PAST MASTERS

SIXTY-SEVEN

5 March, 2022

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: Calbot's Rival / Julian Hawthorne

2: The Umbrosa Burglary / R. C. Lehmann

3: The End of Sherlock Holmes / "A. E. P."

4: In the Money / Arthur Somers Roche (novelette)

5: The Sky Woman / Charles B. Stilson

6: Murgatroyd's Wife / Halliwell Sutcliffe

7: Handsome Jack / Halliwell Sutcliffe

8: Miss Phyllis Brown / Halliwell Sutcliffe

9: Silver Plated / W. L. Alden

10: The Wild Man of Borneo / W. L. Alden

11: After the Comet / W. L. Alden

12: A Jury of Her Peers / Susan Glaspell

13: Crooked Charity / Henry Leverage

Cumulative Index #61-67

____________________

1: Calbot's Rival

Julian Hawthorne

1846-1934

The Laughing Mill and Other Stories, 1879

THE BITTER cold weather out of doors made the cosy glow of my little library even more than usually grateful. I had carried the warm and bright anticipation of it close-buttoned under my top-coat throughout my cold drive in the hansom from the South-Western Railway Station to my rooms on the Thames Embankment. But now, as I stepped in and shut the door behind me, I found I had done it less than justice.

The four comfortable walls gave a broad smile of welcome, which was multitudinously repeated from the well-known back of every beloved book. Softly gleamed the Argand burner from the green-topped study table; hospitably flickered the blazing Wallsend from the wide-mouthed grate; seductive was the invitation extended me by padded easy-chair, fox-skin hearthrug, and toasted slippers; crisp was the greeting of the evening's Pall Mall lying on the table; and solid the promise of the latest Contemporary, containing, as I knew, my article on "Unrecognisable Truths in their Relation to Non-existent Phenomena." Bethinking myself, moreover, of the decanter of matchless old port-wine in the right-hand cupboard of the table, and of the box of prime Cabanas, made to my own order in Habana, in the drawer on the left, I was not so much disposed to envy Calbot his late betrothal to the beautiful Miss Burleigh, the news whereof he had triumphantly poured into my bachelor ears a week or two before.

"Never mind, Drayton, old fellow," I muttered to myself, as I pushed off my boots and slid my feet into the toasted slippers; "what matter though love, courtship, and marriage be not for thee? Thou hast yet thy luxuries"— here I sank slowly into my easy-chair, "thy creature comforts"— here I got out the wine and the cigars, "and thy beloved offspring!"— here I glanced at "Unrecognisable Truths," &c., printed on the cover of the Contemporary.

While I am pouring out and tasting a mellow glass of port, let me briefly recall what and whence I am.

Snugness, comfort, and privacy are my desiderata. My visible possessions must be few, intrinsically valuable, and so disposed as to lie within the scope of two or three paces and an outstretched arm. My being a bachelor (and at the age of forty, I think I may add a confirmed one) enables me to indulge these and other whims conveniently and without embarrassment.

My forefathers kept large establishments and had big families— and plenty of bother and discomfort into the bargain. But when my turn came, I sold out everything (except a few old heirlooms, and a part of the library, and an ancestral portrait or two), put the cash proceeds in the Funds, and myself, with my literary tastes and æsthetic culture, into the rooms which I now occupy. I might live in a much more grandiose style if I pleased, but in my opinion I am very well off as I am. I can find my way to Freemasons' Tavern on occasions; my essays are a power in the philosophic and theologic worlds; and I can count on a friend or two worth their weight in gold, morally, mentally, and materially. Poor Calbot, to be sure— but more of him anon.

That is old Dean Drayton's portrait, over the mantelpiece— taken one hundred and fifty years ago: an ancestor and namesake of mine. He wrote a pamphlet on witchcraft, or something of that sort, which made a stir in its day. I had thoughts of entering the ministry myself a long while ago; I think it was about the time of my engagement to Miss Seraphine Angell— the Bishop of Maresnest's daughter. But when she jil—  when the affair was discontinued I had second thoughts, ending in the resolve to let both women and the ministry severely alone for the future. So the name of Drayton dies with me.

There is, I fancy, at once a curious similarity and dissimilarity between the Dean and his descendant. For one thing, we are both of us singularly liable to be made confidants of delicate subjects; with this difference, however, that whereas the Dean is— or was— an old busybody (I am quoting history, not my private judgment), my natural tendency is not only to mind my own business, but to tell other people to mind theirs. It's no use, though— they only babble the more; and were I to lose all my fortune, I could, by turning black-mailer, ensure a permanent income twice as large as the one I have now.

Another thing. The Dean was an alchemist— so tradition says; and his descendant has a marked taste for scientific subjects, though not of the occult kind. One of the family heirlooms, by-the-way, was a monument of the Dean's alchemic skill; it was a large sealed vase or phial, ornamented with cabalistic figures and inscriptions, and affirmed to contain the veritable Elixir Vitæ, manufactured after years of labour by the old gentleman, and corked up and put away for future use. It unfortunately happened, however, that he was killed by an upset of his coach, away from home; and the vase remained sealed ever afterwards. I have often thought of taking a little out and analysing it; for even should it turn out not to be the water of life, I thought it might possibly resolve itself into a bottle of excellent brandy. But I delayed too long; and at last the mysterious phial very unexpectedly analysed itself, and dissipated itself at the same moment— but, again, let me not anticipate.

ii

I FINISHED my first glass of wine, poured out another, and taking up the Contemporary turned to the masterly discussion of "Unrecognisable Truths," &c. Before I had reached the close of the opening period, however, I heard the postman's knock.

I ought to have mentioned that I had been down to Richmond that afternoon— an unusual thing for me to do at that time of year. But the fact was that a distant connection of mine had died a short time before, and his effects were announced to be sold at auction. I had reason to believe that among these effects were some old relics of my family— documents and so forth— which I was interested to recover; indeed, but that some foolish quarrel or other had parted my relative and me years ago, I might doubtless have had them at any time for the asking. Of the precise nature of the documents in question I was not precisely informed; Armstrong— such was my relative's name— had taken care not to enlighten me on the subject. When I read the announcement of his death in The Times I had half expected that he might have bequeathed me the old things; but it turned out that he had made no will at all, having, as it appeared, no very great property to dispose of. He was a queer fellow, and came of a queer family; half insane I always considered them; and I know they were suspected of witchcraft as long ago as the time of our old Dean. Nay, the Dean himself was whispered to have been the least bit overshadowed at that epoch, owing, I understand, to one fussy habit he had of encouraging confidences. One of these Armstrong witches had communicated some devilish secret or other to the reverend gentleman, I suppose, and thus brought ill-repute upon him. However, the Dean was no fool, and got out of the scrape by writing that pamphlet on witchcraft.

Well, I was about to say that when I heard of the sale I resolved to run over to Richmond and see what I could pick up. I got there just in time to see the last lot knocked down. It was shockingly stupid of me to have mistaken the hour— such a cold day, too, and I so unaccustomed to running about the country at that time of year. But there was no help for it; I had to return as wise as I started, and the poorer by the loss of my temper and expectations. I was beginning to get in a good humour again, however, what with my fire, and my cigar, and my article on "Truths," &c., and partly, no doubt, by reason of the genial effect of that old port-wine; besides, I am by no means of a sour disposition, naturally; when all of a sudden came the postman's knock, making me start so that the ash of my cigar fell on the open page of the Contemporary and scorched a hole in it. Postmen have always been a horror to me; I have never enjoyed receiving letters since the date of a certain missive from— from someone who is now the wife of another man; and on this particular evening I was more than commonly averse to any such interruption. I laid my book on my knees, leaned back in my chair, and blew an irritated cloud of smoke towards the painted countenance of my ecclesiastical ancestor over the fireplace. It curled and twisted about his respectable visage, until I could almost have believed that he winked one eye and moved his ancient lips as if to speak.

The servant brought in a square packet done up in brown wrapping-paper, and sealed in half-a-dozen places. It was about the size and shape of the magazine I had been reading— a little thicker, perhaps, and heavier. I put my name to the receipt accompanying the parcel, and the servant went out.

