, but the dying wasn't. He's been chock full of morphia and, judging by his talk, has had a lovely time. He won huge sums at the races and made a fortune in a gold-mine. Also, he became the head partner of his soft-goods firm. As lor love affairs, why he had sweethearts all over the place, Penelope, Dorothy, Susan, and it seemed he was going to marry all of them."

"How shocking," murmured the other lady. "He must have been a thoroughly bad man!"

The house surgeon shook his head. "No, I don't think so. He was only just an ordinary man and in his dreams he let himself go." He laughed. "His name was Mathew, but he was certainly no saint."

__________________

12: Scarsley Moor Mystery

Percy J. Brebner

1864-1922

Journal (Adelaide) 10 March 1923

"AYE, but it's a bad night," said the landlord, as a scurry of wind swirled against the house and roared in the wide chimney.

"Known worse at sea," answered a man who sat on the opposite bench, a sailor unmistakably. Exposure to every kind of weather had cut a network of lines in his face, the salt clung to his garments, and there was a roll in his gait when he had entered the inn about an hour ago. He spoke as though he considered a landsman incompetent to give a weather opinion of any value, but be glanced at a third man who sat nearer the fire, and who, in the comfort of the blaze, seemed to have entirely lost himself in thought.

"We don't get the worst of it here," returned the landlord. "The Three Crowns lies in a bit of a hollow; wait until you get up on to the open moor; you won't find it easy to match a night like this, I warrant."

The man by the fire stretched his arms and legs and laughed.

"The open moor is like having plenty of sea room, isn't it, Joe?"

It was a mere phrase with him. He was evidently no seafarer; salt and tarpaulin had played small part in his existence. He was a man of towns, used to pavements and lighted streets. He was built on thin lines, vigorous enough, but not fashioned for hard usage. Brain rather than muscle was his stock in trade, and he looked as if a certain amount of luxury were necessary to him. The landlord naturally addressed him as "sir," guided by the tone of his voice, and the cut of his clothes; and in a slow, indefinite way had wondered at the strange companionship the moment the two men had entered the inn.

"It's good to have plenty of sea room," the sailor answered, "but—"

The man by the fire looked at him.

"We are bound to reach Scarsley before morning," he said in a quick, determined tone.

"It'll be rough going, but according to you, landlord, Scarsley Moor's the most deserted spot on earth, with hardly a tree for the wind to break and not a chimney to come hurtling down on us. It's far safer than the town on such a night."

"There's the Quarry Farm," said the landlord.

"So there is; I had forgotten all about it. And our path lies straight past it, you say?"

"What hermit got the idea of building in such a place?"

"Can't say. I expect it was put up originally with some idea of working the old quarry again; then, when I was a lad, someone tried for a year or two to cultivate the ground about it, and so it got called Quarry Farm. It belongs to some one over at Scarsley, but it has been empty ever since I can remember."

"A ruin, eh?"

"Broken down a bit, but not so much as yon might fancy. They built with the quarry stone. It's an uncanny place: bad enough in the day, but at night— well, I'd sooner be inside the Three Crowns at night. They do say—"

"What do they say?" asked the sailor, evidently interested, and leaning forward to listen.

The landlord knocked the ashes reflectively out of his pipe.

"There are many stories about the farm, all going to show that the devil's got a hand in the property. Folk have been scared hearing, sounds coming from it which have set them running until their breath gave out. Some say they've seen a dim light in one o' the windows; and others say they've seen the devil himself standing by the door. It was Bill Owers, the smith, who said that, and he ain't known to be a liar, nor much of a coward either, for that matter; comes of a prizefighting family, does Bill. There's no one I knows of in the village who'd go that way o' nights. Listen to that now," he broke off, as another roaring blast of wind shook the door and windows. "No, give me the inside of the Three Crowns, I say."

The man by the fire got up.

"Fill the glasses again, landlord, and then we'll be off. We must reach Scarsley before morning."

"It ain't for me to try and stop you," was the answer, "but it's only fair to tell you, you being strangers. It's got a bad name, has Scarsley Moor, and that's the truth of it."

The spirit was drunk strong and with little dilution— to keep the cold out and to keep the courage in, perhaps, for the landlord had a creepy manner of giving his warning. Then coats were buttoned up tightly, and certainly a little reluctantly on the sailor's part, as they went towards the door.

"I think you're fools," said the landlord, "but I hope you'll get to Scarsley all right. Yes, straight up the path, and see you don't miss it, or you'll be falling into some pit. You'll know when you re reached the top of the moor, for the farm's at the highest point."

His final "Good night" was drowned in a rush of wind which came tearing dawn from the moor, as, with bowed heads, the two men slowly mounted the rising path.

The higher they got the harder it blew, in great whirls of confusion, now bringing them to a standstill, now lulling for a moment.

"We'd best turn back, said the sailor.

"Turn back?"

"It ain't the kind of night for such a job, Mr. Ransome."

"We couldn't have a better."

And then the elements made speech impossible for a while.

"We couldn't have a better night," Ransome repeated when the wind dropped for a moment. "There will be no one to see us, and Capt. Mallock, if he's alive, won t think it necessary to mount guard over his plunder in weather like this."

"He may have moved it."

"The landlord's takes make me think otherwise."

"I didn't like the way he talked, said the sailor. "Seemed to me he didn't think we should reach Scarsley."

"Wanted us to stay and spend more money at the inn," Ransome answered. "We've come a long way, Joe, on this business, and I'm not going to turn back now." .

Again the wind came roaring over the open, bringing a lash of rain with it—a more furious blast than any which had yet assailed them. They had been steadily mounting, and were meeting the full force of the gale.

Scarsley Moor lay along the top of a great headland which thrust a front of frowning, precipitous cliffs into the North Sea. The moor ran inland for some miles, a bleak and barren tract of country, which had a score or more of legends to give it a bad name. In summer time a few tourists came because local guidebooks waxed enthusiastic about the view, but the natives troubled it little. To be overtaken by night on Scarsley was a disaster. Out of such misfortune people made a standard of comparison by which to judge other evils. For days together one might have wandered over the moor without meeting a single person.

"Nothing's going to turn me back, said Ransome, when the lull came: "not wind, nor rain, nor the devil himself."

"Don't say that," answered the sailor; "don't say it."

"Not if it frightens you," was the rather contemptuous reply. "I'll leave the devil out of it and put Mallock in his place. Even Capt. Mallock shall not turn me back."

"He'd fight for it."

"Well?"

"Didn't we agree there was to be no killing?" said the sailor.

"Exactly. That is why to-night suits us so well; there'll be no temptation. Nobody will get in our way."

Again came the wind, screeching and howling as though the night were full of myriads of restless spirits crying and complaining as they swung swiftly through the black air.

"I believe we're off the path," said the sailor.

"Nonsense!"

"Anyway, we must be getting near the farm— and the quarry, don't forget that."

"We're still rising, Ransome returned, "and the farm stands at the top of the moor, according to the landlord."

"DI o not taking much account of anything the landlord said, except his remark that we were fools to venture; he was right there," said the sailor.

"Would yon know Captain Mallock again if you saw him?" Ransome did not ask the question as though he were interested in the answer, but rather as though he desired to divert his companion's mind from the fears which had evidently gripped him.

"Know him? I've never had his face out of my mind since the night he told me. He didn't half hate telling me, but he felt grateful for what I had done, and he couldn't go back to his plunder himself, because he was dying. It was in San Francisco, a little, low-down lodging, and I'd put the fear of God into the lubber who kept it, or he'd a' knifed us for the few dollars our belongings would a' fetched. I just went out to get a necessary thing or two— not away above an hour, I wasn't, and when I got back the captain had gone."

"He'd become delirious and didn't know what he was doing," said Ransome.

"I suppose so; and two days later I was at sea again. One of my mates told me of a man who'd been run over and killed the same night as Mallock went. The description was like him.

"I expert he's dead, Joe."

"Never heard of him from then to now," was the answer, "and I've asked about him often enough. I always meant to come and have a look for the place, although I wasn't certain of the truth of the story, and being short of money and all that— well, two years flipped by, and then I met you in Colombo."

"And told me where the treasure was."

"Not quite that, matey, but enough to interest you. Scarsley Moor and the farm I mentioned, but there's lots of hiding places in the farm, I reckon. I wasn't making it worth your while to slip me and come after the plunder on your own. It's never well to trust even a pal too far."

"That was wisdom, Joe," laughed Ransome. "I'm not blaming you for it. We're both adventurers; you with a trade, I without one, but ready to speculate good thing. You have Mallock's story, I have the brains to exploit it. Its equal shares, Joe, that's agreed upon, and you can't say I haven't fulfilled my part of the bargain. I made certain that the things were really stolen; I found out the whereabouts of Scarsley and the Quarry Farm; I got the money to bring us here; and now were nearing the end of the business with every step."

"You've gone straight, I'll allow—" the sailor answered; and then he broke off suddenly:— "Did you see that?"

The wind came tearing down upon them again, making speech impossible and beating them to a standstill.

"Did you see it?" asked the sailor in a hoarse voice.

"See what?"

"A light."

"I saw nothing."

"It's gone now, but—" An oath finished the sentence; Joe had stumbled over a large stone. "That means we're near the quarry. Curse the dark! it ain't safe to move. I wish we hadn't come on such a night."

There was another oath, this time from Ransome, who had struck the sharp corner of a wall.

"Sure you didn't see the light?"

"No; nor would you have done if the landlord hadn't spoken about it."

"I wish we hadn't come."

"We are here, Joe. In a few minutes we shall be on our way again, rich men, and then—"

"Look!" cried the sailor.

Ransome saw it— a thin, straight line of light, a line which gleamed for a moment through the chink in a shutter and was gone.

"More imagination," he said. "I saw nothing, and I've got better eyes than most men. Come, if we feel round this wall we shall find the gate."

Ransome slipped his hand into his hip pocket to make sure that his revolver was ready for use. Someone was inside the Quarry Farm— probably some wanderer on Scarsley taking refuge from the storm; someone who had no more right to enter the house than they had.

Surely the treasure was not guarded to-night? He had travelled far to this hour; wealth was almost within his grasp; was it likely he would turn back now? Yet the exact hiding-place he did not know; the sailor was necessary to him, and Joe was superstitious. To admit having seen a light would terrify his companion. He might run, careless of the quarry; he might pitch in and kill himself; and alone the hiding place might be difficult, perhaps impossible to find. Afterwards— afterwards, if by chance Joe should take a wrong step and find the bottom of the quarry, it would not matter, but at present—

The wind shrieked again, so fiercely, beating him with such terrific violence that it seemed to cut the current of Ransome's thoughts. When it lulled again he took half a dozen steps along by the wall and touched a gate.

Nothing should turn him back—not Mallock, not the devil himself. If any one were fool enough to show resistance to-night, he must take the consequences. To-morrow Ransome would be far away from Scarsley.

"The gate, Joe " he said. "Follow me. What part of the house must we make for?"

"There's a room at the end of the passage," was the answer.

Out of the blackness of the night something blacker rose up before them— the house. From that gate, up a straight path, it was easy to find the door; and feeling hands could detect little sign of ruin about it. It was solid wood and was fast closed.

"We'll get to some window," said Ransome in a low tone. However ruined the house might be in its roof and upper storey, there was little evidence of dilapidation on the ground floor to the two men feeling at window after window for an easy entrance. Every window was shut and fastened, and the glass in it was complete.

Judging by the thin line of light which be had seen, Ransome concluded that most of them would probably be shuttered on the inside too. The task before them was a more difficult one than he had bargained for.

They made the circuit of the house and came to the front door again.

"They're not careless, even to-night," said the sailor.

"Proof that the plunder has not been moved," was the answer. There is one window which seemed to me easier than the others. We'll get in that way."

It was a small window in an angle. Ransome had noticed that the framework was loose, that it shook with the wind. It would be easy to open.

"Give me the tools, Joe. We'll wait for the wind again; it will drown any noise we may make."

"Then you don't think the house is empty?"

Ransome did not answer the question. The wind came tearing round the house as if bent on wrenching it bodily from its foundation, and the sailor did not hear the wood split as Ransome prised open the window. "I'll go first," Ransome said, when his outstretched hands had convinced him that no shutters barred his way.

The sailor climbed in after him. Had he had his own way he would have returned to the Three Crowns even now; but he dared not remain by himself, so followed his masterful companion.

"Have you the bit of candle, Joe? That's right. Better let me go first. A room at the end of the passage, you say; we'll make for the passage, then."

He went forward, shaking the flickering candle flame with his hand. Without, the wind tore round the house; within, there was emptiness, no sound of living thing. Stealthily they reached the passage and paused, their figures thrown on the bare walls in grotesque shadows. Behind them was the front door; before them, at the end of the passage, another door— closed.

"That's the room," whispered the sailor, "Seems to me that was the direction in which I saw the light."

It was. Ransome was certain of this. He had carefully considered every turn they had taken; for, however empty the house might seem, only a little while ago there was a light in it, and that probably meant trouble before the plunder could be secured. He was ready for any emergency.

"Supposing you take the candle, Joe. That door may not open by just turning the handle. I'd like both hands free in case it's locked."

The sailor took the candle, and they went down the passage. They stepped lightly, but only ears super-keen could have detected their presence, for again the wind howled, and there was the roll of distant thunder.

"It ain't the night for a job like this," whispered the sailor; but Ransome took no notice. One hand was on the handle of the door, the other was in his hip pocket, and grasped the revolver ready for eventualities.

The door was not locked, and as Ransome pulled it open revealed only darkness. There was not a sound in the room, but Ransome had the revolver in his hand as he stepped in, closely followed by the sailor.

"Empty!" he said. "Now, Joe, where do we find the treasure?"

The sailor raised the candle above his bead and looked slowly round. His eyes had only travelled partly round the room when his companion cried out— "Look, Joe! We are—" And then he cursed, for the candle fell to the floor, rolled a foot or two, and went out.

The next instant the sailor had let out a shriek, more like the cry of a frightened  animal than a man. Almost as thought it would drown the cry, the wind roared around the house, and a swift flash of lightning lit up the room. The Cry, the darkness, the sudden roar of the wind and the blinding flash confused Ransome for a moment. He knew the room was not as empty as he had supposed— the flickering candle had showed him that; and now surely someone was moving by the door; surely quick feet were shuffling near him! It was a vibration he felt rather than a sound he heard, but certainly there were quick feet in the room and in the passage, or else the wind was playing strange tricks. He knew exactly where the door was, and he fired through it. He heard the bullet strike the front door.

"It's no use," moaned the sailor, and a medley of muttered prayers and oaths came from his lips.

"Don't be a fool," said Ransome.

"It was the devil— I saw him. I saw his eyes— fire they were, in a black face."

"Don't be a fool! Where's the candle?" Ransome struck a match, saw the candle, and relit it. "Pull yourself together, Joe. Someone's been before us, or we were just in time to frighten him. Look here! I saw it just before you dropped the candle."

The sailor turned, trembling. In a corner of the room, lying on his back, was a man. Blood was on his white hair and stained the boards a little. A heavy blow, twice or thrice repeated, had beaten the out of him. It looked as if he had been attacked from behind, and had has no opportunity to defend himself,

The sailor bent down to look into the face.

"My God! It's Mallock!"

"He's dead," said Ransome. "It's no fault of-ours, and he can't hurt us. The treasure, Joe—where's the treasure? There is no time to lose. Someone else  knows of it. Are we too late?"

"It's the hearth," was the answer.

That Capt. Mallock was dead seemed to give Joe courage, and that at this last moment some one might have robbed him of the plunder which he considered rightly his made him furious.

"It's the hearth. The stone underneath the grate. I know. You keep watch while I look. Fire at 'em if they come— that's not the killing we said we wouldn't do, is it? It was Mullock we weren't going to kill, wasn't it?"

"Yes, Joe, yes. I'll shoot, and straight, if any one comes."

The sailor fell on his knees in front of the fire place, and thrust a jack knife between the cracks of the stones underneath the grate...

"The right one, he said it was— and it moves. No, don't watch me, watch the door. Shoot if they come. I don't want the candle, I can feel. It moves, and underneath— hollow, yes, and empty— no, no— a box. He said they were in a box— It's here. Curse you! hold the light; let us see if we're rich or—"

His fingers trembled as he opened the little wooden box, the lid of which slid in a groove.

"Look! Look! The eyes '

"We're in time," said Ransome. "We frightened some one else just at the right moment. He cleared the way for us."

He laughed a little nervously, as a man will when the reaction comes after great excitement, but his eyes had a hungry expression in them as he looked into the open box.

In a bed of cotton wool two great diamonds caught the flickering light of the candle— two stones each worth a prince's ransom.

"Put them away safely," said the sailor, banding the box to his companion, "and let's go. I suppose the captain is really dead?"

"Yes, and a good thing for us," Ransome answered, as he put the box into an inner pocket. "Wait one moment, Joe. Here's a map of the district. We mustn't go near the Three Crowns again, and morning shan't find us at Scarsley either. We'll make our way across the moor to some other place, and from there to a seaport and across to Amsterdam. We'll turn the diamond eyes into good gold there, my lad.  See the path marked here, to the right from the farm? That's our way. They'd say we'd killed Mallock if they found us with the plunder."

"Let's go," said the sailor.

"And by the front door," said Ransome. "If any one is waiting they won't expect us to leave by the door."

The wind roared again as they left the house, and drowned the sound of the closing door.

"To the right," said Ransome, as they passed through the gate. "Take hold of my arm, if you like. You won't lose me that way, Joe, nor the plunder which I have safely. Feel it, Joe. Give me your hand—there, feel it?"

"Aye, that's safe enough."

Ransome walked warily. He knew his path, but as he had pointed out to the sailor, he had looked at something else on the map— a little square denoting the farm and a small space shaded, an edge of which touched the path they were traversing. Ransome counted his steps— a hundred, two, three, four hundred, and then he walked more warily still.

"There should be a low wall presently," he said. "It's on your side, Joe. Keep your hand out feeling for it."

"Did the map say so?"

"Yes; and we want to strike that wall, because our way turns at the end of it."

A few moments later the sailor touched the wall.

"That's right," said Ransome. "Keep your hand on it. Tell me when it stops."

They went forward more slowly.