At first I was disposed to let the thing lie unopened till the next day, being well assured that it would not repay examination: and I actually did put it aside and attempt to resume my reading as though no interruption had occurred. But I found it impossible to get on, or to fix my thoughts upon anything except just that parcel. What could be in it? Who could have sent it? I looked at the direction, but could make nothing out of that; it was written in an ordinary business hand, quite characterless and non-committal. I felt it carefully all over; it was stiffer than ordinary paper, but not hard like wood. Meanwhile I glanced up at my pictured ancestor, and was struck with the expression of anxious interest which appeared to have come over his features. Perhaps he knew what the packet contained; or more probably his ruling passion of curiosity, strong in death, was making his old painted fingers itch to break the seals and take a peep at the mystery. The idea provoked me, and with a sudden impulse I held the packet out over the blazing Wallsend, two-thirds minded to drop it in. But the next moment I was more provoked at my own childish folly. I drew the thing back, took my penknife from my pocket, and cut the strings that tied it. Unwrapping the paper, there was disclosed to view a very antique-looking leather case or cover— a pocketbook or portfolio to all appearance. I undid the worn strap that fastened it, and it fell open, showing a number of leaves of musty parchment, written over with a quaint and crabbed chirography, such as could not have been in vogue for a good deal more than a century, to say the least.

iii

I AM something of an antiquary, and not entirely without experience of MS. older even than this appeared to be. Having convinced myself by a cursory inspection that the matter was worth looking into, I lost no time in composing myself to its perusal.

It was written in Latin— a fortunate circumstance, since there was none of the difficulty attendant upon old-fashioned bad spelling to contend with. The substance of the writing consisted, so far as I was able to make out, of extracts from a number of private letters, supplemented by passages from the pages of a journal and by occasional observations made apparently in the transcriber's own person. The combination formed a tolerably consecutive and logical history of three individuals— a woman and two men— who lived and loved and hated with the antiquated vehemence of a century and a half ago.

An odd circumstance which was immediately noticeable in the compilation was a systematic omission of the names of all the actors in the events narrated. A blank space of some length was left for each one, as though the writer had intended filling them in afterwards, but, for whatever cause, had failed to do so. Even the scribe himself— he was a friend or confidential adviser, as it seemed, of the principal figure in the narrative— had suffered himself to remain as nameless as the rest.

This omission affected me strangely. So far from alienating my interest, it greatly augmented it; and although the body of the writing was couched in terms sufficiently dry and matter-of-fact, the blank spaces gave rein to the imagination, and lent the story a present and almost a personal vitality and significance. It almost seemed to me that the matter was, in some way or other, my individual concern— that I was, or had been, involved in the incidents here set forth, and had still to look forward to the catastrophe. The potent port, I fancy, must have a little o'ercrowed my spirit; but I believe I ascribed it, at the same time, to the peculiar influence exerted over me by the portrait of my reverend ancestor. He seemed positively to be alive, and preparing to come down from his frame and take the MS. into his own possession.

I spent a long time in trying to find out whence the MS. came, and why it had been sent to me. But to this problem there was no apparent clue— no tangible evidence, external or internal. Of course I was sure that the secret lay in the blank spaces; and was half inclined to cut the knot by filling them up with my own name and with those of the first three friends of mine that happened to come into my head. However, after quite working myself into a fever, and ruining the flavour of my Cabana by letting it go out and then relighting it, I finally contented myself by stopping the pregnant gaps with the first four letters of the alphabet; and thus furnished forth, I buckled earnestly and steadily to my work, progressing so rapidly that in less than three hours' time I had mastered the whole narrative.

It was an unpleasant story, certainly, but there was nothing particularly weird or remarkable, after all, in the incidents related. From a literary point of view, it was greatly lacking in point and completeness; for though it ended with the death of the chief character and the marriage of the other two, yet the interest of the reader advanced beyond the written limits, and demanded a more definite conclusion. Things were left at such loose ends, in spite of death and marriage, that it was hard not to believe that more remained behind. In the heated and excited condition of my imagination, I felt strongly tempted to snatch up my pen and improvise an ending on my own responsibility.

The longer I mused over the matter the more convinced did I become that all had not been told. Moreover, I could almost fancy that I had some occult perception of what the true and ultimate conclusion really was; nay, even that the authorship of this very MS., which had been penned considerably more than a hundred years before I was born, was nevertheless mystically my own. I repeat, there seemed to be something of myself in it; and the events had an inexplicable sort of familiarity to my mind, as though they were long forgotten, rather than now known for the first time. And all the while that alchemic progenitor of mine kept up his mysterious winking and nodding.

It would be too long and tedious to transcribe the tale as I read it; I will therefore give, as briefly as possible, an abstract of the leading points round which it was woven.

iv

SHORTLY before the beginning of the last century, a wealthy gentleman— let us call him A.— made a proposal for the hand of a young lady living in the neighbourhood of London, the daughter of an excellent family, though at that time somewhat reduced in circumstances, probably in consequence of political jealousies. Judging from what is said of her, this young lady— Miss B.— must have been a famous beauty; and it would not therefore be surprising if A. had met with some rivalry in his suit. To all appearances, however, the course of true love flowed as smooth as oil. The B. family, in spite of their political disaffection, did not oppose the marriage of their daughter to so wealthy and respectable a suitor; and if she herself had any disinclination to him, she very probably and prudently said nothing about it, but treated Mr. A. very graciously.

A.'s property, and the general management of his business affairs, were entrusted by him to the care of a talented young barrister, C. by name; who, indeed, largely owed his prosperity and brilliant prospects to A.'s kindness, the latter having aided him in his preparation for the Bar, and afterwards put a great deal of business in his way, which otherwise he would have obtained but slowly. In fact, A's attitude towards this young man was almost parental; and no wonder if he felt himself secure in trusting his most private concerns to one who owed him so deep a debt of gratitude.

Nevertheless, it would doubtless have been wiser in him, a man somewhat advanced in life, not to have made C. the bearer and utterer of his loving messages to the lady of his heart, quite so often or so unreservedly as he appears to have done. C., who was probably a well-favoured and fascinating fellow enough, must have seen more of Miss B. than did her lover; and in his capacity of the latter's recognised confidant, he could easily have obtained access to her at any moment. Perhaps the young beauty was not averse to a little flirtation with the handsome and clever barrister. Perhaps she encouraged him; the evidence, such as it is, would seem to point that way. Be that as it may, we must admit that C. was exposed to pretty strong temptation. His virtue, be he who he might, must have had a struggle for it; and if we imagine him rather warm-blooded and tolerably weak-principled, we may be justly anxious as to virtue's victory.

Having made what allowances we will, there is no denying that C. turned out a great scoundrel. A. one morning took his carriage and went up to London, and the coachman stopped at the door of the Court jeweller. Out steps Mr. A., with his velvet cloak, his silk stockings, his plumed hat, and his peaked beard; and, with his long rapier dangling at his side, and his lace ruffles half concealing his white hands, he makes his stately entry into the bowing tradesman's shop. There he spends a long time examining, with all the whimsical particularity of an elderly lover, the trays upon trays of rare, rich, and costly nicknacks which are set before him. It seems as though he would never be suited. The pompous horses, standing outside, shake their rattling head-gear and stamp their proud hoofs impatiently; the obsequious jeweller racks his brain and exhausts his eloquence unavailingly. Never was there so difficult a customer. At length the man of jewels picks up a quaint-looking little locket, and is just on the point of putting it down again, as not even worth the trouble of offering, when Mr. A. exclaims:

"Hold, Mr. Jeweller, that is what we are looking for. What is the price of that locket?"

"Oh sir," replies the shrewd man of business, quickly recovering from his first surprise, "I see you need not be informed of what is truly valuable. This little locket, which most persons would look upon as commonplace, is in fact, in more senses than one, the jewel of my stock. It is made, you perceive, out of a simple brown tourmaline, exquisitely cut in relief. The workmanship is really matchless, and the tourmaline itself— as perhaps you are aware— is believed to be endowed with certain mystic properties—"

"Yes, yes, Mr. Jeweller," interrupts the dark-visaged customer, in a somewhat testy tone; "I know the nature and properties of the trinket quite as well as you do. What I desired of you was to name your price."