"That's the end of it," said the sailor, and then he suddenly sprung back. A flash of lightning had shown him that he stood at the very edge a yawning void. He stepped back only to feel himself thrust violently forward again. A wild cry cut the night, and his outstretched hand clutched wildly at the darkness. For a moment it found nothing, and then gripped an arm, gripped it like a vice. An oath, a slipping of earth, a falling of stones, and then the wind came tearing over the moor again, filling the night with a roaring confusion.

A SHEPHERD found the dead man in Quarry Farm. The body was taken to Scarsley and there identified as that of a Mr. Selman. He was an old sailor, they knew, and some people had heard it said that the farm belonged to him, but had not believed it. He was a reticent old gentleman, not given to telling yarns. He had had rooms at Mrs. Clayton's for some years past, but was often away at sea. For the last two years or so he had not left Scarsley. He had been very ill somewhere abroad, and had given up the sea, he said. The Scarsley folk thought he was a little queer in the head, but quite harmless.

Three days later the bodies of two men were found at the bottom of the quarry. They had evidently fallen from the most precipitous part of the excavation, and they were locked in each other's arms.

It was natural to connect them with the murder of Mr. Selman, especially when the landlord of the Three Crowns identified them as the men who had called at his house and had started to cross Scarsley Moor in one of the worst storms he had ever known. He had told them which path to take, and had warned them of the quarry. There was nothing found upon the dead men to show who they were; Nothing of any importance was found on them at all. One was evidently a sailor, much tattooed about the arms and chest: the other looked like a gentleman. For each there was a nameless grave.

SOME WEEKS later the landlord of the Three Crowns and Bill Owers, the smith, sat facing each other. The house was closed for the night, but Owers was a friend. On the little table between them was a wooden box with a sliding lid, and on the wadding it contained lay two stones which caught and reflected the dim light.

"I don't understand it," said Owers. "I've always been sure there was something mysterious about the farm, and when you came to me that night and told mo about them two— well, I thought we had got hold of something."

"Aye, and when we saw 'em lying at th' bottom of the quarry, and climbed down in the early dawn to search 'em, and got this box, you thought the mystery was about to be solved."

"I did."

"Until you saw them lying there you thought they had walked across to Scarsley, as they said they were going to do. You thought I was a fool."

"I did."

"And when we found this box you thought—"

"I thought we was going to be rich; and they are only sham after all, curse them! Bits of cut glass, and not diamonds. What's it mean?"

The landlord shook his head.

"I tell you what it is— the real stones are most likely still in the Quarry Farm," said the smith. "We'll look for 'em, that's what we'll do. We ain't come to the end of this job yet. The mystery ain't done with by a long way."

It was, although the landlord and Owers were never to know.

Up country in Burmah, an idol, long famous for its diamond eyes, which for a time had been blind since those eyes had been stolen, now looked once more at its worshippers. And one man about the temple was held in much honour since he had for many moons followed the thief and killed him and recovered the eyes. He had followed him at last to England, to a lonely place there; had climbed in at an upper window, and had watched him take the treasure from its hiding place. Then he had killed him, and in place of the real stones had left sham ones. He had provided himself with these, had always carried them, believing they might help his quest, perhaps give him more time to escape. The gods had been good to him. Other thieves knew of the jewels; they had come for them at the very moment he had secured them; he had only recovered them just in time— a mere fraction of time. So the god looked again through its diamond eyes, and the man who was honoured was made responsible for the safety of the temple and the god.

________________

13: The London Guillotine

(a novelette)

L C Douthwaite

1878-1948

Popular Magazine, June 1930

1: All Wrong.

AS SOON as he boarded the S. S. Senegambia at New York, at which amazing city he had arrived only that day from Chicago, Dan Gravenhurst went directly to the purser. And as that official happened to know Dan as a not inconspicuous figure in His Majesty's Foreign Office Intelligence Department, he turned from the waiting queue to his friend.

"There's a cable for you, my lad," he said, and reached for one of the pigeon-holes at his back. 'Came about an hour ago."

The purpose of Dan's trip had been to investigate complaints by the United States concerning suspected British rum running in high places. The industry of bootlegging being as sensitive to interference as its minions' trigger fingers, his sojourn in the Middle West had not been without incident. At the moment what he felt he needed was a quiet life.

Thus, having read the message, he groaned, and turned again to the purser.

"Have you a Miss Conquest on your list ?'' he asked, and noticed the purser's glance lighten.

"Yes," he said quickly. "Why?"

"It happens to be my job to look after her," said Dan, not too happily, and handed him the cable. The purser read:

My daughter sailing Senegambia. Do what you can for her. CONQUEST.

The purser's face showed his envy. "You were always one of the lucky blokes," he said. "Miss Conquest's in her stateroom now. No. 102, D deck. I s'pose I'd better put her at our table."

"Do just that, Bill,' Dan said, and hurried below.

It was as he turned from the main alleyway into the short passage at the end of which was the cabin that, very abruptly, he pulled up.

For in that corridor was a man, and in the attitude of that man was something that to Dan seemed to require explanation.

Ordinarily there is nothing more significant in meeting a passenger in one of these short passages than in meeting a fellow guest in a hotel. Four cabins ran off the short passage, two on each side; and but for one or two small circumstances he would havé set the man down for the occupant of one of those.

In the first place, however, instead of facing the main alleyway, as would have been the case had he been leaving his cabin, the man had his back to it, was standing perfectly still, and was gazing steadfastly at the door of the cabin occupied by the girl it had recently become Dan's own mission to look after.

Also, and what was more to the point, as at the sound of his footsteps the man turned round to face him, Dan realized that it was by no means the first time they had met, It was that rat who had tried so hard to get into conversation with him in the Pullman from Chicago to New York.

Given an original flair for the work, there is to all those trained in espionage a certain sixth sense that teaches them to weigh upa stranger. And in the man who confronted him now Dan read that which, hardened as he was, turned him cold.

Yet it is probable that those less schooled would have found the face not unattractive.  A delicate face, clear cut and of a delicate distinction, with hair in which was that kink so envied of women and movie heroes, and a pale sword-cut of a mouth whose innate cruelty was camouflaged by a perpetually pleasant smile.

But it was not until one came to look into his eyes that, in all its darkness, the real spirit of the man was disclosed. Veiled eyes they were, and of such deadly coldness that in certain moods they bore the appearance of being, as it were, frozen into his head; eyes that lighted only on the impulse either of desire or cruelty—the eyes of a killer.

The man stepped back so that Dan might pass by, and those eyes followed his every movement until Dan knocked at the stateroom door.

"Hel-lo!" a voice came from within. And, a connoisseur on the human voice, Dan was conscious of a slightly quickened heartbeat at the sheer loveliness of the tone.

"Miss Conquest?" he said. There was a distinct pause. Apparently the masculine voice surprised her. Dan heard a footstep and the door swung open.

And the moment his eyes rested on her the heart that had quickened at her voice set off at a racing gallop.

When, afterward, he told himself that she was lovely, he half smiled at the sheer impotency of the word. To. those with understanding the most superficial glance at Dinah Conquest made them aware of those hidden depths without which beauty is so inadequate. Behind the violet of her eyes was a great serenity, in the sensitive cameo clarity of her small, straight nose fastidiousness, in the tiny upcurl of her tender mouth the saving grace of humor, and in the lovely curve from ear to chin a splendid firmness.

Her hair, a riot of well-disciplined curls, was of the color of a new penny, and her coloring the wild-rose white and pink that only hair of that particular shade may accompany. Her figure was neither tall nor small, but only perfect.

She both held herself, and looked at him, very straightly. And then, momentarily, he saw her eyes turn to the slight, lounging figure a few yards down the corridor, and those eyes of hers hardened.

Dan pulled himself and his voice together.

"I'm most frightfully sorry to bother you," he said quietly. "But as the purser's just handed me this, and''—he brought significance to bear on this next— "I don't know a soul on the ship, I thought I'd give myself the honor of presenting my credentials as soon as possible." And he placed the cable in her hand. "My name is Daniel Gravenhurst," he supplemented.

She read the wire and her eyes lighted.

"Of course I've heard daddy speak of you," she said. '"Often—while I was at home—— But how did he know you were traveling on the Senegambia?" she went on to ask.

For a moment Dan hesitated. Near by he was conscious of a pair of very alert ears. He decided to bank upon her understanding.

"We know each other— in business," he said, his voice on the same level as before.

Comprehension came and she held out her hand.

"Then I'm quite sure I shall be fortunate in my chaperon," she said frankly, and, noticing the slightly grubby state of her hand, drew down the corners of her mouth. "But if I'm not to be put in a corner of the ship and there left lamenting for the voyage, I simply must have time to powder my nose."

The stranger was waiting at the end of the passage. Dan would have passed but the man buttonholed him.

"Say, are you well acquainted with that little lady?" he asked, his voice a mixture of aggression and familiarity that, in dealing with Dan, was unwise.

Dan's eyes were cold steel as they bored into the still colder ones that confronted him.

"Why do you ask?" he said, and his tone was quiet.

"T'd like you to know," he said, and still there was that assurance of dominion in his tone, "that I've kind of fallen for that girl. Fallen for her good and plenty. And let me tell you," he added, "that any little girl that George K. Wilkinson falls for is due for a whale of a good time, because G. K. W.'s a swell spender."

In speaking of Dinah Conquest, to the innate inhumanity of his eyes had come a light that was sheerly avid. It was a light that in Dan Gravenhurst roused the fighting blood with which all decent men approach that which desecrates.

"Listen to me!" he said, and now, as well as in his eyes, there was steel in his voice. "On the train from Chicago, when you tried to force yourself upon me, I tried to make it clear that yours was an acquaintance I preferred to be without. Now, however, that I find you hanging about outside the cabin of the lady who is in my personal charge, it is necessary to make the situation still plainer. On this ship the only place where you're really safe is the place from which" — he gestured toward the doer at his back— "the occupant of that cabin is absent."

On the face of the man he read first the dawn of a great surprise, but as he continued that surprise developed to a viciousness before which a 'weaker man than himself would have shrunk appalled.

"Why? What's wrong with me?" the man said, his mouth a pale, thin slash across his face.

Deliberately Dan considered him.

"You're all wrong," he said slowly. "Your suit's wrong. Your tie's wrong. Your shirt's wrong. Your shoes are wrong. That big diamond on your finger's wrong. Your hair's wrong. Your eyes are wrong " He paused and then said, still mere slowly: "And the reason of all this is that you yourself are utterly, completely, and fundamentally wrong!"

With all his experience of the world's dark places he would not have believed that any human countenance could have displayed the evil that, with this analysis, shone from the face of the man who confronted him— an evil more wicked by reason of the rigid repression with which it was gripped and held in.

"Is that so?" he said slowly, and with the quick confirmation of a preconceived idea Dan saw his hand steal, as though unconsciously, to below his opposite arm. "Is that so?"

"A gunman!" Dan thought exultantly. "An honest-to-badness gunman!" And from that moment his interest in the man grew.

Later that day Dan interviewed Jorrocks, the purser.

"I don't know a thing about him," Jorrocks confessed amiably, "except that his passport's all right an' I don't like his face. Nor, incidentally, do I like your idea that he's carrying a gun, because with your experience probably you're right. Shall I take it from him?"

Dan shook his head.

"Not on your life!" he said. 'The last thing I want is to put him wise that I'm on to him."

2: The Battle on the Deck.

THUS for Dan the brief voyage was filled with two main preoccupations, in which he found the necessity for keeping his eye on the gunman something of a nuisance. He needed both eyes for Dinah Conquest.

The more he saw of her the more infinite was her appeal. There was about her a quickness of perception that entered instinctively into the exact spirit of his thoughts. While infused with a rare fastidiousness, her whole outlook on life was frank and free and uncompromising.

"She's one of the finest," Jorrocks pronounced enthusiastically, and from that disillusioned man the tribute was great. "Had any more trouble with that rat from Chicago?" he asked.

For a moment Dan looked dubious.

"No, but I shall have," he said shortly.

Jorrock's face hardened.

"If that bimbo's out for trouble," he said grimly, "he can have every bit of it he wants. There's a master-at-arms on this ship who was just built and designed for no other purpose— Is he keeping well away from Miss Conquest?"

Again that look of doubt from Dan.

"He keeps his distance and his eyes open," he said shortly at last. Dan had only spoken what he knew. For only when he was in the smoking room bar did the cold, reptilian eyes of the Chicagoan leave the face of Dinah Conquest—devouring it.

And while there was nothing to which Dan could take exception, the man's whole demeanor was an offense and an abomination, and Dan _ determined grimly that, given the opportunity, that constant surveillance should be paid for at profiteering price.

The opportunity came two days out from Plymouth. The evening had closed in slightly colder than usual, and Dinah went to her cabin for a wrap. Waiting, Dan was called to the purser's office for a wireless message that had just come through from London, and Jorrocks kept him talking.

Even as he reached the top of the. companionway that led to the boat deck where she would be waiting, he was aware of the two struggling figures— and that one of them was Dinah. Silently, grimly, and with a tenacity that went to his heart, she was fighting to free herself from the steel-bound arms of the man of whose face Dan caught a glimpse in the light of a binnacle lamp. Dan's patent-leather shoes were light and the two did not hear him as he leaped across the deck.

The gunman's profile was toward him, his chin outthrust. But Dan was not out for a knock-out; for the first time in his life he was out to hurt. With every half inch of leverage he could obtain, his fingers entwined in the man's collar and his leg hooked about that of his adversary, he ground his knuckles into the spine; then, with his knee in the small of his aggressor's back, slowly he forced him backward.

Absolutely at his mercy as the man was, with the accumulation of a week's untellable disgust to spur him, there was murder in the soul of Dan Gravenhurst.

Inch by excruciating inch, the red haze of hate swirling and leaping before Dan's eyes, he forced his man backward, grunting, blaspheming and _helpless in his grasp.

It was Dinah who saved him. Released from his grasp, in the grip of a great reaction, she had staggered helplessly against the rail. Now, however, that in some measure she had collected herself, in this new Dan, this flaming, elemental fighting force that had leaped to her defense, while it thrilled her as never before had she been thrilled, there was at that moment something that, if only for his own sake, it was necessary to check.

"Stop!" she cried. Please! You'll kill him!"

Reluctantly Dan dropped his knee but, with fingers entwined still in the gunman's collar, wrenched him to the upright.

Then, releasing his clasp as the man swayed and mouthed before him, with every ounce of accumulated strength and weight, with every last fraction of his loathing to inspire the blow, Dan struck. The punch— the poised, deliberate punch of the trained boxer— landed on the exact angle of the outthrust jaw.

If he had been felled expertly by a pole ax, the gunman could not have fallen more heavily or with less signs ot life.

For a moment Dinah stood, white faced and panting, confronting Dan. Then, with a little strangled cry, she was in his arms, the gunman forgotten, all forgotten but their joy in each other. So, for a long moment, they remained.

They were disturbed by a movement behind them. Dan turned— and he was just in time. With a resilience beyond any in his experience, already the gunman had recovered from the knock-out.

"Oh, stop!

His face a livid mask of rage and hate, the incredibly thia mouth just a crease across his face. Already his arm was sneaking to his left armpit. And when he saw that Dan's eyes were upon him the slinking progress of those fingers speeded to the rapidity of a snake's tongue.

But for the constraint of the gunman's position, hampering the ready withdrawal of the weapon, Dan would have been a very dead man. Providentially, for an infinitesimal moment the trigger guard of the weapon caught in some fold of his clothing. It was in that split second's delay that Dan's foot caught him fairly and squarely on the elbow. His whole forearm one hot wave of flame and temporarily paralyzed, the automatic clattered from the man's nerveless grasp to the deck.

Stooping, Dan retrieved it; stood over the writhing, prostrate, blaspheming figure.

"Now get up and off this deck!"' said Dan from between set teeth, for with the thought of the unspeakable insult offered to his lady red hate descended like a curtain before his eyes. "And if for the rest of the voyage you stir from your cabin I'll have the master-at-arms put you in irons. And I don't mean maybe, either— because what I'm going to say to the captain will be short and full of meat. And don't bother to pack your baggage, either— because you won't land at Plymouth."

Slowly, with a cold deliberation that in itself was terrible, the man gathered himself together, pulled himself to the upright. In his uncertain progress, not for a second did his eyes relax the concentrated venom of their gaze. And with the awful primeval passion on his face was a strange illumination, as of the beginning of understanding.

Not until he had made laborious progress to the companionway did he speak. There, with his hand on the rail, he slowly turned, and in the calculated deliberation of his words was a purpose relentless, implacable, and of an incredible malignancy, that was like a cold wind across the spirit of Dinah Conquest.

"Listen!" he said slowly, and the low, grating voice came from somewhere deep down in his throat. "Listen! You don't know who you're up against. That's your trouble. You don't know." He paused and yet contrived to make the hiatus more sheerly sinister even than the threat it preceded. "You said just now you don't mean 'maybe.' Well, when I say I'm going to get you— to get you, d'you understand?— I don't mean maybe, either."

Within half an hour George K. Wilkinson was locked in his cabin, with a steward as sentry at the door.

IT WAS unfortunate, however, that when the Senegambia reached Plymouth it was necessary to stand off in the Sound until the following morning's tide. For in the interval between dropping anchor and disembarkation, in which a farewell dance added to the universal confusion of packing, George K. Wilkinson's cabin door opened from within.

In the early hours a trio of revelers, returning to the cabin next door, discovered the steward, a crumpled heap in the passageway. It was not until then that the slight splash which, six hours previously, had been reported by the watch, came to be connected with the fact that an exhaustive search of the ship betrayed no sign of the man who was known on the passenger list— and in no other place— as 'George K. Wilkinson" of Chicago.

When, twelve hours later, the steward was led to the cabin, he reported that one suit of clothes, a not inconsiderable quantity of ornate jewelry, and the bulging wallet of the man, had gone also.

"What's this?" Jorrocks said shortly, and took up the note that, with the beautifully fashioned skeleton key to act as letter-weight, lay on the dressing table. It read:

Sorry I can't stay, but that whelp Gravenhurst and the girl Dinah Conquest are going to be still sorrier. So are some others as well, but them most of all.

Larry The Marine.

"And who in the world," asked the purser, turning a rather scared face on Dan, "is Larry the Marine?"

As Dan, after reading the message, placed it carefully in his pocketbook, he was wearing his best poker face—with him a sure sign of mental disturbance.

"Larry the Marine," he said, ''is the cruelest and most ruthless boss gangster that ever was permitted to escape from the city of Chicago." He was silent for a moment; then added slowly: "And if I'd known two nights ago what that note tells me, he'd have been a very dead one as well."

Startled, Jorrocks said sharply:

"How's that?"

"Because," Dan said slowly, "of the only two men living I'm afraid of, that ex-marine—whose real name, incidentally, is Antonio Boroni—is one." For a moment, as if in confirmation of his words, came a passing glance of unease. "And in his case, it's not only fear for myself," he added quietly.

3: The Committee of Ten.

IN every British city are districts that, like the powerful families who at one time occupied them, have fallen upon evil times.

Large and affluent houses that once were the seats of the mighty, now ravished and bedraggled, have become transformed to evil warrens in which swarm the scourings of the streets and the flotsam of the oceans.

There exists no better cover for those who seek concealment than these reeking habitats.

In what is known as Pansy Street, Notting Dale, are many such houses and concealments, and of these the row of ten double-fronted, four-story mansions known as Cutler's Row are at once the least conspicuous and the most deplorable.

From the police angle Cutler's Row was a collection merely of thieves' kitchens into which, once their quarry had made cover, the game was lost. They knew that the system of intercommunication between room and room, floor and floor, and house and house, was such that not only would search be useless, but humiliating also.

There was, however, one element in connection with Cutler's Row of which even the police were ignorant. They did not know that in the fifth house, cut off strangely from the two lower floors by a complete and formidable ceiling and an entire absence of stairs, was a suite that in furnishing and appointments might have been that of a Fifth Avenue millionaire.

There were no softer or thicker carpets in London than those covering the hardwood floors of No. 5; no art gallery to display more exquisite prints than those upon the richly paneled walls. Not South Kensington itself had more unique specimens of old English furniture ; no looms produced a more lovely velvet than those obscuring curtains over the unwashed windows.

Yet, strangely but palpably, superimposed upon all that perfection was an air of disquietude—an air of expectancy, of acute watchfulness, of tension. And with that apprehension went, too, something brooding and furtive, as if within those ornate walls had transpired events unfitted for witness by the outer world; something hidden and secret and sinister.

And, though they had been kept rigorously swept and garnished, until tonight, for six long years those chambers had remained unused and unoccupied.

On a night of wind and rain, however, about the Jacobean table in the center of the room that was in such strange contrast to the reek and garbage of the foul thoroughfare below, was seated an assembly as incongruous as the room itself.

A strange gathering this, and a grotesque one. Except of their leader, none had knowledge of his neighbor, his name or person or where he lived. For from neck to feet, above the ordinary street clothes of each was draped a long, gray cloak, the voluminous folds of which gave no idea of build or figure. Entirely concealing the face of each was a papier-maché mask. Each mask was the representation of some bird or beast of prey, and of a terrible fidelity to the original.

There were two present, however, one at either end of the table, whose knowledge of his fellows was exact and complete.

The one who was at the head of the table was in stature almost a dwarf. Because of the publicity that had come to him, disguise would be useless. Therefore he was the only one without cloak or mask—a circumstance that, in this abnormal assembly, seemed by contrast to render his supremacy more absolute. For despite his frailty and lack of height there was in the pale, lined face of the man, the straight, cold mouth, and the burning, frantic eyes, a strength and power that made his dominion absolute and unquestioned. And though to an extent he treated them as reasoning and résponsible beings, yet it was as servants, subject wholly to his will.

The figure at the foot of the table, his huge head incased in the mask of a tiger from which his own yellow eyes glared balefully, had about his enormous bulk a certain steam-roller relentlessness that had rendered him the ideal lieutenant. And while it was evident that to an extent he still was bound to the chariot wheels of the meager figure who faced him, his standing was of a different order to those others. His obedience was not so blind.

The tiny figure who led the meeting spoke. The voice, quiet, but rather high pitched, had in it a restraining force that was as compelling as all that other dominance he had transmitted. It was the voice of a leader.

"The first word I have to say to you, my committee of ten," he said, "is 'welcome.' I need hardly say that this is a reunion to which for nearly six years I have looked forward with feelings of the keenest anticipation— anticipation, happily, that the loyalty of my deputy and your own devotion have enabled me to realize."

A low murmur came from those about the table. In spite of the gracious words, there hung about the gathering an atmosphere of tension— or, it might have been, of fear.

When that small man spoke again his voice had changed. Where, previously, it had been charged with a certain genjality, now it vibrated with a hate so inborn, so surging and elemental that, as though to place a greater distance between themselves and an emotion of such primeval savagery, more than one of those bizarre figures shrank more deeply into his chair.

"You, who meet me here,"' he said, "know what has been my experience. You know, too, that other and immeasurably greater blow that, simultaneously, descended with such crashing force, such devastation, such annihilation, upon that other person beside whom I, who stand before you to-night, am as nothing."

Like the rustle of dead leaves was the uneasy stirring of his audience. But though his words descended upon them, chilling them, in thought and feeling they were at one with their leader. His injury was their injury, his reaction to that injury— their own.

"Also," the high-pitched, vibrant voice continued, "it is a fact not to be over-looked, that with the reassembling of this council, the activities of the police will become more manifest. When the day comes when I should report and fail to do so, it will be their purpose to discover and, when found, to destroy me— and us."

He paused to allow his words to sink into the minds of his audience. Suddenly, with a gesture almost epileptic in fury, he brought his white clenched hand in elemental savagery to the table.

"For nearly six years we have waited, my friends," he continued, and now his voice, low and clear and cold, had in it the quality of hardened steel. "In that period, except that in secret our organization has held together, we have been content to do nothing— waiting. Now, with this reunion, the hour has struck. And with the-striking of that hour, we, too, must strike. Apart from the fact that attack will be our best defense, there is the question of''— and now his voice sunk to a hoarse, tense whisper— "revenge!"

His words trailed off on a note of inquiry as if awaiting their reaction. It was the gross figure at the foot of the table who broke into the ensuing silence. His yellow eyes behind the tiger mask had never once strayed from those of his leader.

"It depends on what form the revenge is to take," he said. "If accompanied by profit, and plenty of it, then I'm all for getting our own back. But to go gunning after the police just for the 'life-for-a-life' idea isn't my notion of fun and frolic. I don't mind putting my head into a den of forest-bred lions if there is a sporting chance of getting away with their dinner and selling their hides. But what I won't do is open the door just for the pleasure of pulling their tails!"

For a moment there was silence, tense, vibrating, in which those others were aware of conflict, the clash of two iron wills. After his six years of leadership it seemed the gross man was reluctant to pass his scepter into other hands.

But to such a duel there could be but one end. While the gross man's will was commensurate with his body, that of the dwarf was tempered as his own spirit. His thin, esthetic face, frozen by his own icy dominance, his small, keen eyes, relentless, irresistible, bored into the yellowed tiger eyes of the other as a drill into soft metal. And when, like a flag struck down, the gross man's eyes fell before his own, the voice of the other rang almost unearthly with the power that was his inspiration.

"I asked for suggestions," he said, "to receive only criticism— in this assembly the one forbidden thing. For such disobedience remains but the one remedy." And it was to be observed that to not one of those about him did he even glance for acquiescence to the ultimatum.

With something like a shriek the huge bulk of the man opposite shot upright from his chair. For an instant, his enormous hands supporting him by the table edge, he swayed as does one suddenly stricken. From the aperture in the tiger mask designed to give his lips free play, came little strangled sounds, gasping and incoherent. The yellowed eyes shone redly with the complete pos-session of his terror.

"But— but—" he managed to gasp at last— and stopped, his eyes riveted on the hand of the leader that had pressed one of a row of mother-of-pearl buttons set into the table.

Before, desperately as he struggled for speech, any other sound could issue from the mask, a concealed door beside the wide fireplace swung open. There filed into the room a procession of four that, in spite of their grotesquerie, seemed curiously at one with the brooding malignancy of the room.

Of the four figures, not one of whom was less than six feet three in height, and of a depth of shoulder that not even the voluminous folds of the dead gray gowns they wore could diminish, three carried weapons, and the fourth a coil of rope. In procession they entered and like soldiers they lined up beside their leader, and with calmness awaited his orders.

4: The Killer

ONE arm outflung, the small man indicated the huge bulk of his vis-a-vis, who now, in a state of semi-collapse, was half kneeling, half lying across the end of the table. For if his rebellion had been an attempt to discover how far down the past black years that terrible figure's leadership had been maintained, of a surety he had received his answer.

Wildly, imploringly, his stricken eyes turned from one to the other of those eight about the table. But, save by a hasty withdrawal from his glance, by neither sign nor token did one of them respond.

Remained then for him but one final chance— and that a slight one—to throw himself abjectly upon the mercy of the victor. If that plea failed In the past he had seen too many launched upon their last awful voyage from that room to nurse illusions concerning the result of his own defeat.

"I— I— ask your pardon," he said from between dry, rigid lips. "I— I— should have known. But I meant no harm, no rebellion—"

The thin lips of the other curved to a bitter, cynical smile; the fine eyebrows contracted. Nor, when the reply came, was it inspired by any quality of mercy.

Then those bitter lips drew down in a sneer more bitter still, that of an easy triumph. He made a gesture of dismissal to the gray-gowned figures drawn up at his side.

Except that his voice was more contemptuous, he spoke as a headmaster speaks to an urchin of the junior school.

"Very well," he said. "It is infrequent for me to overlook insubordination, but this is our first meeting for so long that perhaps my methods have had time to become forgotten. It would be as well to remember that, in no circumstances, do I give a second chance. Resume your seat, please."

Like some obese dog, cowed and discredited, the man in the tiger mask obeyed. But as he did so the look in his eyes was fitting to that mask.

There was complete detachment in the leader's manner as, with a cold glance at his victim, he continued:

"But for this insubordination I should already have explained, as I propose now to explain, how it is not my intention that— 'reprisals,' perhaps, is a less melodramatic word than the one generally employed— shall be undertaken by any one of this organization. All who are qualified by the essentials of nerve, skill and, above all, an infinite capacity for silence, are too well known to the personnel of Scotland Yard to be detailed for the work." He paused, and when he spoke again there was an inflection in his voice that was sheerly deadly.

"I have, then, found it necessary to enlist a recruit," he announced, and, as he pressed the second of the row of buttons, his lips were ironical. "He is, I am persuaded, most adequately qualified for the task," he added significantly.

A door opened at the side of the room opposite that through which had filed the four who had been so grimly ready to execute his will upon the now completely subservient tiger. Another of those gray-cowled figures appeared, this time ushering before him a slim, lithe and untellably sinister figure— one whose face was delicately cut and, with the hair surmounting it wavy and sleekly brushed, not without a certain cheap distinction ; a man cold and watchful, with veiled, unlighted eyes, as if frozen into his head.

The face of a killer.

Wary as a lynx— and as suspicious— he glided rather than walked across the floor until he faced that small, terrible figure at the table head.

As was his custom before directly addressing one whom he had chosen to come beneath his sway, the man they knew as "The Leader" directed upon the newcomer the full force of his gaze, boring into him, searching the hidden depths of the soul of the man, assimilating him, establishing his own malign supremacy.

And though, after the first inconsiderable period, as if recognizing— and meeting—challenge, the veiled eyes of the newcomer lighted with the raw fires of crude antagonism, it was only a moment before these were quenched by the ice of the other's unmoving and immovable stare. And with their subjection the eyes dropped.

A sigh— suppressed but perceptible, as if conscious that his victory had not been so cheaply won as was his custom— came from the thin lips of The Leader.

"Good!" he said. "I have had you brought here so that I may present you personally to the members of this council. Listen carefully! To-morrow you will have your instructions together with the— er— names, photographs, and personal habits of your— clients."

The other's eyes were raised now, veiled but stormy.

"That'll be all right for me," he said shortly.

"Very well, then." The Leader's voice was businesslike and practical. "From time to time information will come into our hands which it may be necessary to pass on." He reached for a small specimen glass on the table in front of him; in it was a cream rose-bud backed by two gardenias. "Look carefully at this," he instructed; and his veiled eyes resting upon the blossom, the gunman nodded.

"Sure," he said curtly.

Now The Leader's tone was slow and measured.

"If you are accosted in the street by a man—or woman—wearing a boutonniére similar to this, you will listen carefully to, and carry out, their instructions," he said. 'You understand ?"

Because The Leader's thin voice was so peremptory and the gunman more accustomed to give orders than receive them, for a moment the battle of wills, none the less deadly for its silence, was rejoined. But this time The Leader's victory came more quickly and more decisively.

"I get you, boss," the stranger said, but on his face were the very dregs of evil.

"Then get on with it," the terrible little man said almost contemptuously; and, accompanied by his guide, the gunman glided through the door.

5: The Man Without Ear Lobes

ARRIVING from the boat train at Waterloo, Dan found that Sir Redvers Conquest had stolen an hour from his recently undertaken duties as chief commissioner of Scotland Yard to meet and greet his idolized only child. He shook the younger man's hand warmly. "Thank you for looking after my daughter," he said, his eyes feasting on her radiance. "After you've reported at the F. O. to-morrow you'd better come and dine with us in Grosvenor Street."

"Nothing," Dan said with enthusiasm, "I'd like better." He hesitated; then, because of the unpleasantness of the knowledge that Larry the Marine was at large in the same country that held Dinah, "As a matter of fact, there's something I'd like to say to you right now, sir, if you could spare me half an hour," he added.

The commissioner gave him a keen, quick glance. "We'll talk it over in my office," he said promptly ; and Dan turned his baggage over to his own admirable valet, Keech, a gnarled and battered man with a grizzled head, barrel chest, battleshipbow jaw, and uncommonly steady, gray eyes.

In the large and efficient office at Scotland Yard Dan told his story, displaying the note the gunman had left in his cabin. And at the suggestion of harm to Dinah the old soldier's healthy face turned a shade less ruddy.

"You regard this seriously?" he demanded, tapping the note with a forefinger that had grown suddenly tremulous.

Dan's face was grave.

"You've heard of Lecenaire, sir?" he said, and the general's face turned definitely paler. For Lecenaire, one of the coolest and most deliberate mass murderers in history, was guillotined in Paris in 1836.

"The man who said, 'I kill a man as I drink a glass of wine'?" he said fearfully.

"Substitute 'bootleg whisky' for 'wine,' and you have Larry the Marine," Dan said quietly. "And Miss Conquest hit him on his most vulnerable point— and the most dangerous point of all— his vanity."

The elder's man's mouth displayed the spirit that in France had earned his reputation as the dourest fighter of forlorn hopes in the British army.

"Then he's got to be brought in," he said briskly, his trepidation gone under the stress of action. "Give me his exact description, and in the meanwhile I'll cable Chicago for his photograph."

Dan drew a rough sketch of their quarry.

"Not that it'll be a whole lot of use, sir,' he said as he handed it over. "From what I've heard in America, that chap can disguise himself so that his own mother would turn him away from her doorstep."

"He'll need all his talent," the commissioner said grimly.

He used the house telephone, and presently Malpas, the chief constable, entered.

"Send out the 'all stations' call," the commissioner instructed when he had outlined the facts, "and circulate the description. Detail a search squad. We'll have that man if we have to put England through a fine-tooth comb."

DAN'S FLAT was in Hill Street, and on his way to the Foreign Office the following morning, he directed his chauffeur to drive round by Park Lane.

Outside the new and ornate Royal Plaza Hotel, the car was delayed a moment by the traffic. It was just as his chauffeur had succeeded in extricating them from the press that Dan noticed a man who forced his way through the doors at the top of the steps to the visitors' entrance. Awaiting him there, laden with an assortment of new-looking trunks and suit cases, was a big, expensive car.

For a moment Dan regarded the resplendent, middle-aged figure idly enough. Then, astonishingly, with trembling eagerness he beat frenziedly upon the window of his own car. Some small peculiarity in the ornate man's gait, a certain gliding motion that did not fit in with the pompous portly figure, had drawn his eyes insistently to the man's ears— the one human feature impossible to disguise. And he saw at once that they were entirely without lobes— a badge of inherent criminality that had been worn by Larry the Marine.

Parker, Dan's chauffeur, jammed on the brakes. The car skidded; stopped. Parker put an alert ear to the speaking tube.

Unfortunately, in the short, semicircular drive of the Royal Plaza, the gunman's car faced the entrance which Dan's had passed, and Dan did not know it his quarry would continue straight on—in which case to follow it would be necessary for Parker to turn—or, having reached Park Lane, it would swing round in the other direction, and so pass him.

The only thing was to wait. Already the other car was moving, and Parker was poised for instant action.

"Turn!" Dan shouted as, moving from the drive into the street, the big car continued its progress in the direction of Piccadilly.

As this point the traffic was such as to render the maneuver a matter both of dexterity and time. So, instead of direct obedience, Parker carried on down the street until he reached the further drive entrance to the plaza, into which he turned and followed the drive until he emerged at the other gate. But though by this means he must have saved a good three or four minutes, by this time the other car was indistinguishable in the mass of traffic at Hyde Park corner.

"It's no use, Parker," Dan said resignedly through the tube. "Pull up here anyway. I'm making a call at the hotel."

His card gained him an immediate interview with the manager, who summoned the reception clerk.

"The gentleman registered last night, sir," that suave official told Dan. "A Mr. Walter G. Prebble from Philadelphia. Gave up his room only a few minutes ago. Left no address where letters could be forwarded. I believe the car was from the Mayfair Hire Company."

"I'll see his room," Dan said; and the manager went with him.

However, although comprehensive, the search was useless— not a scrap of paper, not a finger print. However effective his disguise, Larry the Marine was not the one to provide the scent for his own killing. There was a telephone in the room and Dan used it.

Another blank. "We prefer to give no information over the telephone," the Mayfair Hire people told him.

"i'll come down and see you," Dan said. He drove there—only again to draw blank.

"Until the driver reports I have no information," the manager told him. "The car was engaged 'on time,' instructions to be given to the driver as to the route taken."

Inwardly cursing the man for wasting valuable time, Dan was on the point of leaving, when the driver himself burst in—cursing even more heatedly but less silently than Dan himself.