The tradesman hesitated for a moment, and then, summoning all his audacity to his aid, mentioned a sum which made his own heart beat and his eyes water. But the composure of Mr. A. was not dashed a whit. He even appeared to smile a little satirically, as though to intimate that he considered himself as having altogether the best of the bargain. He paid the money without a moment's demur, and taking up the locket before the excited jeweller had time to put it in a box for him, Mr. A. saluted him gravely and stalked out of the shop.

"Well," thought the tradesman, as he watched the heavy coach roll away, "if he's satisfied, I'm sure I ought to be. And yet— I wonder what that locket was after all! I don't remember having ever noticed it amongst the stock before to-day. It really was finely enchased, and may have been more valuable than I supposed. But pshaw! fifty guineas! Such a stroke of business was never heard of before. If the locket had been a witch's amulet, with power to drive men mad or raise the Devil, I should still have made a good profit!"

Meanwhile Mr. A. was speeding on his way to his betrothed. The fact is, they were to be married on the morrow, and the honest gentleman had bought the locket as a pre-nuptial gift. Probably the horses, fleet and well-conditioned as they were, were somewhat put to it to keep pace with their owner's eagerness to be at the end of his journey. In due time, however, behold them reined snorting up at the gateway of the B. mansion, and Mr. A., locket in hand, preparing to alight.

But, alas! it is too evident that some disaster has occurred. The servant who opens the door is pale and scared; the household is in disorder. Twice does the visitor demand news of the master and mistress before he can elicit a reply.

"Present them my compliments, if they are at leisure," continues Mr. A., "and ask whether I may request the honour of an interview with their daughter."

"Lord bless me, sir!" falters the trembling servant, "haven't you heard—"

"Heard what?" says A., turning pale; "what is the matter, fellow? Is the young lady ill?"

"Ill, sir? Lord bless me, sir, she— she's gone!"

Mr. A. recoiled, and seemed to gasp for breath for a moment. His face, from pale, became suddenly overspread with a deep crimson flush, and the veins on his forehead swelled. At length he burst out in a terrible voice:

"Gone? Where? With whom?"

But at this point the appearance of the master and mistress relieved the wretched footman from his unenviable position. The miserable story was soon told. The young lady to whom Mr. A. had entrusted his heart and honour, to whom he was to have been united the next day, whose wedding gift he even then held in his hand, had eloped the night before in the good old-fashioned manner, and was by this time far beyond the reach of pursuit, could pursuit have availed. The flight had been six hours old before it was discovered by the young lady's mother.

"But with whom? with whom? Who was the villain who dared to rob me?" cried Mr. A., storming up and down the hall in ungovernable fury. "Who was it, madam, I say? Stop your wretched whimpering and speak!"

"Dear me, Mr. A.," quavered the poor lady, struggling with her sobs, "can't you think? Why, it's that young Mr. C. of yours, of course. Who else could it be?"

At this reply, which he seems not in the least to have expected, Mr. A. became suddenly and appallingly calm. During a short space he made neither sound nor movement. At length he slowly uplifted one clenched hand above his head, and shook it there with a kind of sluggish deliberation. To the frightened and hushed spectators it seemed as if the air grew dark around him as he did it. Still without uttering a word he now partly unclosed his hand, and there was seen to proceed from it a dusky glow or gleam, as of phosphorescence. Drawing in a deep breath, he exhaled it slowly over this phosphorescent appearance, as if desirous of inspiring it with the very essence of his being. If the account is to be believed, the glow became more lurid, and the tall figure of Mr. A. more sombre, with the action.

Whatever this odd ceremony might mean, it had the good effect of restoring the betrayed suitor to his wonted courteous and grave self-possession. In a manner at once earnest and dignified he besought Mr. and Mrs. B. to pardon and overlook his late violent and passionate demeanour.

"I have erred deeply," added he, "in permitting, even for a short time, that evil spirit which is ever at hand to ensnare the rash and unwary to gain dominion over me. For, alas! what right have I to be angry? Your daughter, methinks, has better reason to upbraid me than I her. What charm could such a one as she is find in a graybeard like myself? Truly, I blame her not, and sorrow only that she did not frankly make known to me her disfavour, rather than thus violently and suddenly cast me off. And as for the partner of her flight, how can I do otherwise than pardon him? Have I not trusted him and loved him as a son? Nay, nay, I have been an old fool— an old fool; but I will not be an unforgiving one. See," he went on, in the same quiet and colourless tone in which he had spoken throughout, "here is a trifle which I had purposed presenting to your daughter as a symbol of my affection. It is a jewel, curiously carven as you see, and fabled to exert a benign and wholesome influence over the wearer. How that may be, I know not; but sure am I that aught freighted, like this, with the deepest prayers and most earnest hopes of him who had thought (a foolish thought— I see it now!) to win the highest place in her regard, will not be refused by her when, acknowledging my error, I beg her to accept it as the gift of elder friend to friend. Permit me, madam"— he laid the locket in Mrs. B.'s hand, she half shrinkingly receiving it; "you will soon hear from your daughter and her husband"— this word he pronounced with a certain grave emphasis—"and your reply, let me venture to hope, will tend to a speedy reconciliation. Present her, in my name and with my blessing, with this gem; bid her transmit it as an heirloom to her descendants; and believe that, so long as it retains its form and virtue, my spirit will not forget this solemn hour."

Having delivered himself of this long-winded and not altogether unambiguous speech, good Mr. A. bowed himself out, and rumbled away in his stately coach. Shortly afterwards the abdication of James II. was known throughout England. The B.'s rose at once from their position of political obscurity to an honoured and powerful place under the new régime. C., who now turned out to have been for a long time a plotter for the successful cause, was not long afterwards installed as a Court favourite, and his beautiful wife became the idol of society. Poor Mr. A., on the other hand, had a sour time of it. He had been bitterly opposed to the Prince of Orange, and naturally found his present predicament an embarrassing one. He appears to have met with quite an Iliad of misfortunes and reverses; and a few years after William's accession he died.

The general opinion was that he had devoted his latter days to religious exercises. Certain it is, that he was on terms of intimacy with an eminent divine of the day; indeed, a careful analysis of references satisfied me that the compiler of the mysterious MS. and this divine could be no other than one and the same person. And the inference thence that he had died in the odour of sanctity would have been easy enough, save for one discordant and sinister circumstance.

This was reserved for the very last paragraph of the narrative, and shed a peculiar and ill-omened light over all that had gone before. It was related in the transcriber's own person; and after describing with some minuteness the last hours of Mr. A., it concluded as follows. I translate from the original Latin:

"Mr. A. having long lain without motion, breathing hoarsely, and with his eyes half open, and of a rigid and glazed appearance, as of a man already dead— all at once raised himself up in bed, with a strength and deliberation altogether unexpected; and having once or twice passed his hand over his brow, and coughed slightly in his throat, he said to me:

"'Take your pen, friend, and write. I will now dictate my last will and testament.'

"It appeared to me that he must be delirious both because he had, several hours previous, caused his will to be brought to him and read in his ear (this will bore date before the date of his intended marriage with Miss B.), and also because his aspect, notwithstanding the strength of his movements and voice, was more that of a corpse than of a living man; and he might have been believed, by those who put faith in such superstitions, to be animated by some unhallowed spirit not his own.