"Bilked, sir!" he said disgustedly. "An old 'and at the game like me— an' bilked like a. blinkin' novice!"

The first call had been to Victoria. There, not only had the driver helped the porter to unload the luggage, but he actually had paid the Left Luggage Office fee.

His fare instructed him, then, to drive to a firm of publishers in Warwick Lane, Ludgate Hill. Arrived there he opened the door for his fare to descend— and the car was empty. Immediately he dashed back to Victoria, but the luggage had been claimed within a few minutes of its deposit.

"Must've slipped out in the traffic jam at the corner of the station yard and Buck'n'am Palace Road," he pronounced gloomily, "an' then just streaked back for 'is gear."

On his way to the Foreign Office Dan called at Scotland Yard. The commissioner's face lighted at the news.

"That's something to go on, anyway," he said. "The obvious thing now is to track the taxi that took the luggage for the second time. It'll be stuff he bought to replace what he left on the ship."

He spoke into the telephone and a few minutes later there entered a man to whom Dan took an immediate liking. A lank man this, with rough-hewn features and lazy eyes.

"Superinterdent Parrot," the commissioner introduced him. "Under the chief constable, in full charge of the case."

"I'll slip down to Victoria myself," the superintendent promised when he had assimilated the particulars. "If you like to call in a little later, Mr. Gravenhurst, I'll tell you what's happened."

So, following his interview with Sir Julius Featherstonhaugh, his immediate chief at the Foreign Office, Dan looked into Parrot's office.

"That gangster's as artful as a whole barrowload of correspondence-school monkeys," the lank man said dispassionately. "He didn't use a taxi; there was a private car waitin' for him." He paused, and then added reflectively: "With his talent for make-up that bird's goin' to take a bit of trackin'," and paused again. "The time to get him'll be when he starts shootin' at you!"

Dan laughed.

"Thanks very much," he said, and left.

At a telephone booth he called Dinah.

"I s'pose you realize I'm dining with you to-night," he said after they'd chatted a little while.

"I'd try to bear up if you came to tea as well," she told him. "Particularly as I shall be quite alone."

"That won't make me mad!" Dan exclaimed exultantly.

6: A Close Shave

BUT WHEN, at half past four, he was shown into Dinah's sitting room, it was to discover that she had been too optimistic. The visitor, portly and middle aged, with tinted glasses and a shock of silver hair, had one leg stretched out stiffly in front of him, and by his side a stout ebony cane. The man glanced up as Dan came in, and it seemed to Dan that he stiffened instantaneously— and that there had come to that portly figure a sudden watchfulness.

Dinah introduced him as Mr. Silsoe.

"With a letter of introduction from friends of the friend I've been staying with in Washington," she explained.

"Forgive my not rising, Mr. Gravenhurst," Silsoe said courteously, indicating his rigid leg. "A legacy of the war," he added.

But with a shock that set his heart pounding, Dan was not looking at the visitor's leg, but at a feature that from all else in that beautiful room—the cozy appointments, the glowing fire, even from the vivid beauty of Dinah herself — leaped starkly prominent as a house on a bare hill. Surely there could not be two men with just those lobeless, reddened ears!

Not by glance or movement did he betray his suspicions. If these were correct, the situation needed every last ounce of ingenuity to surmount. He had to deal with one without heart or conscience, as vicious as a snapping dog, one to whom human life was but an inconsidered pawn in the game of his own desires.

And that the man was infatuated to the last degree of desperation with Dinah Conquest became each moment more manifest. It was this that finally brought home to Dan the truth of his suspicions. For the soft Virginia drawl the stranger assumed could not drown the crudity of his voice. It was not able to suppress the hard gangster accent for which—with the knowledge that a strange dialect is easier to assume than to retain—Dan had been waiting. And that the man should have walked thus deliberately into the lion's den was proof both of his contempt of his adversaries and the devouring strength of his infatuation for Dinah.

It was, indeed, Dan's steadily mounting anger at this attitude that at last brought a crisis. The sight and sound of this little gangster of the sewers paying open court to his, Dan's, own lady, seeking, as it were, to bring her to his own level, kindled in Dan a white- hot rage which not all his training could conceal.

His replies to the remarks that from time to time the other directed toward himself became shorter and more curt. And then with a shock he realized that the visitor had become definitely suspi cious, more alert even than at first. Each was aware of the extremity of tension, watching the other lynx eyed, on a hair trigger of anticipation for the next move.

It was then that Dan determined that, until this affair should be finally settled, neither by night nor day would he be without his gun. In the meanwhile, of course, while he himself was unarmed, unquestionably his adversary would be "heeled." He didn't worry particularly about himself—after all, running into danger was only part of his job. But he wasn't going to have bullets flying about the room with Dinah there.

Surreptitiously he glanced at her. And, as for that fleeting moment their eyes met, his heart went out in tribute to her. In a situation that called for a coolness and resource that to the last degree must have taxed not only her courage, but her capacity for dissimulation, she was carrying herself with true gallantry.

She knew! Her eyes told him so. And not only did she know, but was content to wait for his first move—indefinitely if need be!

With this knowledge came an idea. He knew he could bank on her instantaneous understanding.

He rose leisurely to his feet.

"i wonder, Miss Conquest," he said quietly, "if you'd allow me to use your desk for a moment? Like a fool I've forgotten a letter that simply must catch to-night's post."

Dinah smiled.

"Of course," she said. "And as soon as it's written I'll give it to Roberts to post straight away."

Dan went over to the little Sheraton writing desk that, fronted by a magnificent Bokhara rug, stood bythe window.

Taking up pen and paper, he thought for a moment, and then wrote:

Dear Roberts: Telephone immediately to Scotland Yard. Mention my name and ask for Superintendent Parrot. If he is not there, ask for his deputy. Tell him Larry the Marine is here with Miss Conquest and myself, and that we require immediate—

As if struck by paralysis his pen remained poised above the paper. From behind had come a little strangled gasp, and against his neck was pressed something cold and hard and circular.

"Guess I'll give that handwritin' the once-over," a hard voice remarked in his ear. "Sit still, mister— as still as in two or three minutes you'll stay for keeps."

A hand came over his shoulder and gathered up the letter.

There was a silence.

The gunman's voice said:

"A pretty tricky move, that, if you'd got away with it. The trouble is, though, that that's the kind of stunt that don't go with me, see? And now, mister, you'll just shoot those thands straight above your coco, an' turn around so I can see your face."

Realizing that never had he been nearer death than at that moment, Dan had no option but to obey. Nor did he discover anything reassuring in the fact that to the automatic held so firmly in the gunman's over-manicured hand, was fixed a silencer.

Though not for an instant did Dan take his eyes from the tinted glasses of the gunman, he was conscious that Dinah, obviously overwhelmed by this devastating rush of events and the prolonged strain of her ordeal, had collapsed inertly in her chair. It was too much to expect that she should not have given under such a strain.

Slowly, keeping the pistol muzzle pointing undeviatingly at Dan's heart, yet with an alert eye to insure immunity of attack even from Dinah, the gunman moved step by step sidewise toward the door, to reach a point where the girl was in the direct line of fire.

"Move around to the end of that there bureau, mister,'"' he instructed harshly. As Dan obeyed, the gunman, to clear the intervening space, thrust aside Dinah's chair. With a strangled sob of sheer terror, she fell to the floor, face forward.

"You " Dan yelled, the red haze of hate swirling before his eyes. He gathered himself for the spring.

Plup! The report was no louder than the easy discharge of a cork from a bottle. Dan felt the wind of the bullet lift the hair from above his ears before it buried itself in the wall at his back.

"That," the gunman said from between set teeth, "is just a demonstration — not a miss on the target. Because at twenty yards I can split a playin' card in two pieces—a playin' card held sidewise. A demonstration," he added, "just to teach you to stay put. Because I don't aim to bump you off until you an' me've had a heart-to-heart talk that'll last just about two or three minutes. After that—"

His gesture with the automatic was significant.

The gunman backed to the door, felt for the key, found it, and turned it in the lock.

"i don't aim to be interrupted," he remarked, and cast a lightning glance at Dinah, who was still moaning and prostrate on the rug. He missed the look that passed between her and his own prospective victim.

"it's a pity about you, miss," he said, his harsh tone only slightly softened. "I'll tell you just how sorry I am to upset you—later," he added grimly.

Dinah, shoulders heaving, her whole slim body convulsed, wailed pitifully:

"Oh, I shall die! I shall die!"

With a chuckle the gunman tapped the muzzle of his pistol.

"It's not you who should worry about dyin'," he said, too intent upon his victim to observe how tightly Dinah's hands were closed about the end of the rug.

"Now, mister—" he began— and with a yell of savagery, sprawled headlong to the floor. For the instant both his feet were on the mat, with a jerk that drained her last ounce of strength, Dinah had pulled it from under him.

7: Escape

IT was, indeed, the maximum of unexpectedness with which the movement was executed that to an extent defeated its purpose. Following that warning glance from Dinah, with a throb of admiration and gratitude, Dan had been expecting something but had not anticipated precisely what. Thus, when it came, the demonstration was as unexpected to himself as to his aggressor— who in falling lurched with such force against Dan that he, too, lost his balance, and in falling struck his head with sickening force against the side of the bureau.

The gunman, too, came down heavily. In the instant before she sprang to her feet Dinah was conscious of the impact of his head on the floor, conscious, too, that the automatic had slid several feet across the polished oaken boards.

With one bound she retrieved it. With a movement equally rapid she was at the door and had opened it.

"Help!" she cried desperately. '"Roberts! Charles! Where are you? Come quickly !"

With relief unutterable she heard the deep and concerned voice of the butler from the hall, the quick, heavy tread of feet.

Pistol in hand, she turned at the sound of other and less friendly feet. His face a mask of livid animal rage, the gunman had scrambled up. With the cautious dancing step of a polished boxer advancing upon a harder-hitting but less-expert opponent, he was coming toward her. He wanted that pistol and intended having it.

"Stand back!" she called, and for a moment he hesitated. Then, with a distorted grin, he came on again.

"You don't dare use it, anyway," he jeered, and so forced her hand.

Blindly, instinctively, she, who never before had used a pistol, pressed the trigger. Loosely and inexpertly as it was held, she felt the weapon leap in her clasp. Like all shots fired by novices the bullet went high— but sufficiently close to the gunman's head to bring him to a sharp and sudden halt.

Nevertheless, and in spite of the rush of feet in the corridor outside, he pulled himself together. But, anticipating his intention, before he could launch himself Dinah fired again— and this time held the pistol more firmly.

As if from the slash of a sword blade she saw the blood rush to the surface of the bullet streak across the narrow white face— saw him stagger back,

The feet outside momentarily came to a sudden halt. Then Roberts, his wide, white face dripping with sweat, rushed in. He blenched still further at the sight which met his eyes.

"Wot is it, miss?" he gulped. Then, portly but dead game, he made an advance upon the gunman— a movement the razor-brained crook turned to his own advantage.

Keeping that substantial body between himself and the line of fire, he scurried desperately for the window; with a crash hurled himself through glass and lightly built frame. The drop to the garden below was but a matter of feet and he landed unhurt.

Dodging round the globular Roberts, who was staring wide mouthed at the gunman's quick gathering of himself together, Dinah dashed for the window. Running down one side of a narrow path that led to the wall at the end of the garden, was a line of shrubs. Of this cover, crouching as he advanced, the gunman was taking every advantage. The only real chance Dinah had of a shot was when he swarmed up the wall. But to shoot when directly threatened is one thing; to kill a retreating man, another. And in the heart of crowded London, surrounded by other houses, one does not loose pistol shots promiscuusly.

She turned back then to administer first aid to Dan, who was already on the verge of consciousness. Robert waddled off for brandy, and a few moments later the recently unconscious man was seated in a chair by the fire.

"That's about as near a squeak as I care for," he said. "Incidentally, I suppose you realize you saved my life? I want to say, 'Thank you,' thankfully for that." He looked at her steadily, and saw the color flood into her face. "It belongs to you more than ever now," he added, and his arms went about her.

"I think I shall be able to cope with it," she said from somewhere in the region of his upper waistcoat button.

LATER Dan telephoned Scotland Yard.

"I'll come and visit the scene of the crime," Parrot said, and arrived within the hour.

"That feller's got to go through the hoop," he said when he had heard the story. "I don't know a thing about tariff reform for industry, but I'm all for protection against foreign gunmen— it'd disorganize the whole trade of crime. Takin' 'em by and large, the last thing any decent British crock has any use for is a gun. All he wants is a soft-hearted fence an' a soft crib, a quiet life an' plenty of beer. He doesn't even hate the police. We're more his friends than his enemies; crime's just a sort of game with us. If he wins he goes to the dog racin', an' if he loses he goes 'over the Alps'! More'n once I've known an officer get up a subscription to keep goin' the home of the very man he's got 'sent down.' That's why, except on special occasions—'an' even then nine times out of ten it's against some foreign outfit or other— the police don't carry guns, either. There's none bad enough to shoot; an' if the Yard knows it there's not going to be, either." He turned directly to Dan. 'Nevertheless, Mr. Gravenhurst, until we've got that yegg-man safely behind the bars, I'd watch my step if I were you," he said seriously. ''Seems like he's got some sort of grudge against you."

"Not half the grudge I've got against him," Dan returned grimly.

8: Two Murders.

"THERE was a report Parrot had to make, and it was eleven o'clock before he was ready to leave his office. It was as he was putting on his coat to do so that the telephone rang.

"In Charnwood Street, eh?" he said after listening for a moment. "I'll come right away. "And a fast car carried himself, Williamson of Finger Prints, and Doctor Bennet the divisional surgeon, to the scene of the crime.

A constable was keeping the crowd back from the entrance of a miid-Victorian house.

Another officer was guarding the door that stood at the top of a flight of stairs. His face, which looked as if usually of fresh color, was rather pale.

"In here, sir," he said, and stood aside for them to pass into the flat. "Man who's lodged with her for two or three years, so Mrs. Pheelan, the landlady, tells me. She's busy with hysterics."

The upper part of the body sprawled over the table, his knees on the gaudy carpet, was a man, a thin, lined man, lantern jawed, with horribly staring, wide-open eyes. In the narrow forehead was a jagged hole from which blood flowed freely on the book outspread before him.

It did not need the divisional surgeon to tell Parrot that the man was dead.

"Shot!" that official pronounced, and indicated a smaller and cleaner wound at the back of the head.

Parrot nodded.

"Sure," he said, and pointed to the window that overlooked a small, untidy yard at the end of which was a high brick wall. In the lower pane the window glass was starred by a bullet hole; the upper one smashed by something small but heavy.

"See how the bullet's traveled upward?" Parrot said. "His attention must have been attracted by somethin' outside, on the top of the wall probably, an' he turned his head to see what it was. He knew soon enough, poor feller!"

"So it's no good looking for finger prints," said Williamson.

But Parrot did not reply. He wasn't even listening. Instead he was staring fixedly into the rigid features of the murdered man.

"Do you know who that is?" he said in a strained voice. "D'ye recognize him?"

The surgeon and the finger-print man, neither of whose experience had been so extensive as his own, shook their heads.

"Not the ghost of an idea," the former said decidedly.

Parrot looked at him.

"Abel Dunks," he said quietly; and the surgeon started.

The finger-print man, however, shook his head.

"That's a new one on me," he said. "Who is— or rather, who was— he, anyway?"

Parrot mentioned a necessary, though in some quarters, unpopular profession. Then, stooping, he picked something from the carpet at the dead man's sprawling feet. It was an iron nut, and, attached to it by a thin, black ribbon, was a tiny pasteboard. He examined the card carefully; then, to the surgeon's surprise, scrutinized still more closely the nut and bolt to which it was attached. Behind the laziness of his eyes as, carefully, he handed the exhibit to the surgeon, was something that was not indolent at all.

This is No, 1.

As they sowed, so shall they reap.

He read it slowly, and pointed a not quite steady finger to the tiny sketch in blood-red ink, that stood in place of a signature.

"What's the big idea?" he asked. "Revenge?"

He handed the card back to Parrot, who balanced it reflectively in his large and competent hand.

"I shouldn't wonder a bit," he said at last. After a pause he added: "Particularly in view of this nut and bolt."

The surgeon's brows contracted perplexedly.

"What's there funny about that?" he asked.

"Only," Parrot said slowly, "before the days of a permanent shed, when it was customary for a new scaffold to be erected for each execution, these are what they used to secure the planks of the drop!"

Between them they carried out the usual investigations, but beyond that one sinister note there was nothing. Driving back to Scotland Yard Parrot's usually placid face was furrowed and anxious.

"Why 'No. 1'?" he repeated more than once. 'Why 'No. 1'? What's it mean, anyway?"

"What does it suggest?" Williamson demanded; and Parrot's blunt jaw became momentarily blunter.

"That there's likely to be a 'No. 2,' " he said curtly.

In the corridor leading to his office he almost collided with his assistant, Detective Sergeant Oates, and Oates was showing as much agitation as he ever permitted himself.

"What's the big trouble with you?" Parrot inquired disagreeably.

The sergeant stared at him.

"Haven't you heard, sir?" he gasped; and Parrot's scowl was ferocious.

"Haven't I heard what?" he snapped.

"That a man's been found shot dead on Wimbledon Common," Oates said quietly— so quietly that, in conjunction with his unusual manner, Parrot knew there was something more behind it.

"Who was it?" he asked.

"John Manning," said Oates.

For a long moment, his mind awhirl at this sudden confirmation of his fears, Parrot did not speak. Then, "Anything found on the body?" he asked. "Any message ?"

Oates looked at him in astonishment.

"Yes, sir. A card," he said. " 'No. 2.' And then a text."

Parrot nodded.

" "As they sowed, so shall they reap,' " he quoted confidently. And then, "I wonder who'll be 'No. 3'?" he said slowly.

For John Manning had been the public hangman, with Abel Dunks as his assistant.

9: Number 3

IN the sudden and violent preoccuption engendered by the murder of the two hangmen, Parrot's mind swung abruptly from the search for Larry the Marine and his attack on Dan Gravenhurst.

After all, the whole metropolitan area was being subjected to a thorough comb-out for the gunman, and sooner or later he was bound to be pulled in. In the meanwhile the deliberate removal of two government officials, each accompanied by an implied threat of other murders to come, was a challenge that, if it were not met and quickly defeated, would undermine the. public confidence in authority after a fashion he did not care to contemplate.

For the first few days, however, that gaunt and deceptively casual man was forced to the confession that he' was badly up against it. In the case of neither murder was there the shadow of a clew.

The stolid and unemotional Dunks, a bachelor without ties or friends, had been shot down as he sat reading at the parlor table. Manning, a middle-aged, much married and notoriously respectable Lancastrian, on his way from Preston to fulfill an "engagement" at Pentonville for the following morning, had left his hotel in the Euston Road for a short walk before retiring, and from that moment until the discovery of his body on Wimbledon Common six or seven hours later, had been seen by none.

When he left Charnwood Street, however, Parrot took away with him the bullet that had killed Dunks. When, later, he came to compare this with the bullet that had killed the assistant executioner's superior, the calibers were the same. As confirmatory proof, the new photographic tests, undeniably as accurate as those for finger prints, proved conclusively that both missiles had been fired from the same weapon.

This, of course, was only what he had expected. What, however, did astonish him— and that at one and the same time both narrowed and enlarged his field of inquiry— was an experience of his own that occurred some twenty-four hours later.

It was about half past six in the evening when, alone, he left his office. And the moment he passed into Whitehall in the direction of Trafalgar Square, that alert and friendly guardian of his subconscious, of which in his career he had always been so intimately aware, and upon which long experience had taught him implicitly to rely, sounded a note of warning. As surely as though each passer-by had shouted it in his face, he knew that he was in danger—deadly, urgent and imminent.

The evening had closed in with rather more than a suggestion of fog, through which the street lamps shone with an opalesque glitter that, not wholly penetrating the fast-thickening mist, left the roadway but dimly defined.

With every step he took the inner warning sounded more insistent, more urgent. It was with certainty Parrot knew within the next few minutes would come the fulfillment of the threat, and that the stake, against which would be pitted his own alertness, was his very life.

As though to examine the cloth, Parrot stopped at the window of a tailor's shop. And as with apparent indifference he glanced back in the direction he had come, he saw no one who looked at all suspicious in the narrow ribbon of light thrown by the shop fronts.

He glanced toward Trafalgar Square; there was nothing untoward there either.

The traffic in the roadway was immediately but uncertainly reflected in the windowpane. A few yards farther down the street, however, a lamp threw onto the roadway a circle of light through which, on their way to Parliament Street and Westminster, every vehicle was forced to pass.

It was just as, reassured in spite of himself, he was turning from the window that he saw, outlined distinctly in that luminous pool, a taxicab, being driven far too quickly for safety. He caught only one glimpse of the driver's narrow, questing face— observed how he drove only with his right hand, and the dull glint of metal in the one that hung, with a kind of poised looseness, at his side.

Instantaneously, with an agility that would have done credit to a boxer in training, he quickly side-stepped into the veil of fog. Following the almost unnoticeable discharge of the gun, there came the crash of glass behind him, and within a couple of inches of his ear he heard the whine of the bullet.

When he straightened himself the taxi had passed— swelled by the fog-bound area between the lamp standards Nevertheless he rushed to the curb, and a moment later the same vehicle streaked through the next circle of light. From the curbstone he quested for an empty cab, but by the time one appeared his chance had gone.

The tailor, hawk faced and gesticulating, met him at the door of the shop. His terror for his own skin was more than half submerged in passionate resentment for a smashed window screen of ground glass, a counter top badly scored and a roll of expensive tweed punctured to within an inch of its farther side.

"Stop that juggling act with your hands," Parrot said shortly, "and get back into the shop."

As the man obeyed, Parrot followed.

10: A New Victim?

TEN minutes later he was back in his own office, his finger on one of the ivory bell pushes of his desk. When the man came, Parrot pointed to a framed motto over his fireplace.

"What does that say?" he demanded after giving his instructions.

"Do It Now!'" the official read aloud. Parrot nodded.

"If not sooner," he said shortly, and within half an hour was gazing avidly at the many-times-enlarged photographs of three bullets that an operator projected onto the screen.

"Well, well, well!" he said slowly, for the bullet he had extracted from the bale of cloth in the tailor's shop was identical in rifling marks with the two others that respectively had drilled the lives from John Manning and his assistant.

Parrot stalked gauntly back to his own office. There for a good half hour he sat motionless, his lazy eyes concentrated undeviatingly upon nothing, his craggy brows contracted.

At last, rousing himself, he telephoned to Records, of which department an official brought him several files. These he read carefully and methodically line by line, throwing his mind keenly back to the past as he did so, analyzing each incident recorded in those grim chronicles in relation with the actual events as he recalled them.

Lastly, in his scrawling and laborious handwriting, he filled several sheets with notes, then read them carefully through.

Thus armed, he took his information across to the office of the chief commissioner. Sir Redvers Conquest, however, had gone, so it was not until the next morning that the superintendent was able to make his report. He found then that if he had possessed the least doubt as to the seriousness of the view the great man would take, his first question effectually dissipated it.

"How many murderers have you been directly instrumental in hanging, superintendent?"' the commissioner asked quietly, and Parrot realized the thought from which the question was inspired. Actually it was the same idea that had been at the back of his own keenly analytical mind,

"Five, sir," he said. " 'Knock-out' Battersby, the alleged boxer, who killed his wife in Sydney Street, Whitechapel. 'Long John' Friedman, who shot Police Constable Morton in the Harlow Manor burglary at Greys, Essex. He'd neither wife nor relatives, and worked alone. William Tern, who killed a girl in a brick field near Kilburn. He was the eldest son of a large family, and his parents and brothers and sisters were glad to be rid of him. 'Buck' Benton, who poisoned his invalid sister for her insurance money. She was his only relative and he'd no friends."

Parrot paused for a moment, and then added slowly:

"And Theodore Lippmann, the Anglo-Swiss, who was hanged at Pentonville about six years ago for shooting Sergeant Angus and Constable Perrin in the attempt on the safe at the head office of the Metropolitan and Urban Bank in Lombard Street."

The commissioner's brows contracted.

"Friends or relatives?" he asked shortly.

Parrot said, still more slowly:

"One twin brother, sir, Isaac—who was arrested three days after we pulled in Theodore."

"Isaac wasn't hanged, was he?" the commissioner asked, and Parrot shook his head.

"Although we were certain he was present at the time of the murder," he said, "we couldn't absolutely prove it. The jury was not entirely convinced as to the identification, and gave him the benefit of the doubt. We couldn't even convict him as an accessory after the act."

"Carry on," said the commissioner quietly. Parrot's eyes were fixed abstractedly; idly he was watching, through the window that overlooked the embankment, a barge drop anchor in the lee of a warehouse on the Surrey shore. He hesitated a moment, then turned and looked his superior very directly in the face.

"As Isaac was hustled out of the dock while sentence of death was pronounced upon his twin, sir," he said, "I saw his face. He's half Hebrew and, in spite of his record, has all that race's sense of family loyalty. And since childhood he and Theodore had never once been separated."

Parrot paused again, and the commissioner nodded.

"Carry on," he repeated.

"As Isaac, half crazy with rage and grief, was hanging about the corridor, he was rearrested—for 'receiving.' A pretty callous business, that, on the face of it, but there was good reason for it. He and his brother, for close on twenty years, had been the brains and inspiration of the most dangerous gang of crooks in Europe, and in all that time not only had we been unable to pin anything onto them, but we'd no idea of their headquarters.

"A fortnight after Theodore kept his early-morning appointment with Manning and Dunks, Isaac was sent 'to the country' for seven years. And again, both as he was sentenced and when he was led down below, I saw his face. It was then I wanted to burn joss sticks to whoever decided to rearrest him— because with what happened to his brother he was about as safe to have loose around London as a hungry cobra. As it was, with a bit of luck Isaac mightn't live to see the prison gates swing open, or, in the meanwhile, he might be affected with a change of heart." The corners of Parrot's mouth drew grimly downward. "What a hope!" he concluded.

"And now?" the commissioner questioned.

"He earned full remission marks and was released on license on Tuesday the eighteenth of last month," Parrot said, and his voice was filled with meaning.

To emphasize the significance of such an announcement, his eyes, which should have been fixed upon his chief, were once more gazing at the barge that, throughout the interview, he had been subconsciously watching.

"Why, then—" the commissioner began, and found himself sprawling on the floor, thrust backward as, simultaneously with his own quick dive under cover of the desk, Parrot wrenched his chair from beneath him.

11: A Private Vendetta

SOMETHING like an angry hornet buzzed past the spot where a split second previously had been the commissioner's head and with a vicious phut! buried itself in the plaster of the wall.

Parrot rose cautiously to his hands and knees to see the lithe figure that scrambled from the barge to the quay and, without a single backward glance, disappeared down a narrow passage that ran at the side of the warehouse.

Slowly, a little ruefully but with the vivid recollection of that whining bullet, gratefully, the commissioner, too, pulled himself to the upright.

"Thank you, Parrot," he said a little breathlessly. "I wonder who that was intended for— you or me?"

"From the river, sir, and the positions in which we were, I couldn't be seen," said Parrot quietly. "In any case, at that distance they couldn't know it was me—"

Sir Redvers took him up quickly.

"This being my customary position," he said, "there could be no doubt as to who was seated at the desk."

"Not a doubt, sir," said Parrot over his shoulder, for with his penknife he was busy excavating the bullet. Half an hour later they knew it had been fired from the same automatic that already had killed two men.

"And of course," the commissioner said with confidence, "we know the name of the murderer. The only thing now is to find this Lippmann, and make him account for his movements at the time of the murders. Probably he's carrying the pistol that fired the shots—all ready for the next victim. I'll get you to send the 'all stations' call at once."

Parrot walked slowly to the door— and paused.

"I'll do just that, sir," he said quietly. "Of course, Lippman'll take a bit of finding. He's as elusive as an electric eel and, in spite of his lack of height, as nippy in disguise as a chameleon. And when we do find him he'll have perfectly good alibis— alibis, too, sworn to by reputable people; not the usual faked stuff."

His back to the fire, the commissioner turned.

"What on earth do you mean, superintendent?" he demanded. "That Lippmann isn't the murderer!"

Slowly Parrot shook his head. There was no officer in the Yard in whom Sir Redvers had greater confidence than this gaunt, lazy-eyed man from the Derbyshire dales, and when they were alone he rather encouraged the man-to-man attitude. Given the right sort of man to deal with, he had found that the unofficial attitude paid.

"Not so you'd notice it, he isn't," Parrot replied.

"How d'ye know that?" Sir Redvers demanded.

"Because Lippmann had the ligaments of the first and second fingers of his right hand severed in a knife fight in Lisbon twenty years ago," Parrot replied. "He can't use a pistol; he couldn't even sew mail bags at Dartmoor, or use a pick in the quarries. If we find him we'll pull him in just as a matter of form; but it won't be any good." He paused. "It's the man he's hired I'm going after—Larry the Marine!"

Something of the healthy, open-air color drained from the commissioner's face.

"He crossed on the same ship as Mr. Gravenhurst of the Foreign Office— and my daughter," he said quickly. "Do you think he's the man?"

Parrot nodded.

"I'm pretty certain of it," he said. "And with the hideaways he'll have had arranged for him there's only one way to lay hands on the man."

"And that is?" the commissioner jerked.

Very slowly and distinctly Parrot said:

"Never for one moment to lose sight of— one, Mr. Justice Hainault, who sentenced Theodore Lippmann to death; two, Sir Brandreth Trevor, K. C., who was crown prosecutor at the trial; three, yourself, under whose direction Theodore was caught; four, myself, who ran him to earth."

In the significance with which he was able to invest a pause, Parrot was something of an artist, and the hiatus that came now seemed literally to throb with significance.

"Five and six," he continued at length, "Mr. Gravenhurst and your daughter."

For a further long moment there was silence. At last:

"So that it looks," the detective concluded, ''as though, in addition to all those in any way connected with Theodore Lippmann's trial and conviction whom Brother Isaac has hired him to dispose of, Larry's conducting a private and unofficial vendetta of his own."

"You'd better go round to Justice Hainault and Sir Brandreth Trevor and warn them," Sir Redvers said at last. "From what you tell me, Mr. Gravenhurst is warned already. I'll make my own arrangements for my daughter's safety. You'll look after yourself, I take it?"

The superintendent nodded grimly.

"And after that gunman, too, believe me, sir," he added.

12:  Number 4.

PARROT left the commissioner busy with his arrangements. From what he was able to gather before setting out for Middle Temple Lane to interview the eminent K. C., these were designed to leave nothing to chance.

Sir Brandreth Trevor's chambers were in Harcourt Buildings, Middle Temple Lane. At the bottom of the narrow, dimly lighted stairs Parrot was obliged to stand aside to allow for the passage of a stout, bewigged and be-gowned figure of ponderous step and asthmatical breathing who, as he passed, was coughing wheezily into an enormous silk bandanna handkerchief.

In the outer office a thin-faced, middle-aged clerk was talking to a well-clad man of, obviously, his own standing and profession. Thus it was a few minutes before, the other clerk having left, Parrot was able to present his card.

"I think Sir Brandreth is at liberty, superintendent," the clerk said with formal courtesy: "A gentleman— a brother barrister— has just left him, and his next appointment isn't for half an hour."

The clerk walked over to the door that led to the inner office, opened it, and crossed the threshold.

"Superintendent Parrot from Scot—" the dry voice commenced— and broke off into a thin, terror-stricken wail. With a bound of devastating terror he was back in the outer office, his narrow face paper-white, his thin hands twisting as with ague.

For a matter of seconds, supporting himself against the long, high desk by a trembling hand, he mouthed and gesticulated.

But in the light of recent happenings, Parrot needed no explanation. Like a flash he was around the desk and through the door of the private office. Already, though with a feeling of sick desperation about the heart, he knew what was awaiting him within. And at the first glimpse of that awful room he realized that his premonition was horribly correct.

The K. C. was slumped sidewise in his seat, prevented from complete collapse to the floor by the padded arm over which his own arm sprawled.

There was a small, blue hole in his forehead from which, down the rigid face, ran a thin trickle of blood. On the writing table before him was that terrible iron bolt and nut with the cord attached, that read:

This is No. 4. As they have sown, so shall they reap.

Parrot made no examination, for, the wound being where it was, by no possibility could the K. C. be anything but dead. And, sickeningly, Parrot realized that with the delay caused by the conversation of the two clerks and the warren of courts and passages by which the Temple is intersected, how infinitesimal was any chance of capturing the slayer.

"Who was the man in wig and gown who passed me on the stairs?" he shouted into the ears of the stricken clerk, who shook his head dumbly. At last, in a strained, hoarse whisper he gasped:

"I don't know. A stranger to me. Gave his name as L. Lake, f-f-from the I-Inner T-Temple. He—he just walked through into the g-g-governor's office as if he were ex-expected."

With a bound Parrot was down the stairs and into Middle Temple Lane that, except for an errand boy, was deserted.

He turned sharply the corner of Crown Office Row that has the Temple Gardens on its right. And on the grass, thrust through the railings, was a barrister's wig and gown.

Parrot stopped hopelessly. Crown Office Row leads into King's Bench Walk, that in turn communicates directly with Tudor Street, from which on either side branch streets that lead to the Embankment or to Fleet Street. In the six or seven minutes ,with which chance had favored the assassin, he would have been given innumerable choice of get-aways.

He telephoned the news to headquarters and waited until Sergeant Barley reported from the Yard. Then, leaving the officer in charge, he crossed to the law courts where, in the king's bench division, Mr. Justice Hainault was sitting.

Neither in the almost-deserted entrance hall nor in the empty, echoing corridor was there any one to arouse his suspicion. With the whole neighborhood subjected to feverish research, it was unlikely that the killer would remain in the same neighborhood for the purpose of committing another. But Parrot was taking no chances.

He whispered a few words to the officer at the door of court No. 9, and through the glass doors took an intensive survey of the occupants of the public benches within. The list that day contained no case of particular interest and, the one up for hearing now being of overwhelming dullness, the courtroom was only sparsely attended. Nevertheless, from the clerk at the table below the judge, to council and public, he took face by face in turn.

Looking back later it was as if the four things happened simultaneously— the subdued plup! at his ear; the sudden plunging of the court into dimness from the failure of the electric light; the click of the lock as the policeman turned the key in the door; the sheet of white-hot flame that instantaneously became transformed to that sickening shutter of blackness as, with a punch that would have done credit to a heavyweight in training, the fist of the lithe and agile officer at his side crashed devastatingly upon the angle of Parrot's jaw.

The policeman who previously had been on duty at the door they found trussed, gagged and unconscious in the unused courtroom near by. A uniformed officer, whose face Parrot did not recognize, had beckoned him mysteriously from the door, and from the moment he crossed the threshold and the punch connected, he had known nothing.

At the point where it passed from the corridor the electric wire supplying court No. 9 had been filed to a condition that required only a slight jerk of the hand to sever it.

Mr. Justice Hainault was dead— shot through the brain with an automatic pistol as he sat in judgment upon his fellows.

The policeman on duty at the main entrance nodded genially to the colleague who, without haste or perturbation, passed through into the bustle of the Strand.

The bolt and nut of the now grimly familiar pattern, with its message of  vengeance, was found near the clerk's table.

13:  A Council Of Death

THE tiny and incredibly malign figure at the head of the table nodded with coldly restrained satisfaction. Ranged on either hand were the same disguised figures. Opposite, an inert but avidly watchful figure, motionless but intensely alive, slumped the grossly corpulent second in command.

Some dozen feet or so from the diminutive leader, in the easy, almost provocative, attitude of one who has carried out an arduous, hazardous task with the practiced ease of the expert, stood the lithe, sinister figure who had been the raison d'étre for that previous gathering.

In his hand was a thick wad of United States currency that, with a quick dexterity by no means as casual as it appeared, he flicked through his long, nicotine-stained fingers.

"I guess that's right, boss," he said at last. 'Forty thousand dollars; eight thousand of your pounds. Two thousand a head."

The dwarf's voice broke in— quiet, but with the hidden vibration of a deathless hate.

"With," he said, "a further twenty thousand to come"— his voice dropped to a whisper, quivering like a released spring— "when your task is complete."