"But when I showed him that former will, supposing him to have forgotten it, he bade me put it in the fire; and when this had been done, and the will consumed, he bade me write thus:

" 'I, — —  A., being nowe about to die, yet knowynge well the nature of this my act, doe herebye bequeathe my ondyinge Hatred to C. and to his wife (formerly Miss B.), to them and to their Posteritie. And I doe herebye pray Almighty God that the Revenge which my Soule hath desired and conceived, be fulfilled to the uttermoste, whether soon or hereafter: yea, at the perill of my Salvation. Amen!' "

This Satanic composition was duly signed, sealed, and witnessed as A.'s last will and testament; and the latest earthly act of the wretched man was the affixing his signature to an instrument which, whatever other end it might accomplish, could hardly fail of exercising its deadliest venom against himself.

v

I LIT a fresh cigar, poured out another glass of wine, and gave myself up to meditation. Those blank spaces completely mystified me. For what other object had this lengthy transcription been made than to record A.'s "last will," and the causes leading up to and (so far as that was possible) justifying it? Yet, on the other hand, the careful omission of every clue whereby the persons concerned might have been identified seemed to annul and stultify the laborious record of their actions. Or if the composition were a mere fiction, why not have invented names as well as incidents?

But fiction, I was satisfied, it could not be. It was not the fashion to compose such fictions a hundred and fifty or more years ago. And it was not within the scope of such an arid old specimen of the antique clergy as he whose stilted Latin and angular chirography I had just examined to follow such a fashion even had it existed. No, no. Account for it how I might, the things here set down were facts, not fancies.

The will was the only part of the compilation written in English, as though it were especially commended to the knowledge of all men; and it was certainly not the sort of thing a dying man would be apt to compose and have attested purely for his own amusement. Yet, as it stood, it was no more than a lifeless formula. But, indeed, so far as this feature of the narrative was concerned, the subtlest casuistry failed to enlighten me as to what Mr. A.'s proposed revenge had been, and how he expected it to be accomplished. An attempt to make the tourmaline locket serve as a key to the enigma promised well at first, but could not quite be induced to fit the lock after all. Either the problem was too abstruse, or my head was not in the best condition for solving it. The longer I puzzled over it, the more plainly did my inefficiency appear; and at last I came to the very sensible determination to go to bed, and hope for clearer faculties on the morrow.

I had just finished winding up my watch, which marked half-past ten, when there was a violent ring at my door-bell, followed by a rattling appeal to the knocker.

"A telegram!" I exclaimed, falling back in my chair. "The only thing I detest more than a postman. Well, the postman brought an enigma; perhaps the telegram may contain the solution."

It was not a telegram, but Calbot, to whom I have already made incidental allusion. He opened the library door without knocking, came swiftly in, and walked up to the fire. This abruptness of manner, which was by no means proper to him, added to something very peculiar in his general aspect and expression, gave me quite a start.

He was dressed in light in-door costume, and, in spite of the cold, wore neither top-coat nor gloves. His face had a pallor which would have been extraordinary in anyone, but in a man whose cheek was ordinarily so ruddy and robust as Calbot's, it was almost ghastly. He said nothing for some moments, but seemed to be struggling with an irrepressible and exaggerated physical tremor, resembling St. Vitus's dance. I must say that my nerves have never been more severely tried than by this unexpected apparition, in so strange a guise, of a friend whom I had always looked upon as about the most imperturbable and common-sensible one I had. He was a young man, but older than his years, clear-headed, practical, clever, an excellent lawyer, and a fine fellow. Eccentricity of any kind was altogether foreign to his character. Something very unpleasant, I apprehended, must be at the bottom of his present profound and uncontrollable agitation.

Of course I jumped up after the first shock, and shook his hand— which, notwithstanding the cold weather and his own paleness, was dry and hot. I fancied Calbot hardly knew where he was or what he was doing; not that he seemed delirious, but rather overwhelmingly preoccupied about something altogether hateful and ugly.

"What's the matter, John?" I said, instinctively using a sharp tone, and laying my hand heavily on his shoulder. "Are you ill?" Then a thought struck me, and I added: "Nothing wrong about Miss Burleigh, I hope?"

"Drayton," said my friend— his utterance was interrupted somewhat by the nervous starts and twitches which still mastered his efforts to control them—"something terrible has happened. I wanted to tell you. I can't fathom it. Drayton, I've seen— —  May I take a glass of wine?"

He drank two glasses in quick succession. As he hardly ever touched wine, there was no little significance in the act. The rich old liquor evidently did him good. To tell the truth, I would rather have given him some brandy. He was not in a state to appreciate a fine flavour, and my port was as rare as it was good. However, I was really concerned about him, and would gladly have given the whole decanterful to set him right again.

He would not take a chair, but stood on the rug with his back to the fire. As I sat looking up at his tall figure, I caught the painted eye of my priestly ancestor over his shoulder, and it seemed to me to twinkle with saturnine humour.

"Well, what have you seen, Calbot?"

"Some evil thing has come between Miss Burleigh and me, and has parted us. I have seen it— two or three times. She has felt it. It's killing her, Drayton. As for me.... You know me pretty well, and you know what my life has been thus far. I've not been a good man, of course— quite the contrary; I've done any quantity of bad things, but I don't know that I've committed any such hideous sin as ought to bring a punishment like this upon me— not to speak of her! I'm not a parricide, nor an adulterer; I never sold my salvation to the devil— did I, Drayton?"

"No, no, of course not, my dear Calbot. You have a fever, that's all. Don't get excited. Just lie down on the sofa for half an hour, and quiet yourself a little."

"I see you think I'm out of my head, and no wonder. I behave like a madman. But I'm not mad at all; I wish I could think I were. This shuddering— it won't last— but I tell you, Drayton, when you see a man of my health and strength stricken this way in two days, you may believe it would have driven many a man to madness, or to suicide—"

"Let me pour it out for you; your hand shakes so. I can give you some splendid French cognac, if you'd prefer it? Well. Hadn't you better lie down?"

"Come, I can control myself, now— I will!" said Calbot, through his teeth, and putting a strong constraint upon himself. For about a minute he kept silent, the blood gradually coming into his cheeks and the nervous twitchings growing less frequent.

"That's better," said I, encouragingly. "You don't look so much as though you'd seen a ghost, now. How is that Chancery case of yours getting on?"

"A ghost? You speak lightly enough, and I suppose your idea of a ghost is some conventional bogey such as children are scared with. We laugh at such things— heaven knows why! An evil, sin-breathing spirit, coming from hell to take vengeance, for some dead and buried wrong, upon living men and women— what is there laughable in that?"

"Really, Calbot," I said, with a smile— a rather uneasy smile, be it admitted—"I never laughed at a ghost, for the simple reason that I never saw one to laugh at."

"You never saw one, and you mean to hint, I suppose, that there are none to see?"

"Well," returned I, still maintaining a precarious grimace, "I'm not a spiritualist, you know—"

"Nor I," interrupted Calbot, in a lower and quieter tone than he had yet used. He took a chair, and, sitting down close in front of me, bent forward and whispered in my ear: "But I saw the soul of a dead man yesterday; and this afternoon I saw it again, and chased it from the Burleighs' house in Mayfair, along the Strand, and through the heart of London, to its grave in St. G— — 's churchyard. I copied the inscription on the stone: it is a very old one, as you will see by the date."

A far bolder man than I have ever claimed to be might have felt his heart stand still at this speech; and its effect on me was greatly heightened by Calbot's tone and manner, and by the way he fastened his eyes upon me. Nor were the circumstances in other respects reassuring— alone at night, with a man three or four times my physical equal, who was wholly emancipated from rational control. I sat quite still for a few moments— very long moments they seemed to me— staring helplessly at Calbot, who took a small notebook out of his pocket, tore out a leaf with something scrawled on it, and handed it to me. I read it mechanically—"Archibald Armstrong. Died February 6th, 1698." Meanwhile Calbot helped himself to another glass of wine; but I was too much unnerved to restrain him, and, indeed, too much bewildered.

"Archibald Armstrong," muttered I, repeating the name aloud; "died February 6th— yes; but it was this present year 1875— not 1698. Why, I went to the auction-sale of his effects this very afternoon!"

"Keep the paper," said Calbot, not noticing my observation, "it may possibly lead to something. And now I wish you to listen to my statement. I am neither crazy, Drayton, nor intoxicated. But I am not the same man you have known heretofore; my life has been seared— blasted. Perhaps you think my language extravagant; but after what I have experienced there can be no such thing as extravagance for me. It is an awful thing," he added, with a long involuntary sigh, "to have been face to face with an evil spirit!"