For a moment the other continued to flick the bundle of bills between his fingers. When he looked up his expression was vicious.

"Before your task is complete, you mean," he said. "Don't I have any life of my own?"

There was challenge in the tone, so that those about the table stirred uneasily. There was a certain shaft some fifty fret below where they were seated, the contents of which bore eloquent and awful testimony to the unwisdom of such defiance. Only the huge figure at the head of the table turned his slow gaze from the gunman to that of The Leader.

"Until you have fulfilled your engagement, what life have you of your own?" the latter said, and behind the words was the shadow of a hidden meaning that, like the shiver of a chill wind among dry, dead leaves, caused again that uneasy stirring.

Even the gunman shifted from one foot to the other.

"Besides the comeback I'm stagin' for you, there's a grouch of my own I aim to satisfy before I quit this side," he said harshly. "Two— one of each kind — I'm gonna get, an' get good an' plenty. An' I need help—" he continued on something of his previous note of challenge.

The mouth of The Leader was thin as a sword cut across his face, his eyes icy.

"You are not paid to satisfy private grievances," he said. "You are paid to carry out, unquestioningly and expeditiously, my orders!"

It seemed that the cold eyes of the standing figure could not endure the chill in those they faced. As though against his own volition, he turned from that concentration of malignancy in the chair. Nevertheless, his voice retained still some measure of defiance.

"If I could do what I aim to do," he said, "I'd do it! But I can't. I've tried it out an' I can't. They're wise to me. I've helped you, haven't I? Good an' plenty I've helped you. An' if you'll stand by me I'll go on helping you till the job's through." Now his defiant eyes forced themselves to meet those of the other, and there for a defiant moment remained. "Otherwise," he added, and from somewhere his voice had gathered a certain meretricious confidence, "I throw in my hand. Quit. Quit cold. And that," he added as once more his eyes fell, "is tellin' you."

There was a log fire burning in the open hearth. Save for the row of candles on the high polish of the table, against which those muffled, motionless figures showed shapelessly sinister as the devotees at the altar of some unholy rite, it was the sole illumination of the room.

For an age-long moment, too, the sharp crackle of the flames was the only sound to break the awful throbbing silence. At last, impinging glacially into that dreadful stillness with the remote impersonality of piling ice:

"Who are these against whom you ask my help?"

It was as though with the question there leaped into the eyes of the other a tiny, avid flame.

"Guess you've not goin' to put up any kind of kick at one of the names, anyway. It's that police captain's girl— Dinah Conquest." The flame leaped to elemental savagery. "The other a guy named Dan Gravenhurst— her sweetie."

Again that breathless, suspended silence. The thin, esthetic cruelty of The Leader's face remained inviolable. Yet it was as if with one of those names had come a remission of some terrible intention— a reprieve. And, an idea.

"And why," the cold voice went on, "do you require my— our— help in your design ?"

The reply came from lips so closely pressed that, but for the passion with which it vibrated, his voice would have been inaudible.

"Because," the gunman said, "I tried it out and fell down on the job." The almost indistinguishable lips drew back in a snarl that was purely animal. "That dame put up a bluff an' got away with it. Since then she's been watched as closely as a heavyweight in training for the world's championship. Disguise? Me?" He made a gesture of repudiation. "Make-up's no use. She never comes to the window, never goes out. She'll see no strangers—"

The thin voice broke in, icy, unemotional:

"And the man? This Gravenhurst? He's connected with the Foreign Office, I believe?"

The words that came in answer were charged with disgust, chagrin and hate.

"He's beat it! Just faded away. His apartment's in Hill Street—he's not been there since a few days after I almost got him; an' in those few days I was good an' busy—on your business. Now, if you want the job I'm hired for finished, it's up to you to get good an' easy on mine. I want that guy Gravenhurst. I want him bad an' I want him quick!"

The Leader's voice, cold and dispassionate, broke in:

"If he's still in the country there are means at our disposal whereby he can be found."

"Listen!" There was an inflection of rising excitement in the gunman's voice into which, momentarily, his fear of the other had become submerged. "Listen! That guy's dangerous. He was in the same ship as me crossing over, an' I watched him. I know men. I know quitters an' I know fighters. That bird's a scrapper from Scrapville. An' me— I've landed on a place on his make-up that's tenderer than a sunburned neck. I've got gay with his sweetie.

'That guy's dangerous. I know it. It's a feelin' I have right through to my bones. Ever since I first lamped him —in the train it was from Chicago to N' York— somethin's been tellin' me he's as safe to monkey with as a nest of young rattlers. An' he hasn't quit because he's scared, either. He's quit because he's got some game on— an' that game has me— an' you— at the other end of his bat!"

Something like a wintry smile played across the thin rigidity of The Leader's face.

"An interesting young man, evidently," he said. "One at the moment, however, in whom we are not interested. Nevertheless, if your supposition is correct and he becomes—inquisitive, he will, of course, be dealt with."

An instant, and voice and expression changed. In each was an icy venom. Superimposed was a triumph which, if rigidly suppressed, was gleeful.

"But this girl—only daughter of the chief commissioner of Scotland Yard— is another matter. Together with the man Parrot, he is the one against whom I shall derive the most satisfaction in exacting reprisals." His eyes bored into those of the gunman. "Hence I can promise you my cooperation in securing the presence of the lady in whom you appear to be— interested."

"When?" The gunman shot the question with dreadful eagerness, but in the reply was only the old deadly calm.

"As soon as it can be arranged. In the meantime, take no more active steps against her father, for it is through her that I purpose to obtain his attendance here. Then"— for the first time and then only momentarily, the voice shook —"I myself will deal with him."

"That's jake with me!" The gunman's voice was frankly avid. "Once get that dame here, an' so long's I'm paid, I don't give a hoot about the old man. An' now I guess I'll go gunnin' after that dick."

14: The Black Knights

IT was a conversation between Dan Gravenhurst and Parrot that decided the former upon a plan of action which, to those with little knowledge of Oriental character, would have savored of the fantastic.

"It looks," Parrot murmured, "as if that gunman was mixed up with an English crook who's just come back from nearly six years 'over the Alps'!"

Dan pricked up his ears.

"What crook's that?"

"Fellow named Lippmann," Parrot said. "Chap who, if every one had their rights, should have been hanged as high as his twin brother, Theodore."

He went into particulars of the case as it had been outlined between himself and the commissioner.

"You've heard of the 'Black Knights'?" Parrot asked at the end; and .in his excitement Dan rose half up'tight in his chair. He knew the Black Knights as the most formidable conjunction of criminals since the war.

It was a gang of which each department— burglary, blackmail, forgery, dope traffic and receiving— was directed by a specialist. An organization in connection with which neither time nor expense was spared for the engineering of a coup, every detail of which was worked out.

Dan nodded in reply to the detective's question.

"What about them?" he demanded.

"An outfit," Parrot said slowly, "that's so bedded in and protected that after ten years we've no more idea of their headquarters than we had in the first month they started. There's big brains behind that gang, mister, an' it was the brothers Lippmann who supplied em. We thought when we got 'em safely behind the bars that maybe some of the rank an' file would give 'em away— hand out some sort of hint that would help us locate the nest."

"And did they?" Dan asked.

The detective's voice was both rueful and emphatic: "Not a hint. Not a glimmer or a suggestion of a blinkin' hint."

Dan thought for a moment. This looked as if it might lead somewhere.

"And during the time the man Lippmann was in prison, after his brother was hanged, did the Black Knights cease to operate?" he inquired.

"They carried on," Parrot said slowly, "only by so much as would keep the show together. They knew something, that gang did; realized that without the big brain they were liable to slip up. So, except for what you might call routine business—the importation and distribution of 'snow,' and an occasional but unelaborate country-house robbery —they lay low. Even then they'd kind of lost the expert touch; we pulled in one or two of 'em. Only we couldn't get 'em to open out. I guess the date of Lippmann's release was written in red on the calendars of what they call their minds," he added. "Isaac had a way of dealin' with conversationalists that's somehow discouragin', an' they just took their medicine."

Parrot emptied his second glass of whisky—two was his limit— and made movements preparatory to rising.

"Just a minute!" Dan said hastily; and the detective looked inquiringly at him.

"And you think," Dan suggested, "that if -I could trace the Black Knights to their lair I'd have a good chance of encountering Larry the Marine?"

It was with cheerful irony that Parrot replied :

"Sure you would! And a still better chance of encountering a sudden and messy demise." He added quietly: "Maybe you wouldn't be the first, either."

"Well, probably you'd send me a wreath," Dan said.

15: Thugs

SOME four years previously, in the guise of an ordinary seaman which Dan's mission at that time rendered necessary, he had landed one night at the West India Dock, to run into one of the most vicious street fights of his experience.

As he drew nearer he saw four thugs — two lascars and two alleged white men — attacking a Chinaman. The latter was grimly silent as he defended himself against the four who, evidently, were out for blood. It was just as Dan drew alongside that two of the assailants drew knives.

Dropping his ditty bag, he swept aside the two who had given place to the armed attack and, with his right, hit behind the ear of the lascar who had succeeded in slightly wounding the Chinaman's shoulder. Like a log the lascar fell and like a dog the lascar lay.

Dan turned only just in time to deal with a knife stroke from the other that, had it reached home, would have been his finish.

But, warmed to his work, Dan side-stepped, and from somewhere in the neighborhood of his knee brought up his right in an uppercut that swept the other's feet in a parabolic curve to the edge of the pavement where, a crumpled, disinterested heap, he remained. At this, deciding to call it a day, the remaining thugs retired in disorder, but at considerable speed.

The Oriental turned to Dan a face the tint and consistency of a dried walnut, from which shone a pair of astonishingly bright, black eyes.

"I have to thank you, sir," he said in cultured English, "for a service greater than you know. One for which, if you will honor me with your company to my poor home, you will find me not ungrateful."

From the main thoroughfare the Chinaman led him to a side street and thence to one still narrower and more malodorous. They reached, eventually, a single-fronted shop, the wirfdow displaying an assortment of sharks' fins, birds' nests, paper lanterns, dried eggs and all the fantastic assortment of unappetizing edibles to which the Oriental is prone. The interior appeared even more disreputable than was indicated from outside.

Then, for Dan, came the surprise of his life; for, at the end of a dark passage through a bedraggled curtain, his host ushered him into one of the most beautiful rooms he had ever seen in his life. It combined the subtle comfort of che Orient with the dignity of period furniture— lustrous old mahogany paneling and the warm magnificence of Bokhara rugs; soothing lighting and silken but not effeminate cushions.

Quietly to the old oaken table the Chinese drew two Charles II. chairs and waited until the dazed Dan was seated.

"Permit me to introduce myself as Ho Wang, formerly of Peking, and to display my gratitude in a practical fashion," he said.

"After," Dan said quietly, "I've dressed that wound of yours."

But almost contemptuously Ho Wang waved the attention aside. From a carved corner cupboard he fetched a flask of Imperial Tokay and two cut-glass goblets. Then, suddenly, from some interior recess of his clothing he produced a small wash-leather bag, and onto the mellow, polished surface of the table poured gems which for sheer beauty caused Dan's breath to catch in his throat.

Emeralds, jade green and flawless; diamonds, their facets reflecting a thousandfold the subdued lighting of the room ; rubies of the true pigeon's blood.

"It was to obtain these, of course," his host said, "that I was subjected to the attentions from which so effectively you rescued me to-night. You will honor me by accepting, say— half a dozen."

Then quite suddenly Dan remembered — and laughed.

"I'm sorry, Ho Wang," he said.  "Only— only I'm not quite what you imagine me. I'm not a sailor and I'd just hate to accept any reward."

"I bow, of course, to your decision," Ho Wang said quietly, "though you must permit me to forward you a very small souvenir of the occasion."

They chatted for an hour or so over their wine, a conversation that Dan never was to forget— the depth of the old man's knowledge, the dignity of his quaint philosophy, his all-embracing information.

TO DAN a few days later was delivered a small registered parcel. In it was a ruby-and-diamond tie pin— altogether too gorgeous for a man. But what a magnificent ring it would make! Now in these later days that ring was destined for the third left-hand finger of the girl for the sake of whose safety he had decided to consult the donor.

With the jewels was a card, upon which was written, in English:

Remember, always and at whatever cost, you may command the advice and knowledge of Ho Wang.

Since then Dan had paid many visits to the lovely room behind the disreputable shop. Than that of the old Chinese there were few men in whose company he found more delight, or for whose character he had learned a more definite— if curious— respect.

From Western standards a most reprehensible old man, Ho Wang— receiver of stolen jewelry certainly, smuggler of silk and saccharine probably; an intriguer of devious ways, with a knowledge of London's underworld that was absolutely encyclopedic.

And in spite of the old man's record, his mode of life and outlook, there was no one upon whom Dan placed a greater reliance. He knew, rather than that he should suffer from the friendship, Ho Wang would cheerfully have faced the hangman.

So, unobtrusively, Dan left Keech in charge. of the flat, and himself faded surreptitiously into the involved and malodorous intricacies of London's East End.

In that same suit of much-stained dungaree of their first interview Dan sipped Imperial Tokay in that wonderful parlor of Ho Wang, while the Chinaman, a shade more wrinkled but brighter eyed than ever, was seated cross-legged on a cushion facing him.

16:  Inevitable Death.

THEY talked for a while on the subtleties of the old Eastern philosophers so beloved of Ho Wang. Then, his face expressionless, the old man said: "But to-night, my friend, you are abstracted from the meditations of the great Shu Ch'ing, and even the philosophies of the wise Tao Teh Ch'ing are powerless to divorce your mind from its preoccupation."

Dan looked up with a half smile.

"You're quite right, Ho Wang," he said quietly. "I'm just hating to put you in the position of refusing to answer a question."

"There is no question, my friend, that you may not freely ask," said Ho Wang, and the impassive gravity of his wizened face remained unchanged.

Very directly Dan's gaze met and held the Chinaman's eyes.

"Very well, Ho Wang," he said quietly. "I want to know where are the headquarters of the Black Knights."

If, miraculously and instantaneously, he had been turned to marble, the Chinaman could not have remained more entirely without movement. Nor, for a space that to Dan's tense and palpitating nerves seemed limitless, did he speak.

Eventually, with impassive face, Ho Wang said:

"Of all the requests that it is in your power to make, my young friend, you have voiced the one most difficult to grant."

Slowly Dan nodded.

"That's exactly why I hesitated so long to ask it," he said gravely.

"You require the information— urgently?" Ho Wang inquired, his eyes steadily on Dan's face.

"You know of Larry the Marine?" Dan asked; and the Chinaman's nod of acquiescence came as no surprise. So far as concerned: the underworld of London, Ho Wang knew everything as it occurred,

"Brought from Chicago— for an especial purpose," he said, and with the words it was to Dan as if the beautiful room became suddenly chill.

"A purpose, Ho Wang," he said, "that he has extended far beyond its original conception."

"To your own detriment," Ho Wang agreed surprisingly.

"But only," Dan confirmed, "because I am standing between himself and that — extended purpose."

His face strained and fearful, he leaned forward; for a moment allowed his hand to rest—almost with a gesture of appeal— on the old man's shoulder.

"Ho Wang," he said hoarsely, "I'm afraid; scared stiff right through to the marrow and out the other side. Not for myself— I needn't tell you that— but for the woman I care for."

His voice lowered to a still more hoarse intensity:

"She's guarded—every precaution taken to assure her safety. Against any ordinary danger I'd be prepared to let it go at that. But not with that gunman. He's out to get her. At all costs he's out to get her. I know the type and I know the man—a gunman over here as a hired murderer is as compassionate as a man-eating tiger and as scrupulous as a hungry jackal. And if he can't succeed on his own—there's the whole of that Black Knight organization to help him."

More gravely than ever Ho Wang inclined his head.

"It is not so much your reasoning with which I join issue as your—rashness," he said, after a pause.

Dan made a quick gesture of protest.

"Rashness my foot!" he exclaimed. "The only way for me to prevent him getting at her is for me to go after him! If ever attack was the best defense, it is in this case. And the only place I can attack him is at the headquarters of the Black Knights. And with no time to lose, either," he added.

Not for a long moment did Ho Wang speak.

"Tell me about this English girl," he said at last, and his voice was gentle.

Frankly and in detail Dan told him; replied freely to Ho Wang's penetrating questions.

Followed then the longest silence yet, one in which Dan realized in the other an increased unrest and trepidation. At last, with an almost fatalistic gesture of resignation, the Chinaman looked up.

"With these headquarters you realize what, also, you will discover?" he demanded.

"Larry the Marine," said Dan promptly.

"Death!" said Ho Wang. "Certain, and inevitable death!"

Dan shrugged his shoulders.

"Nevertheless, find him I will," he said, adding: "With your help."

For a long moment the eyes of the two men met— and held. Then, slowly and deliberately, the Chinaman rose to his feet.

"I, Ho Wang," he said, "will go with you."

17: Blackjacked!

ON leaving Scotland Yard each afternoon it was customary for the chief commissioner to drop into the Sabretasche Club for a cocktail with any friend who might be available. On this particular afternoon Sir Redvers left the Yard about five o'clock and, followed unobtrusively by the shadowers detailed for his protection, walked in leisurely fashion to Piccadilly where, at the Sabretasche, he played a couple of games of billiards.

Yet in spite of a tranquillizing whisky-and-soda and the hard-fought victory of the games, he did not know why, this afternoon, he should be so anxious to get home. He had become increasingly uneasy. Not, it may be said, on behalf of himself; he took no unnecessary chances, and the threat to himself did not unduly worry him. It was the thought of danger to Dinah that turned him cold.

True, she was closely guarded and, until this gunman-murderer was laid by the heels and a check placed on the 'movements of the leader of that sinister fraternity, the Black Knights, would so continue to be guarded. Nevertheless, until those urgently necessary steps had been effected, Sir Redvers would not have an easy moment.

In the meantime, of those who could possibly be spared, there was not a de'tective in the London area who was not devoting himself exclusively to 'the hunt; nor a policeman not vigilantly on the lookout; not a uniformed or plain-clothes man in the length and -breadth of Britain not keenly alert for one or the other of the two who menaced his life and happiness.