"In Heaven's name, Calbot," cried I, starting up from my chair, and trembling all over, I believe, from nervous excitement, "don't go on talking and looking like that. If you can tell me a straightforward, consistent story, I'll listen to it; but these hints and interjections of yours will drive me mad!"

"I'm going to tell you, Drayton, though it will be the next worst thing to meeting that—  Thing—  itself, to tell about it. But the matter is too grim earnest to allow of trifling. You have a great deal of knowledge on queer and out-of-the-way subjects, Drayton, and I thought it not impossible that you might make some suggestions, for there must be some reason for this hideous visitation— some cause for it; and though all is over for me now, there would be a kind of satisfaction in knowing what that reason was. Besides, I must speak to someone, and you are a dear friend, and an old one."

I was a good deal relieved to hear Calbot speak thus affectionately of our relations with each other; and indeed he appeared no way inclined to violence. Accordingly, having offered him a Cabana (which he refused), I put the box and the decanter back in the cupboard, and locked the door. Then, relighting my own cigar, and putting a lump or two of coal on the fire, I resumed my chair, and bade my friend begin his story.

vi

"THERE was an intermarriage between the Burleighs and the Calbots four or five generations ago," said he; "I found the record of it in our family papers, shortly before Miss Burleigh and I were engaged; but it appears not to have turned out well. I don't know whether the husband and wife quarrelled, or whether their troubles came from some outside interference; but they had not been long married before a separation took place— not a regular divorce, but the wife went quietly back to her fathers house, and my ancestor is supposed to have gone abroad. But this was not the end of it, Drayton; for, some years later, the husband returned, and he and his wife lived together again."

"Was there any further estrangement between them, afterwards?"

"It is an ugly story," said Calbot, gloomily, getting up from his chair, and taking his old place before the fire. "No; they lived together— as long as they did live! But it was about the era of the witchcraft mania— or delusion, if you choose to call it so— and it is strongly hinted in some of the documents in my possession that the Calbots were— not witches— but victims of witchcraft. They accused no one, but they seemed to have been shunned by everybody like persons under the shadow of a curse. Well— it wasn't a great while before Mrs. Calbot died, and her husband went mad soon afterwards. There were two children. One of them, the son, was born before the first separation. The other, a daughter, came into the world after the reunion, and she was an idiot!"

"An ugly story, sure enough," said I, shrugging my shoulders with a chilly sensation; "but what has it to do with your business?"

"Perhaps nothing; but there is one thing which would go for nothing in the way of legal evidence, but which has impressed me, nevertheless. The date of the second coming-together of my ancestor and his wife was 1698."

"Well?"

"If you look at that paper I gave you you'll see the date of Armstrong's death is also 1698."

"Still I don't see the point."

"It's simply this: the— Thing I saw was the condemned soul of that Archibald Armstrong. Who he may have been I don't know; but I can't help believing that my ancestor knew him when he was still in the flesh. They had a feud, perhaps— maybe about this very marriage— of course you understand I'm only supposing a case. Well, Calbot gets the better of his rival, and is married. Then Armstrong exerts his malignant ingenuity to set them at odds with each other. He may have played on the superstitious fancies which they probably shared with others of that age, and at last we may suppose he accomplished their separation."

"An ingenious idea," I admitted, "but what about your date?"

"Why, on hearing of his death, they would naturally suppose all danger over, and that they might live together unmolested. And from this point you may differ with me or not, as you choose. I believe that it was only after Armstrong was dead that his power for evil became commensurate with his will. I believe, Drayton," said Calbot, drawing himself up to his full height, and emphasising his words with the slow gesture of his right arm, "that the soul of that dead man haunted that wretched couple from the day of his death until the whole tragedy was consummated— until the woman died and the man went mad. And I believe that his devilish malignity has lived on to this day, and wreaked itself, a second time, on Miss Burleigh and myself."

There was a short pause, during which my poor friend stood tapping one foot on the hearth-rug, his eyes bent downwards in sombre abstraction.

"Look here, my dear John," I said at length, speaking with an effort, for there was a sensation of heavy oppression on my chest; "listen to me, old fellow. You've had time to cool down and bethink yourself: so far as I can judge you appear, as you say, neither crazy nor intoxicated. Now I wish you, remembering that we are sensible, enlightened men, living in London in this year 1875, to tell me honestly whether I am to understand you as deliberately asserting a belief in visitations from the other world. Because, really, you know, that is what anyone would infer from the way you have been talking this evening."

"I see there would be little use, Drayton, in my answering your question directly; but I will give you a deliberate and honest account of my personal experiences during these last two days: there will be no danger of your mistaking my meaning then. You won't mind my walking up and down the room while I'm speaking, will you? The subject is a painful one, and motion seems to make it easier, somehow."

I did mind it very much, it made me as nervous as a water-beetle; but, of course, I forbore to say so, and Calbot went on:

"I said I found out all this ancestral trouble some time before I was engaged; and, as you may imagine, I kept silence about it to Miss Burleigh. I think now it was a mistake to do so; but my ideas on many subjects have undergone modification of late. I believe I had forgotten all about the discovery by the time I had made up my mind to risk an avowal: at any rate, I had no misgivings about it; and when I came out from my interview with her— the happiest man in England!— ah Drayton, it seemed to me then that there could be no more pains nor shadows in life for me thence-forward for ever!"

I devoutly wished, not for the first time that evening, that Calbot would not be so painfully in earnest. In his normal state it was difficult to get a serious word out of him; he was brimming over with quaint humour and fun; but, as he himself had remarked, he was another man to-day. After walking backwards and forwards once or twice in silence, he continued:

"You know how happy I was those first few days. I daresay you wished me and my happiness in Jericho, when I insisted on deluging you with an account of it. Think! Drayton, that was hardly a week ago. Well, as soon as I had got a little bit used to the feeling of being engaged, I began to think what I should give her— Edna, you know— for a betrothal gift. A ring, of course, is the usual thing; but I couldn't be satisfied with a ring: I wanted my gift to be something rare— unique; in short, something different from what any other fellow could give his mistress; for I loved her more than any woman was ever loved before. After a good deal of fruitless bother, I suddenly bethought myself of a jewel-box which had belonged to my mother— God bless her!— and which she had bequeathed to me, intending, very likely, that I should use it for the very purpose I was now thinking of. I got out the box, and overhauled it. There was a lot of curious old trinkets in it; but the thing which at once took my eye was a delicately wrought gold necklace, that looked as though it had been made expressly for Edna's throat. There was a locket attached to it, which I at first meant to take off; but on examining it closely, I found it was quite worthy of the chain— was an exquisite work of art, indeed. It was made of a dark yellow or brownish sort of stone, semi-transparent, and was engraven with a very finely-wrought bas-relief."

"Calbot!" exclaimed I, starting upright in my chair, "what sort of a stone did you say that locket was made of?"

"What is the matter?" returned he, stopping short in his walk and facing me with a glance partly apprehensive, partly expectant. "I never saw exactly such a stone before— but why?"

"Oh, nothing," said I, after a moment's excited thought; "it certainly is very strange! But, never mind, go on," I added, throwing a glance at the old manuscript which lay open on the table; "go on. I'll tell you afterwards; I must turn it over in my mind a bit."

"The reason I described it so minutely," remarked Calbot, "was that I got a notion into my head that it had something to do with what happened afterwards, and the reason of that notion is, that almost from the very moment that Edna took the necklace— I clasped it round her neck myself— the strange awful influence— visitation— call it what you like— began to be apparent.

"Oh Drayton, you can never know how lovely, how divine she looked that evening. She had on what they call, I believe, a demi-toilette; open at the throat, you know, and half the arm showing. No woman could have looked more beautiful than she, before I put on the chain and locket; yet when they were on, she looked as handsome again. It was really wonderful— the effect they had. Her eyes deepened, and an indescribable change or modulation— imperceptible, very likely, to anyone beside myself, her lover— came over her face. I think it was a shade of sadness— of mystery— no, I can only repeat, that it was indescribable; but it gave her beauty just the touch that made it, humanly speaking, perfect. I daresay this is all very tiresome to you, Drayton, but I can't help it!"