Yet, as he stepped into the elevator, his disquietude remained still active. Some inner sense made him aware of something impending, something inevitable; that from Somewhere, imminent, menacing, loomed— danger.

He was so possessed by this feeling that, except for a casual reflection that she was of unusually strong build, he noticed but indifferently the woman in the broad-ribboned bonnet, voluminous crimson cape and starched sky-blue skirt of a famous London hospital, who was the only other occupant of the elevator.

She looked up as he entered, her large and capable hand hesitating above the row of push buttons before which she was standing.

"Ground floor?" she inquired in a pleasant, deep voice; and he nodded with polite absent-mindedness.

Her poised finger descended, and she turned so that now her back covered the narrow frame in which the row of buttons was set. They passed the first floor without stopping.

A few seconds and then, to enable him to slide back the gate as the cage drew to a halt at the ground floor, Sir Redvers moved his glove, stick and hat from his right hand to the left.

Thinking that, anticipating his intention to press the button, she would move aside, he took a tentative step toward the frame.

She did not move, so that, unchecked, they continued the descent to the basement floor, where were the hairdresser's shop and bathrooms.

"We've come a little too far," he said pleasantly, and waited for the car to come to a standstill. After that, on pressing the necessary button, they would reascend.

But instead of stopping at the basement the elevator continued down the shaft that led to the cellars, cement walled, used as lumber and luggage rooms, coal houses and wine stores.

Sir Redvers smiled.

"Never mind," he said. "Once we reach the bottom it won't take a moment to go back again."

Even as he spoke the elevator slowed— stopped. The woman moved aside so that he might press the button for the ascent. He did not notice how stealthily, as she did so, her right hand crept beneath her cape.

To his surprise, as he turned to the frame, he heard from behind the sound of the opening gate. Checking an exclamation, he swung round, and in the instant facing her the blackjack, wielded with the skill of long practice, fell upon his unprotected head.

The cellar at which the elevator had stopped communicated by double doors to a paved yard that in turn opened to a narrow, unfrequented side street.

The Red Cross ambulance, into which the distinguished-looking gentleman suffering from sudden seizure was helped with such quick dexterity by the calm-eyed hospital nurse, moved smoothly away. One or two casual onlookers concluded that the unostentatiousness of the departure was designed so as not to disturb the patient's fellow members.

They did not know that as soon as the car turned into an even quieter side street, shutters fell with lightning rapidity which transformed the ambulance into the delivery van of Henry Rogers & Sons, bread and fancy cake manufacturers, Kilburn.

18: The Unknown

IN Grosvenor Street House Dinah was bored to the point of extinction. Used to an exceptionally open-air life, she felt that this régime of what practically amounted to imprisonment was just a little more than any girl could be ex- pected to endure.

Yet she recognized its necessity. The encounter in her sitting room with Larry the Marine had affected her more deeply than at the time she realized. Far from being checked, the menace from that terrible man extended even to her father and the man she loved, and this was an anxiety that seemed to undermine the whole fabric of her life.

Then, to crown all, had come the disappearance of Dan. One day he had been at his flat, or spending those hours with her which now she recognized as the sweetect in her life, and the next day, following a brief note in which he told her he had been "called away."

Since then she had had no word or line from him. There were times when she felt utterly alone, abandoned; when she felt that she could not endure the strain; when she had to bite her lips to prevent herself screaming.

Deep down, she was gripped by a premonition of evil. She felt like a chained prisoner in a camp that at any moment might be subjected to a bombardment from some utterly relentless enemty. And it was no danger to herself, she feared. The danger was to Sir Redvers. It was in the very air she breathed —as a tangible presence about her, stark, almost palpable. And even when, day after day, quite his old, cheery, debonair self, he continued to arrive home at the usual time, the feeling did not diminish.

It was as though in that anxious time she lived and had her being beneath a sword, incredibly sharp, suspended by but a hair's strength above her.

And one evening the sword fell.

As, following a high-strung afternoon, she was trying to compose herself to meet him with customary cheerfulness, her telephone rang. With the sound it was as if, upon the quiet restfulness of the room, impinged the remorseless beat of the very wings of death. With heart-clutching certainty she knew it as the prelude to tragedy.

Her heart so sick and faint that it was only from some hitherto unsuspected reserve of strength she was able to walk to the instrument, she unhooked the receiver.

"Is that Miss Conquest?"

The voice was low-pitched, coldly impersonal and without emotion.

"Yes," she faltered.

The voice came again:

"You are alone? No one within hearing?"

"Yes," she faltered again.

"You are prepared to swear that?"

Now, so wrought upon by terror was she, that only barely could she find words.

"I swear it!" she said at last.

"Good!" There was no satisfaction in the word, only a calm acquiescence.

"I accept that—particularly as within a few moments I shall be able to check its truth. Now, listen carefully! You wish to see your father again alive?"

It had come! Not for an instant did she doubt that. It was only the wild desperation with which she clutched at the last remnants of her strength that saved her from fainting.

Then, engendered by the dire need of the moment, came a curious, almost fatalistic calm. If, as palpably was the case, her father was in need of help, the last thing she must permit herself was a breakdown in nerve. She'd need every ounce of coolness, strength and courage she could summon.

"Obviously," she said into the receiver, and by now her voice was schooled.

As though temporarily disconcerted by its quality, at the other end of the wire came an infinitesimal pause.

"You are to be congratulated upon your fortitude," the cold voice came at last. "It will render my— our— task so much the smoother."

"Who is that speaking?" she demanded.

"I regret to remind you," the cold voice came back, "that your own part is less to question than to obey. And to anticipate anything of an impulsive or an unwise nature, I may say also that each and severally the officers of Scotland Yard by whom you are surrounded are under direct observation from one of our own organization. Any suspicious activity on their part— sudden entry to your house, for instance, or the sudden appearance in the street of either yourself or one of your staff—will immediately become known to us."

There was a deliberate pause.

"With a correspondingly unpleasant effect upon the comfort and well being of your father," the voice added.

That the threat was authentic she had no smallest doubt. Whoever was speaking meant just exactly what he said; there was in the voice no least hint of compromise or mercy. Again, almost frenziedly, she steeled herself.

"What is it you want of me?" she asked, straining her ears to detect in the reply some slightest suggestion of weakness upon which to base her own campaign. With suspended breathing she awaited the answer.

She found no weakness. One less strong might have betrayed satisfaction in victory, but the voice of the unknown remained glacial.

"Opposite the third house from the end of the eastern side of Berkeley Square," he said, "is drawn up a car, purple in coloring, with, at the wheel, a thin, dark-complexioned driver in a wine-red livery. In the lapel of his coat he is wearing a bronze chrysanthemum. Within fifteen minutes of the termination of this conversation, you will leave the house, walk quietly and without word to your watchers, to the car. Arrived at it you will utter the one word 'Chicago,' enter it, and be driven away."

Than which nothing could have been more clear— or more utterly terrifying.

"And if I refuse?" she gasped.

"You will be unwise." Never had she heard a voice more quiet. "But should you be so— inconsiderate— by the first post in the morning you will receive what, as evidence of identification, is the one human feature that neither may be recognized nor mistaken. It will be a human ear, that at one time has belonged to General Sir Redvers Conquest, chief commissioner of metropolitan police."

19: "Dinah! Do Not Come!"

OVER Dinah's senses spread a wave of spiritual and physical faintness that threatened entirely to engulf her. For a sickening moment she clung to the desk on which stood the telephone— that same desk on which, a few days previously, Dan had scribbled the note that, but for her own resourcefulness, would have sent him to his death.

The voice continued:

"And, at a corresponding hour the next morning, following a similar failure On your part, the postman will leave another parcel— fellow to the previous de livery. And after that, every day a parcel, each with its own appeal." A pause followed. "An eye, for instance."

Only partly was she able to suppress the scream that rose to her lips. It was too sheerly demoniacal to be credible! Then, suddenly, a thought struck her.

"But how am I to know actually that my father is with you?" she demanded tremulously.

The reply was as prompt as it was terrifying.

"He shall speak to you!"

There was a moment's interval. Then, clear and unmistakable, Sir Redvers' own voice— urgent, commanding:

"Dinah! Do not come! Communicate at once with Scot—" The voice broke off so sharply that with a stab of realization she knew that hurriedly, brutally, he had been snatched from the instrument.

The first voice again, almost inaudible now for the singing in her ears:

"Just one more word. To avoid inquiry from one or other of the watchers, you will, of course, leave the house in some plausible disguise. I suggest you borrow a costume from your maid. For, should you be under observation, or should the car itself be followed, reprisals will be swift and unpleasant—for your father! The car is waiting for you," the cold voice said on a note of finality, and the telephone went dead.

And with that deadness came inspiration—to telephone to Scotland Yard, explain the circumstances, and the exact measures the gang had taken to insure immunity, and leave it to official ingenuity to find some method of circumvention.

She would call Parrot—that gaunt but lazily alert man who interviewed her, following her outwitting of Larry the Marine. Looking back she discovered in herself considerable confidence in Parrot.

With unsteady hands she unhooked the receiver and twisted the dial; listened.

There was no sound at all.

Ears straining into the receiver, frenziedly she jerked the hook; twisted the dial again.

Again that terrible, soul-crushing silence. Despairingly she allowed the receiver to fall from her hand to, the table.

As the Black Knight had foreseen everything, so he had taken precautions against every countermove. Even as he had finished speaking, the telephone wire had been severed.

For a few stunned moments she sat thinking out her plan of action. It seemed that the one suggested by the unknown was the most practicable.

Quietly she went upstairs. Her maid, she knew, was at tea with the house- keeper, so that the little room close to her own would be empty. In the wardrobe was the neat, semi-official costume in which Dinah was accustomed to see this maid who was so much of her own height and build. She abstracted this, together with a hat that, coming far down on her head, obscured the vivid glory of her hair. A touch of make-up and a pair of purloined shoes and stockings contributed still more to an illusion to which the large shoppine basket she snatched up on her way downstairs added the last note of perfection.

Since Dinah's imprisonment, the detective lounging so unobtrusively across the street had become accustomed to the sight of the good-looking maid passing in and out of the house on the various small missions that otherwise her mistress would have accomplished for her- self, so that now he allowed Dinah to pass without more than a casual glance.

To the left then and down the eastern side of the square went Dinah. And there, drawn up between the entrances of two houses, was the car.

The chauffeur, lounging over the wheel, looked at her idly as she approached. She stopped.

"Chicago!" she whispered.

In leisurely fashion the driver climbed down, threw open the door. He was neither genial nor peremptory, only calmly indifferent.

"Get right in!" he said.

Thirty seconds later, with Dinah pressed fearful and half fainting into the farther corner of the tonneau, the car rolled smoothly away.

20: The Lair Of The Tiger.

HO WANG said calmly, countering the white heat of Dan's impatience: "Without my help you would not cross the threshold, because you would be dead. In my company, even though probably the same unfortunate result will obtain, at least you will have found entrance to the place of your desire."

Realizing this for truth, and knowing Ho Wang and his methods, Dan consented to wait until the Chinaman gave the word. Three days he froze in the seamen's boarding house in Pennyfields before the message came.

He found the Chinaman in the act .of taking the shutters from the dust-laden windows.

As, in his soiled and weather-stained dungarees, Dan slouched into the shop, beyond an indifferent glance Ho Wang ignored him.

A few moments, and as if he were coming to serve a customer, the Chinaman joined him. Together they passed through the curtain to the luxurious room beyond. There Ho Wang obtained a cheap fabric suit case, opened a door behind a curtain that led to a yard, and through to a side street that was dingier and even more malodorous than the one in front.

"Go forward alone, my son,' Ho Wang said quietly. "It is unwise for us to be seen together so soon."

He gave directions where they should meet, and from this point they traveled by bus to Notting Hill Gate, from where they struck east and north to the sordid labyrinth of Notting Dale. The street in which eventually they found themselves was long and narrow; on either side every house had fallen into decay and was occupied by innumerable families of slum dwellers.

Halfway up on the left was a row of tall, flat-fronted houses separated from other buildings by patches of unoccupied land. Upon the high steps to the front doors children screamed and played; women gossiped and wrangled; idle, unwashed men lounged.

But, curiously, this overflow did not apply to the first house in the row. While the upper windows showed the same bedraggled signs of occupancy as the other houses, except for those occasional ones who passed quickly in and out, the ground floor was clear. It was up these steps that Ho Wang led Dan.

The passageway was bare and echoing and, except for the accumulated dust and dirt of ages, the stairs were uncarpeted. Ahead, however, cutting off the back premises from the rest of the house, a stout partition ran up to the ceiling, and in this was a door which Ho Wang unlocked and, as soon as they were through, relocked behind them. Dan found himself in an intensity of darkness and, considering the turmoil of the street outside, an amazing silence. And to his keyed-up senses, in the dark and complete negation of sound, was a quality as if they had passed from the ordinary life of the world to some element inherently sinister— a hushed, suspended negation of activity; expectant, fearful.

The feeling was not relieved even when Ho Wang produced a flash light, by the light of which he guided Dan down a short passage so heavily carpeted that their footsteps contributed only to the hush. There was a door to the right, and through this Ho Wang passed, closing it behind him.

The room was small, the window obscured by a heavy steel shutter, blotting out all view or any chance of ingress. And, except for a carpet as thick and soundless as the one outside, the place was entirely unfurnished.

With his flash light shining then directly downward, Ho Wang went on hands and knees. His sensitive yellow fingers groped among the heavy pile of the carpet. Suddenly the fingers paused then pressed downward.

Click!

Slowly a three-feet square of carpet raised itself lid-fashion from the surrounding boards. Through the opening Dan saw a flight of ladderlike steps descending to black and unseen depths below. Ho Wang motioned him to descend.

The descent was less than Dan anticipated. A dozen steps or so, and his feet touched ground. The trapdoor fell silently into place above them as the Chinaman joined him.

"Follow!" the latter instructed, and flashed his light ahead. Dan saw that, a dozen feet away, was a door, heavy and reénforced with iron bars, the surface unbroken by any indication of a lock.

By the light of his torch the Chinaman scrutinized the brickwork of the arch in which the door was built. He paused. The yellow hand stole up, pressed at the patch of light. There was a subdued click and the door swung open.

They passed through. Automatically the door swung to behind them. There was another click and lights sprang into being.

Dazedly Dan looked about him, and as his eyes assimilated his surroundings the brooding expectancy, that previously had struck so coldly upon his senses, intensified like a living thing about him, pressing into him, clutching at nerves and heart.

Almost as far as his eye could see was a series of archways that appeared to stretch forward to infinity, with, dividing each from its neighbor, a space that denoted a cellar similar to the one in which he now stood.

Cold, unfurnished, the walls of bare brick, the floors of rubble, it came to Dan that he stood in the foundations of the whole row of buildings, in which each house communicated directly with its neighbor.

Unhesitatingly, his feet making but little sound among the rubble of the flooring, Ho Wang pressed forward. Arch after arch they passed through, cellar after cellar they left behind. They came at length to an arch in which was a door similar to the first. Again Ho Wang manipulated the wall, and the door swung open.

In the cellar was a flight of wooden steps communicating with a trapdoor. But here, instead of mounting immediately, the Chinaman paused, lowered the suit case to the ground and, stooping, opened it.

From its interior he brought two heavy gowns of gray, one of which he handed to Dan. Correctly adjusted, while the robe obscured his body, it left his head and face exposed. He turned, to receive from Ho Wang an object that gave to the whole proceeding its crowning touch of abnormality.

For the object that Ho Wang thrust into his hand was the complete mask of a stag which, when assumed, completely covered his head and shoulders.

And as for a moment he stood in the enveloping silence of that unearthly chamber confronted by that formless gray shape standing motionless before him, to Dan it was as though he were plunged into a living nightmare, a nightmare of the very soul and spirit. For he saw before him one who, in the mask he had adjusted, had taken on the semblance of a baboon!

Slowly the Chinaman mounted the steps, and with his frail hand thrust open the trapdoor at the summit.

When they had passed through it they found themselves in a room, long and of exceptional narrowness. Later Dan knew that to provide this secret entrance to the upper floor, a slice had been filched from the side of the house. Occupying practically the whole of one end of the room was an iron spiral stair-case.

Upward, step by step, they mounted; passed through the opening cut into two separate floors. At the top was a tiny chamber, in the wall a thick, steel door, inset so closely to the wall that it might have been sealed hermetically.

In the wall on the right was a tiny bell push of ivory. The Chinaman pressed this in a series of long rings and short as though he telegraphed a message in Morse; one that none without exact knowledge could have reproduced.

And then, for the first time since they left the street, Ho Wang spoke.

"Your password," he whispered, "is 'Camorra.' When he appears, take the first opportunity to enter. For the rest you will be guided by circumstances— and fate."

Slowly the door swung open before them.

21: The Guillotine

INSTINCTIVELY, as Ho Wang made neither sign nor move, Dan waited.

And suddenly, framed in that doorway, appeared a figure so grossly corpulent that even beneath the enshrouding gray gown he wore, one could discern the rolls of fat that quivered and shook with each slightest movement.

Obscuring the head was the complete mask of a tiger that in its stark ferocity was utterly terrifying.

For a moment there was a tense and awful silence. Slowly, blankly, the head turned to each of the gray-clad figures, and although no word passed, Dan knew himself at a moment of crisis and even deadlier peril.

With the same slow deliberation that from the first had characterized him, the fat, puffy hand of the "tiger" stole to his side pocket, producing a paper upon which Dan was able to detect a list of names.

Slowly, inexorably, the podgy finger traveled to each of these in turn, counting.

The terrible head raised itself, traveled again from Ho Wang to Dan, and from Dan to Ho Wang.

Then, those awful yellow eyes burning into his own, the tiger spoke.

"Password?" he jerked, and coming from between those wide and awful jaws the voice was hollow and menacing as a knell.

"Camorra!" whispered Dan.

The terrible head nodded, turned to Ho Wang who, Dan observed, had edged a little away from the door.

"Password!" the voice said again.

Incredibly, Ho Wang turned, and as one whose limbs were frozen with terror loped slowly and stiffly toward the stair.

With a snarl that would have done credit to the man-eating tiger whose mask he wore, and a speed amazing in its agility, the big man was after him. Spellbound, Dan watched the hand beneath his robe steadying the automatic that from the first he had trained upon that huge doorkeeper.