"Oh, go on, my dear fellow," said I warmly; for, indeed, I was moved as well as excited. "Won't you sit down? Here, take my chair!"

But he would not.

"As I fastened the clasp, I said: 'You are fettered for ever now, Edna!' and she said, with her eyes sparkling: 'Yes, I am the thrall of the locket; the giver may lead me in triumph where he will!' Just as the words passed her lips, Drayton, I felt a sensation of coldness and depression; I gave an involuntary shudder, and looking quickly in Edna's eyes, I saw there the very reflection of my own feeling! We were alone, and yet there seemed to be a third person present— cold, hateful, malevolent. He seemed to be between us— to be pressing us irresistibly apart; and I felt powerless to contend against the insidious influence; and so was she. For an instant or two we gazed fearfully and strangely at each other; then she said faintly: 'Come to me— take me!' and half held out her arms, her face and lips all pale. Drayton, I cannot tell you what a desperate struggle I had with myself then! My whole soul leapt out towards her with a passion such as I had never known before; and yet my body seemed paralysed. I had felt something similar to it in dreams before then; but the dream pain was nothing to the real pain. A cold dead hand was on my heart, dragging it backward, deadening it; and another at my throat, stifling me. But I fought against it— it seemed to me I sweated drops of blood— but I overcame. I put my arm round her waist— I kissed her; and yet, though I seemed to hold her— though our lips seemed to meet— still that Thing was between us— we did not really touch each other! With all our love, we were like lifeless clay to one another's caress. It was a mockery— our souls could meet no more." Here Calbot covered his eyes with his hand for a short time. "It was the last time I ever kissed her," said he.

I said nothing; my sympathy with my hapless friend was keen. Yet I must confess to a secret sensation of relief that there was to be no more kissing. It was natural, under the circumstances, that Calbot— poor fellow!— should speak recklessly; but I am a bachelor, a confirmed bachelor, and such descriptions distress me; they make me restless, wakeful, and unhappy. Yes, I was glad we had had the last of them.

"It all passed very quickly, and a third person would perhaps have seen no change in us; probably the change was more inward than outward, after all. It was peculiar that we, both of us, by a tacit understanding, forbore to speak to each other of this dismal mystery that had so suddenly grown up between us. It was too real, and at the same time too hopeless; but to have acknowledged it would have been to pronounce it hopeless indeed. We would not do that yet. We sat apart, quietly and conventionally making observations on ordinary topics, as though we had been newly introduced. And yet my betrothal gift was round her neck, moving as she breathed; and we loved each other, and our hearts were breaking. Oh, it is cruel!"

In exclaiming thus, my friend (being at the farther end of the room at the time) struck his foot sharp against the leg of a small antique table which stood against the wall. Like many other valuable things, the table was fragile, and the leg broke. The table tipped over, and a vase (the ancestral vase, containing the elixir of life), fell off to the floor.

Calbot— I think it was much to his credit— found room amidst his proper anguish to be sincerely distressed at this accident. On picking up the vase, however, he immediately exclaimed that it was unbroken. This was fortunate: the table could be mended, but the vase, not to speak of its contents, would have been irreplaceable. Calbot put it carefully on the study table, beside the MS.; set the invalid table in a corner; and then, to my great satisfaction, drew up a chair to the fire, and continued his sad story in a civilised posture.

VII.

"I did not stay long after this; and ours was a strange parting that evening, if our hearts could have been seen. We felt it a relief to separate, and yet the very relief was a finer kind of pain. We knew not what had befallen us; but, perhaps, we both had a hope, then, that another day would somehow set things right.

"I only took her hand in saying good-bye; but again it seemed as if her soft fingers were not actually in contact with mine— as if some rival hand were interposed. And I noticed (as I had done once or twice before during our latter conversation) that, even while the farewell words were being spoken, she turned her head abruptly with a startled, listening expression, as though another voice had spoken close at her ear. I could hear nothing, nor understand the dimly terrified look in her eyes— a look appealing and yet shrinking. But afterwards I understood it all. When I reached the street, I turned back and caught a glimpse of Edna at the window. Beside her I fancied I distinguished the half-defined outlines of a strange figure— that of a man who appeared to be gesticulating in an extravagant manner. But before I could decide whether it were a shadow or a reality, Edna had turned away, and the apparition vanished with her."

"Her father, of course," I threw in, with a glance over my shoulder; "or perhaps it was the footman." Calbot made no reply.

"I got up yesterday morning," said he, "convinced that the whole thing was a delusion. I took a brisk walk round Hyde Park, ate a good breakfast, and by eleven o'clock was on my way to her house, sure that I should find her as cheerfully disposed to laugh at our dolorous behaviour the night before as I myself was. I went down Piccadilly in the best of spirits; but on turning the corner of Park Lane, I very plainly saw three persons coming down towards me."

Here Calbot paused so long that I could hardly refrain from springing out of my chair. I had never heard him argue a case before a jury; but had I been the presiding judge himself, I was convinced that Calbot could have moulded my opinions to whatsoever issue he had pleased. But, on the other hand, I doubt whether he was aware of his own best powers. The effect he was now producing on me was certainly not the result of any premeditated artifice.

"I saw Edna," he finally went on, speaking in a husky labouring tone, and gazing intently over my shoulder, as if he saw her there. "She was walking in the centre, with a weary lifeless step, her head bent downwards: on her right was her father, as jolly and portly as ever; and on her left, Drayton, was the same strange figure of which I fancied I had caught a glimpse the night before. It was no shadow now, however, but looked as real and palpable as General Burleigh himself. It appeared to be diligently addressing itself to Edna, occasionally even stooping to speak in her ear; and once I saw it put its arm round her waist, and apparently press its bearded cheek to her own."

"Why, in Heaven's name, Calbot, didn't you—" But there was something in my friend's eyes, as he turned them on me, which made me break off just there.

"When I first turned the corner the three were sixty or seventy yards distant. It struck me at once that Edna seemed to have no direct consciousness of the stranger's presence. That is, she did not act as if he were visible to her; though, at the same time, I could hardly doubt that the idea of him was present to her mind; and from her manner of involuntary shrinking and starting when the Thing became particularly demonstrative in its manner, I fancied that the words which it appeared to address to her insinuated themselves into her brain under the form of dismal and hateful thoughts. Perhaps, Drayton, the base or wicked notions that sometimes creep into our minds unawares, asserting themselves our own, are whispered to us by some evil spirit, invisible to our sight, but capable of impressing the immaterial part of us all the more effectively.

"As they drew near, I could no longer doubt that the Thing was viewless, not only to Edna, but to everyone else besides myself alone. Had it been otherwise, the figure's remarkable costume, no less than its many eccentricities, would have drawn a great crowd in a few moments. It was a tall fantastic apparition, clad in a black velvet cloak and doublet, silk hose, and high-heeled shoes. On its head was a broad-brimmed hat, with heavy plumes; there were lace ruffles at its wrists and round its throat. A long rapier dangled by its side; its beard was gray and peaked, but a copious powdered wig flowed out beneath the hat and rested on the shoulders.

"Its gait, as it stalked along the pavement, was mincing and affected, and under other circumstances I might have laughed at it. Its manner and gestures were absurdly exaggerated and fantastic. It was continually bowing and scraping to Edna, and seemingly making hot love to her; but as often as she winced or shrank from it, it appeared hugely delighted, throwing up its arms, wagging its head, and contorting its body, as if carried away by an immoderate fit of laughter.

"The sun was shining broadly, but none of its rays seemed to fall on the sable garments of this singular personage. In fact, though I saw him as plainly as I now see you, Drayton, I was, nevertheless, well aware that here was something more or less than flesh and blood. It was a being of another state than this mortal one of ours. I say I saw him; and yet I do not believe that it was with my natural eyesight. A deeper sense of vision had been temporarily opened within me, and this spectre came within its scope.

"For a spectre it was. General Burleigh, striding bluffly along by the other side of his daughter, swinging his cane, twisting his moustaches, and ever and anon smiling and bowing to a passing friend, was ludicrously unconscious of there being anything supernatural in his vicinity. Moreover, I saw at least twenty persons pass the apparition shoulder to shoulder, evidently without seeing it; though they would often shiver, and wrap their top-coats or shawls more closely round them, as if a sudden blast of icy air had penetrated them. All this time the three were approaching slowly, and were now but little more than twenty paces distant. I had not moved a step since first coming in view of them, and had kept my eyes fixed point-blank upon the apparition.

"At this moment I was puzzled to observe that the black-garmented figure was a good deal less distinctly discernible than when it had been farther off. The sun was still as bright as ever, the air as clear, but the outline of the shape was blurred and undefined, as though seen out of focus through a telescope. General Burleigh now caught sight of me for the first time, and his cordial gesture of salute caused Edna quickly to raise her eyes. We saw despair in each other's looks, and then she dropped her eyes again, and moved wearily onward. Simultaneously with her glance the spectre (which appeared to be as unconscious of everything save Edna and myself, as everyone except us was of it)— the spectre also directed its gaze at me. I can never forget that face, Drayton. I seemed to grow older and more miserable as I confronted it. And all the while it was getting less and less perceptible; now it was magnified, clouded, and distorted; but the devilish expression of it was still recognisable. Now it faded or expanded into vagueness; only a foggy shadow seemed gliding by Edna's side; and when she was within ten paces, and her father's voice was speaking out its hearty welcome to me, every trace even of the shadow had disappeared; nothing was left but that chilliness and horror of the heart which I had felt the night previous, but now vastly intensified, because I was no longer ignorant of the cause of it. Edna and I would never again be alone together. This devil was to haunt us henceforth, mocking our love by its hideous mimicry and derision, marring and polluting our most sacred secrets, sickening our hearts and paralysing our hope and reliance in each other. We could neither escape it nor resist it; and its invisibility when we were together was not the least fearful thing about it. To see it, awful as it was, must be less unendurable than to imagine it, unseen; and the certainty that, so often as I left Edna, I should leave this devil in her company, visible once more the moment he was out of my reach, but never to be met and grappled with hand to hand— this was hard to bear! Had ever mortal man before such a rival?

"All this, of course, was but dimly apprehended by my mind at the time; but I had sufficient opportunity to muse upon it afterwards. General Burleigh seized my hand, and shook the head of his cane at me.

"'Shall be obliged to court-martial you, young man! What have you been doing to my daughter, sir? Why, no one can get a word or a smile out of her, since you came with your tomfooleries! She keeps all her good humour for you, confound you! It's witchcraft— you've bewitched my little girl with your lockets and your necklaces and your tomfooleries! You've bewitched her— and I'll have you court-martialed, and executed for witchcraft, by Jove! Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha!' And with that he gripped my hand again, and vowing that the club was the only place for him since I had appeared with my tomfooleries and witchcraft, he swung round on his heel and strode away, his broad military shoulders shaking with jollity; and left Edna alone with me— and my rival!

"We strolled off along Piccadilly, and I daresay every man we met was envying me from the bottom of his heart. But though her arm was in mine, I knew I might as well have been miles away from her. And we both were reticent of our words on all matters lying near our hearts, as if that third presence had been as palpable and visible as it was otherwise real. We spoke constrainedly and coldly; nay, we even tried not to think of our love or of our misery, lest it might possess power to see our thoughts as well as hear our voices. We walked on, seldom looking at one another, for fear of catching a glimpse of it in each other's eyes. I saw, however, that Edna still wore her locket— indeed, she had told me, the night before, that she would never take it off, until I bade her do so.

"'So your father thinks you bewitched, Edna,' I said at length, trying to throw off the incubus a little.

"'I am not very well, I think.'

"'He seemed to fancy the spell was connected with that old locket,' I continued; my very disinclination to the subject driving me to tamper with it.

"'Perhaps it is,' returned Edna listlessly, lifting her hand for a moment to her throat. 'I am not quite used to it yet.'

"'To witchcraft, do you mean? You have seen no phantoms, have you?'

"I felt her little hand clutch my arm with an involuntary start. I looked down, and she met my eye with a blush, and at the same time with a terrified shrinking expression that was bitter to behold.

"'I see nothing with my open eyes,' she said, scarcely above a whisper; 'but at night— I cannot help my dreams; and they follow me into the day.'

"It was as I had thought, therefore; the spectre was not objectively visible to her. She could not get away from her own self, and hence could gain no point of vantage whence her persecutor could be seen. There was little doubt, nevertheless, that her mental picture of him agreed with my ocular experience. It seemed to me, on the whole, that her burden must be far harder to bear than mine. There is a kind of relief in being able to face a horror; and my own feelings, since seeing this evil spirit which was haunting us, had been in a certain sense more tolerable, if more hopeless, than the night before. But how did I know what agony she might suffer? Even her innocent sleep was not sacred from this evil thing; all her maiden reserve and delicacy were outraged; she could be safe nowhere— no one could protect her; and with me, who would have given my life to please a whim of hers, her suffering and exposure must be less endurable than anywhere else. I could well understand her blush, poor girl— poor girl!"

Not for many years— not since, in fact, certain sad experiences of my own early days— had I been so deeply stirred as by this recital of Calbot's. His voice had great compass and expression, and the needs of his profession had given its natural powers every cultivation. He had a way of dwelling on certain words, and of occasionally pausing, or appearing to hesitate, which greatly added to the effect of his narrative. All this might be acquired by art, but not so the ever and anon recurring falterings and breaks, into which, as now, he was unexpectedly betrayed. I felt that it was unwise in me to listen to him, to sympathise with him, as I was doing; yet could I not find it in my heart to stop him. All fears of violence on his part had been for some time past allayed. I was well aware that my encouragement of his confidences could only result in my passing a feverish uncomfortable night, and a listless dismal morrow; and yet I forbore to interrupt him. Ah! it is we old bachelors who have hearts after all.

I blew my nose, Calbot cleared his throat, and continued.

viii

"WELL, Drayton, I shan't keep you much longer. From Piccadilly we turned into Bond Street, and were walking up the side-walk on the left-hand side, when suddenly Edna stopped, and clasped both her hands round my arm. She uttered a low exclamation, and trembled perceptibly. Her face, as I looked at it, was quite rigid and colourless. I did not know what was the matter, but fearing she was about to swoon, I looked round for a cab. In so doing my eye caught my own reflection in a mirror, fixed at a shop entrance on the other side of the street. It was in this direction that Edna also was gazing, and the next moment I no longer wondered at her ghastly aspect. Close by her shoulder appeared the fantastic black-garmented figure which I had seen awhile before in Park Lane. He was making the wildest and most absurd gestures— grinning, throwing about his arms, making profound mock obeisances, and evidently in an ecstasy of enjoyment. I looked suddenly round, but the place which should have been occupied by the original of the reflection appeared entirely empty. Looking back to the mirror, however, there was the spectre again, actually capering with ugly glee.

"Meantime people were beginning to notice the strange behaviour of Edna and myself, and I was thankful when a passing cab enabled me to shield her from their scrutiny. No sooner were we seated than she fainted away, and only recovered a few moments before we stopped at her door. As I helped her out she looked me sadly in the face, and said:

"'Come to me to-morrow afternoon— for the last time.'

"I could say nothing against her decision, Drayton; I felt we should be really more united, living apart, than were we to force ourselves to outward association. Our calamity was too strong for us; separation might appease the mysterious malice of the phantom, and cause him to return whither he belonged. The persecution of our long-dead ancestors now recurred to me, as I had read it a few months before in those dusty old documents, and I could not help seeing a strange similarity between their fate and ours. Yet we had an advantage in not being married, and in having the warning of their history before us. You see," observed Calbot, somewhat bitterly, "even I can talk of advantages!