Fascinated, at the very brink of the stairs he saw the tiger's huge hand shoot out, close about the frail forearm of the Chinaman. And instantaneously there arose from that huge bulk such a bellow of pain as to cause Dan to shrink back, pressing himself against the wall to avoid discovery by those who so certainly would rush out to ascertain the cause of such terrific outcry.

Enthralled, his eyes followed those two figures, swaying and gyrating now on the brink of the stairs. Astonishingly, though those bull-like bellows continued shatteringly to ring out, the tiger appeared to make no effort to release his hand from the other's arm. More surprising still, it was as though by means of that hold Ho Wang was pulling him inch by inch toward the stairhead.

For an instant they seemed to sway precariously on the brink. Then, with a final scream from the tiger they disappeared. Thump by prodigious thump Dan heard their loud descent until, with a final shattering thud they stopped, apparently at the point where the staircase passed through' the floor immediately below.

A few minutes Dan waited, charged to the breaking point of expectancy, every moment anticipating some move or sign from Ho Wang.

None came, and the expectancy changed gradually to uncertainty. For while in that brief struggle at the stairhead had been every indication that the Chinaman had the situation very much in hand, and that his intention was that, willy-nilly, the tiger should accompany him down those precipitous stairs, always there was the possibility that in the fall it was he who had taken the greater hurt and that, thus disabled, the tiger had mastered him.

But, granting that, why had the latter not raised the alarm?

In any case, Dan decided at last, as there was no particular hurry, reprisals upon Larry the Marine would have to wait until he, Dan, was assured of the safety of Ho Wang.

With this object Dan hastened to the stairhead and down the steps. At the first break in the basement, where the stairs passed through the lower floor, where, also, had occurred that prodigious bump, was no sign either of the Chinaman or the tiger.

He followed then down the other flights, only to discover the trapdoor at the bottom tightly closed.

Wonderingly he opened it and dropped through; examined with his torch every inch of the way down that series of cellars. At points where the rubble was loose and powdery he saw signs that something heavy had been dragged along the ground, but toward the far end where the underfoot was hard, this petered out.

He mounted the steps, passed through the trapdoor and into the room.

The door was fast closed, and there was neither handle nor key. No stamping at the threshold or groping along the lintel and walls discovered any way whereby it could be opened.

He was trapped!

His heart beating with an apprehension he attempted desperately to beat down, he made his way back to the door through which so dramatically had appeared the tiger.

To his surprise it was opened still, and as obviously he could do no good here, and with the recollection of Ho Wang's last injunctions in mind, quickly and silently he slipped through. As if by the pressure of his feet on the farther side, the door swung to behind him.

He was in the passage, long, dimly lighted and thickly carpeted, with the far end cut off by a door, tightly closed.

It was that door he suspected that had shut off, also, the raucous cries of the tiger as so mysteriously Ho Wang had drawn him toward the stairhead. And like the closing of the one just negotiated, as Dan's foot touched the threshold, that stout and thickly padded barrier opened before him.

Then, but for the iron-bound arms which within a split second closed about him and that with gorilla, strength seemed literally to press the very life-blood from his veins, he would have screamed aloud.

The scene that met his eyes was one that the distorted mind of Doré might have conjured.

Set in the center of the room was a square, four-feet-high stage. In the center of that stage, its frame a glaring blood-red, was— a guillotine! And clasped in the embrace of the lunette, the dull and lifeless black of which was in such vivid contrast to the milk-white neck that it surrounded, and the ghastly pallor of the face and warm bronze of the hair that hung lifelessly above the hideous, sawdust-filled basket, lay— a girl.

But ingrained to the heart's core of it with horror as was this scene, there was to its stark agony a factor that elevated it to the purely satanic.

The blade, gleaming evilly in the harsh glare of the innumerable unshaded bulbs with which the room was lighted, was reinforced to incredible weight by bars of lead. And all that kept that blade from its descent was a thin steelwire cord threaded through an aperture in the frame. By means of a pulley suspended from the ceiling, the wire termifae at the figure who stood, frozen o immobility, in the far corner of the platform—a figure upon the quality of whose fortitude depended the life of her who, limp and unconscious, lay beneath the shadow of that accursed triangular blade.

For that man's feet were clamped to the floor, his right arm bound rigidly to his side. Of the left arm that was raised above his head, all fingers but the index were bound tightly to the palm, so that upon the forefinger, hooked so precariously through the ring with which that dangling wire terminated, rested the whole weight of the blade. And when, from sheer exhaustion, that finger straightened, the blade would fall.

And with a flood of ice-cold horror that paralyzed his strength so that he lay limp and inert in the grip of those gorilla arms, Dan realized that she who lay beneath the shadow of that razor-sharp and weighted knife was Dinah Conquest; that he whose failing forefinger was all that stood between herself and death was her father, Sir Redvers Conquest, commissioner of the metropolitan police.

22: Unmasked!

"WHAT is the meaning of this disturbance?" The voice, as cold as the tinkling of ice, came from the platform upon which, at a small table, was seated a man so small in stature as actually to be a dwarf; a man whose clear-cut, esthetic face shone with a veritable aura of evil; a man whom even in the paralyzed horror of the situation Dan knew to be the fount and inspiration of this saturnalia of murder and revenge.

And seated in a semicircle before that dire platform were a full half score of figures garbed in the same grotesque fashion as himself, the head of each a replica of some bird or beast; motionless, intent, their presence but adding to the horror of the scene.

It was the figure who held Dan who replied to that frozen voice—a tall man in the grasp of whose muscular strength Dan's own steel-wire agility was impotent.

"Sorry, Leader," he said. "It's necessary. This member failed to tap the code on the door before entering. Probably only forgetfulness, but it won't do to take chances."

"I presume he passed the tiger all right?" that cold voice came from the platform. And to Dan it was as though the pale eyes penetrated the slits in his mask to bore into his brain.

Nevertheless, even through his frenzy, his usual cold, clear mind was beginning once more to operate. To discover his true identity the man would have to remove his arms from about him, and this would enable Dan to dive for his automatic. In which the case the dividing line between life and death for that glacial, demoniac figure on the scaffold would be just one split second.

"Camorra!" he said loudly; and The Leader nodded.

Within arm's length of where Dan was held was an unoccupied seat.

"Release one arm," The Leader instructed his jailer in that same chill voice, "and allow the member to tap out the code for the evening on the back of that chair."

With the words Dan's heart took a flying leap into his throat. Once those instructions were obeyed, and particularly if it were his right hand that was given freedom, he would have the chance for which with all his soul he had been praying.

But the man who held him was taking no chances. Slowly, with infinite wariness, he loosened his grip, not upon Dan's right arm but upon his left, and beneath the folds of that voluminous cloak the pistol was on Dan's right. There was still a chance, but the odds were a thousand to one.

The odds failed. Watchful as a lynx, with a frenzied dive he made to pass the automatic from one hand to the other. He was wrenched backward as easily as a reed in a gale, while a hand, iron-hard and as merciless, closed about his wrist and with a vicious wrench twisted it so that the pistol fell with a clatter.

Then, with a sudden sweep, his captor snatched the mask from Dan's head.

Already he could see that the hand of the commissioner, the forefinger of which was hooked through the ring, was shaking as with ague; that the sweat was running in streams down the agonized face.

As a man awaits the crash of all upon which his life and hope is founded, for an incredibly long moment Dan's strained ears listened for the thud that would betoken the irrevocable end of the life of Dinah.

Instead, clear cut as an icicle and as cold, came The Leader's voice.

"Than, at this moment, Mr. Gravenhurst— for that, I make no doubt, is who you are— no visitor could be more welcome!"

Frantically Dan's eyes turned to the commissioner. In view of whatever faint vestige of hope remained of rescue, how long could that palsied finger sustain the weight of that incalculably loaded knife?

As Dan was opening his lips to frame distraught, incoherent words, that other voice came again— calm, measured.

"An outside, if not a disinterested witness, of a supreme example of poetic justice," The Leader remarked. "Our principal, though somewhat unwilling, guest to-night was instrumental in cutting short the life of my brother, and it is but equitable he should act in a similar capacity to his own daughter."

It seemed that that feverish consolation could not be for many minutes delayed. With a swift contraction of the throat that threatened completely to choke him, Dan saw how the commissioner swayed on his feet, how the blood had drained from his face, leaving it of ghastly pallor; that his eyes were glazing as one on the very outer edge of collapse. And with the collapse of Sir Redvers would fall, also, that dreadful, merciless blade.

"After which," that measured voice went on, "the guillotine will have a second victim—and a third."

The chuckle with which he checked himself was that of a cold, malignant fiend.

"For upon the principle which it is the trade of a police commissioner to sustain— that of a life for a life— it is only just that as he himself will then have been guilty of infanticide, the extreme penalty should be meted out to him."

He paused. Then:

"After which, as the recognized penalty for spying, you— yourself!"

Upon that awful assembly fell a silence in which, to Dan, only the throbbing of his own heart went to break the tense and palpitating horror of the stillness.

"Where is the tiger?"

Until that moment the obsession of his revenge had gripped The Leader to the exclusion of all other preoccupations. But now he looked about him impatiently and with quick suspicion.

Quietly confident, a deep voice in the entrance door said:

"Right here!"

A moment, and Dan had that gross, corpulent figure beside him. Lazily, but with the same quickness of movement that had characterized his lunge after the fleeing Ho Wang, he stooped to retrieve the fallen pistol.

Came then the crowning amazement of that awful and devastating night.

23: The Clean-Up

"NOW, gentlemen," the tiger said quietly, "each of you will put your hands above your heads!" Momentarily he paused. "And the one who makes any other movement will not have time to regret it because he will be very, very, dead," he added pleasantly ; but the eyes behind the insensate cruelty of his mask embraced comprehensively each figure in the room.

With an oath the ape of giant strength released his hold upon Dan, and with amazing swiftness struck out. But he was a second too slow. The man in the tiger mask shot him. In the instant that his jailer, a writhing, blaspheming heap, struck the floor, Dan felt his own pistol pressed into his hand.

It was an object lesson from which, with one exception, those of the semi- circle were not slow to profit. As though released by a spring, their hands and arms shot upward.

But simultaneously with Dan's frenzied rush to the platform, The Leader, with a pantherlike spring, was halfway across to the commissioner, who was by now almost unconscious.

One touch, and Sir Redvers' finger, resting now by the very tip, would have fallen inertly from the ring.

Dan shot from the hip and in mid-air The Leader was stricken. Into that livid face came a look of mild protest, of faint, chiding surprise before, in an attitude almost of prayer, he slumped upon his knees where, rocking for a moment, he remained. Then with a little sigh he fell forward, and from that position did not stir until, much later, they carried him away.

Dan, however, already had leaped upon the platform, with both hands tightly clasping the wire. Within a second the commissioner had fallen fainting to the floor.

A voice, loud and only faintly irritable, shouted:

"Hurry up, you fellers!"

Amazingly a voice came back, assured and reassuring:

"Coming, sir!"

Through the door filed a procession of stalwarts, in the hand of each a heavy Colt revolver of regulation pattern.

"And now," said Superintendent Parrot, "to get rid of this theatrical outfit." And with relieved hands he lifted the tiger mask from his head, swept the gown from his body and pulled the corpulent motor cushions from beneath his coat.

With quick strides he crossed the room and clambered onto the scaffold; with tender hands released the girl from the awful clutches of the lunette.

"Let 'er go, Mr. Gravenhurst," he called cheerily; and with a thud that even then brought a chill of horror to Dan's heart, the blade fell.

Bearing the still-unconscious Dinah in his arms, Dan followed Parrot to the passage outside. For it was inconceivable that she should regain her senses within sight of that dread guillotine. Leaving her to the care of Dan and her father, Parrot returned purposefully to the room where, handcuffed and abject, the ten —not nearly so impressive without the meretricious addition of gown and mask— were lined against the wall.

"Fetch that fat feller!" he instructed the sergeant, who saluted and went out. He returned with a grossly flabby and corpulent figure whose only anxiety appeared to be to render as much fulsome assistance as might be permitted to him.

"I'm shy one crook,' Parrot said curtly, "one that after him"— a lean thumb indicated the huddled and lifeless form of The Leader— "I want worst of any."

The gross man nodded slowly his enormous head. Almost it was as though for a fleeting instant the shadow of a smile crossed his loose and flaccid lips.

"You mean Larry the Marine?" he said.

"I mean Larry the Marine," Parrot confirmed. "Where is he?"

There was infinite meaning in the glance the fat man threw at him.

"Come," he said quietly, "and I'll show you."

"Any tricks from you, you fat crook," Parrot said decisively, "an' I'll fill you so full of lead you'll think you're a sinker for whale fishin'. Go on ahead!"

And with the barrel of an automatic pressing painfully into his spine, the fat man moved away.

They went through a door at the far corner of the room and down a short flight of steps to a cell-like apartment some six feet square—a cell in which the only objects were a bed, a chair, a wash-stand, a table upon which was a meal, a bottle half filled with whisky, an empty glass and, his arms flung wide among the débris of soiled dishes and broken food, the body of a man.

"After his work was done," the fat crook said quietly over his shoulder, "The Leader wasn't taking chances of his hireling getting away with the story." He paused, then added cynically: "Not with ten thousand pounds of good English money!"

Stepping forward, Parrot picked up the glass from which the dead man had drunk. At the bottom was a tiny white sediment.

"Cesar Borgia stuff, eh?" he diagnosed, and as the fat man nodded, Parrot added with careless satisfaction: "Oh, well, so long as he's dead—"

For the stiffened figure who there sprawled in front of them was Larry the Marine.

24: The Priceless Jewel.

IT was three days before Dinah, now fully recovered from the fall she had sustained in the struggle to reach her father, the fall that temporarily but mercifully had rendered her unconscious, was able to hear the story of her escape. And as she had not even seen the guillotine in the embrace of which for so long she had been held, she was able to bear the news tempered only with pity for her father.

"It was Ho Wang, of course, who was responsible for the rescue," Parrot said lazily with a glance at Dan. "When that fat feller came to the door to find that, instead of only the one required to make up the ten, there were two, Wang started backin' away so that the tiger'd make for him and so give you a chance to slip through the door. He remembered suddenly that though he'd given you the password he'd clean fo
gotten to teach you the rapped-out code necessary to admit you into the inner room. There's no doubt that, owin' to you havin' saved his life from some plug-uglies who were out to pinch a parcel of his jewels, he liked you a whole lot, an' for all he knew he'd sent you to your death."

Dan nodded.

"I get you," he said. "The omission of that code made things a bit awkward."

Parrot, too, nodded.

"It was because Wang realized this," he said quietly, "that, though he knew he was layin' himself open to a long stretch in doin' so, he put through a hurry-up call for me. While my boys were assemblin' for battle, so to speak, I came ahead in the fastest car I could lay hands on. Wang took me through a concealed door in that ground-floor room with the shuttered window to where, trussed like a chicken, he'd got the tiger— who was unconscious. I was all for waitin' till the boys came before makin' the raid, but Wang said if I wanted to see you alive there wasn't a moment to spare. So I pinched the tiger's cloak and mask, made myself look fat with motor cushions, an' just pushed on ahead to see what I could do."

Dan had turned rather pale. He was thinking what, but for the chance rescue of Ho Wang and his jewels, Dinah's fate would have been.

Then a sudden thought struck him.

"By the way," he said, "what had Ho Wang done to his arm to be able to drag the tiger along with him?"

Parrot's expressionless face lighted to something nearly approaching a grin.

"The old apache stunt," he answereds "Sewed his sleeve full of fishhooks, but needle-sharp with whacking big barbs. Once the tiger's hand closed over those he'd have had to tear his fingers to ribbons to release himself."

Dinah looked up, speaking for the first time.

"Surely Ho Wang won't be punished?" she demanded quickly. "After all he's done?"

"As king's evidence," Parrot replied, "he won't get a day."

Lazily he dived into his pocket and produced a tiny parcel which he passed over to Dinah.

"He said would I give you this, Miss Conquest," he said.

Wonderingly she took it— and with an exclamation of amazement and delight the tiny box dropped from her fingers, as she held up a diamond-and-emerald ring almost dazzling in its beauty.

"For the love of Mike!" Dan exclaimed, and from the box extracted a card. He read aloud:

Will the honorable lady graciously be pleased to accept this so insignificant trinket from the hands of the humble

Ho Wang.

Something of a connoisseur, the commissioner stretched out his hand for the ring which, still rather dazedly, Dinah dropped into his palm.

For a long moment Sir Redvers gazed into the heart and mystery of those magnificent stones.

"You might like to know," he said quietly at last, indicating the emerald— flawless and of unbelievable brilliance, "that as a jewel this is both unique and absolutely priceless."

Dan's arm stole through that of Dinah.

"But neither so unique for so priceless as mine," he said.

__________________

Index to Past Masters Nos 61-66

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

F. Anstey

Taken By Surprise  66

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

The Artificial Honeymoon 66

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

A Literary Secret  66

Scarsley Moor Mystery  66

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

E. M. Delafield

The Luggage in the Hall  66

L C Douthwaite

13: The London Guillotine 66

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

Rejuvenation 66

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 Glasgow Phantom 66

The Homestretch 61

Where Early Fa's the Dew 65

Frederick Graves

White Flame  62

Fred V Green

Markham's New Partner 65

Nathaniel Hawthorne

The Great Stone Face 66

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

Henry Leverage

Black Light 66

The Crimp 66

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

Thorne Smith

Birthday Present 66

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

The Purple Terror 66

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 Luggage in the Hall / E. M. Delafield

- 2: A Literary Secret / Percy James Brebner
- 3: Taken By Surprise / F. Anstey
- 4: The Purple Terror / Fred Merrick White

- 5: The Artificial Honeymoon / H Bedford-Jones

- 6: The Great Stone Face / Nathaniel Hawthorne

- 7: Black Light / Henry Leverage
- 8: The Crimp / Henry Leverage
- 9: Birthday Present / Thorne Smith
- 10: The Glasgow Phantom / Guy Gilpatric
- 11: Rejuvenation / Arthur Gask

- 12: Scarsley Moor Mystery / Percy J. Brebner

- 13: The London Guillotine / L C Douthwaite

- Cumulative Index numbers 61-66