"I went to her house to-day and had a short interview. I cannot tell you in detail what we said, but it seems to me as though the memory of it would gradually oust all other memories from my mind. I told her that passage of history. We agreed to part— for ever in this world. I took back the chain and locket which I had given her but so short a time before. We said good-bye, in cold and distant words. We could not gratify the evil spirit, which we knew was watching us, by any embrace or show of grief and passion. We could be proud in our despair."

"One moment, Calbot," said I, interrupting him at this point; "you say she gave you back the locket?"

"Yes."

"Is it in your possession now?"

"It is at the bottom of the Thames."

"Good! And have you or Miss Burleigh seen anything of your phantom since then?"

"You forget that we parted only this afternoon. But I understand your question. No, Drayton, it is there that the fate of our ancestors gives us timely warning. We must never meet again."

"I don't consider the cases parallel; and besides," I added, with a glance at my MS., "there is perhaps another point to be considered. However, finish your story, if there be any more to tell."

"A little more, and then my story will be finished indeed! I am going with the new expedition to the North Pole, and it will be my own fault if I return. Well, after leaving her, I came straight downstairs and hurried out. I felt as though I must go mad, or kill someone— myself perhaps. As I stood on the doorstep, mechanically buttoning up my ulster, I felt that creeping sickening chill once more, and knew that the unholy Thing had passed me. I looked sharply about, and in a moment or two I saw it, as plainly as ever. It stood on the sunlit pavement, about fifty yards away, and appeared to be beckoning me to approach.

"I watched it for perhaps a minute, and then a sudden fury took possession of me. My hatred against this devil which had blighted my life and Edna's must have leapt up in my eyes, for I fancied, from the way the phantom leered at me, that he meant to claim a sort of relationship with me— as though I were become a devil too. Well, if I were a devil, perhaps I might be able to inflict some torture on this my fellow. I sprang down the steps, and set off towards it. It waited until I had passed over more than half the intervening distance, and then it suddenly turned and walked onward before me. So a chase began."

"Good gracious, Calbot," remonstrated I; "you don't mean to tell me you ran after it— in the face of all London too?"

"I would have followed it to its own hell if it had led me there," he returned. "At first it stalked along swiftly but easily, only occasionally cutting a grotesque caper in the air, with a flourish of its arms and legs. It kept always the same distance in front of me— with no effort could I lessen the interval. Nevertheless, I gradually increased my speed almost to a run, much to the apparent delight of the hobgoblin, who skipped with frantic glee over the cold pavements, occasionally half facing about to wave me on. It turned the corner of Piccadilly, and I lost sight of it for a moment; but, hurrying up, there it was again, a short distance up the street. It made me a profound mock obeisance, and immediately set off anew.

"As I need not tell you, the figure which I was pursuing was visible only to myself. The street was full of people, there were all the usual noise, bustle, and gaiety of the city at that hour; but though it passed through the midst of the crowd, in all the fantastic singularity of its costume and manner, no one stepped out of its way or turned to gaze at it. That it should be so terrible a reality to me, and at the same time so completely non-existent to the rest of the world, affected me strangely. Here was a new bond of relationship between me and it. My misery and I were one; but the link which united us was a cap of invisibility for the demon.

"I was not invisible, however, nor unnoticed. I was conscious that everyone was staring at me— and no wonder! I must have presented an odd spectacle, hurrying onward with no apparent object, and with an expression of face which may well have been startling to behold. But so long as no attempt was made to stop me, I was indifferent to remark. I had determined to follow my black friend in the plumed hat, no matter where the chase might lead me.

"The pace grew quicker and quicker. We went down the Haymarket, and were now in the throng of the Strand. All the places which I know so well passed by like remembered dreams. They seemed illusions, and the only real substance in the world was this Thing that I pursued. The dark shape continued to glide forward with easy speed, ever and anon giving me a glimpse of the pallid malignance of its evil visage; but my own breath was beginning to come hard, and the difficulty of forcing a path through the press became greater as we neared the heart of the city. Passing beneath Temple Bar, the spectre stopped a moment and stamped its foot imperiously, at the same time beckoning to me with an impatient gesture. I sprang forward, yearning to grapple with it; but it was gone again, and seemed to flit like a shadow along the sidewalk. Its merriment, however, now forsook all bounds— it appeared to be in a ceaseless convulsion of chuckling laughter. We fled onward, but so absorbed in my pursuit had I now become, that I recollect nothing distinctly until the tower of St. G— — 's came into view. I think a premonition of what was to occur entered my mind then. The hobgoblin disappeared— seemingly through the iron railing of the contracted graveyard which bounds the northern side of the church. I came up to the railing and looked within. It was sitting on an ancient headstone, blackened by London smoke and worn by time; it sat with its elbows on its knees, and its head in its hands. A sombre shadow fell about it, which the cheerful sunshine could not penetrate; but its awful eyes emitted a dusky phosphorescent glare, dimly illuminating the leering features. As I looked, a change came over them— they were now those of a corpse already mouldering in decay, crumbling into nothingness before my eyes. The whole figure gradually faded or darkened away: I cannot tell how or when it vanished. Presently I was staring fixedly at an old tombstone, with a name and a date upon it; but the churchyard was empty."

ix

OF MY own accord I now reproduced my decanter of port-wine, and Calbot and I finished it before either of us spoke another word.

What he was thinking of meanwhile I know not; for my part, I was endeavouring to put in order a number of disjointed ideas, imbibed at various epochs during this evening, whose logical arrangement, I was convinced, would go far towards elucidating much of the mystery. As to the positively supernatural part of Calbot's experience, of course I had no way of accounting for that; but I fancied there were materials at hand tolerably competent to raise a ghost, allowing such a thing as a ghost to be possible.

"I am glad, Calbot," I began, "that you came to me. Your good sense— or instinct, perhaps— directed you aright. Do not despair: I should not be surprised were we to manage between us to discover that your happiness, so far from being at an end, was just on the point of establishing itself upon a trustworthy foundation." Calbot shook his head gloomily. "Well, well," resumed I, "let us see. In the first place— as regards that locket. It will perhaps surprise you to learn that I had heard of it before you came this evening— had read quite a minute description of it, in fact."

"Where?" demanded my friend, raising his eyes.

"That will appear later. I must first ask you whether, in the old family documents you spoke of, the personal appearance of this Archibald Armstrong was particularly delineated?"

"I hardly know; I have no recollection of any especial passage— and yet I fancy it must have been given with some fulness; because when I saw the hobgoblin, its costume and aspect seemed curiously familiar."

"And had I seen it, there is little doubt in my mind that I should have recognised it also."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Calbot, sitting upright in his chair, "how happens that?"

"Wait a moment, I am merely collecting evidence. Now, have you any reason to suppose that a connection of any sort— friendly, business, or other— subsisted between your unhappy ancestor and this Armstrong previous to the former's marriage?"

"Do you mean whether he was under any obligations to Armstrong?"

"Yes."

"He may have been— but the idea is new to me. How—"

"I am not done yet. Now, did it never occur to you— or, I should say, does it not seem probable— that the locket which you had found hidden away in your mother's jewel-box was in some way connected with the family tragedy you told me of?"

"I have thought of it, Drayton; there is no difficulty in imagining such a thing; the trouble is, we haven't the slightest evidence of it."

"I was about to say," I rejoined, "that there is direct evidence of precisely such a locket having been bought, in the latter part of the seventeenth century, by precisely such a looking man as the hobgoblin you saw to-day. It was to be a wedding-gift to the woman he was to marry the next day."

"Drayton!"

"That woman deceived him, and eloped on the eve of her marriage with a protégé of his. He professed forgiveness, and sent the locket as a pledge of it."

"Odd!"

"He died in 1698, and his last recorded words were a curse invoked upon those whom he had before professed to pardon— upon them and their posterity."

"But, Drayton— what—"

"It is my opinion that his forgiveness was merely a cloak to his deadly and unrelenting hatred. It is my opinion, Calbot, that the pledge he gave was poisonous with evil and malicious influences. The locket was made of tourmaline, which has mysterious properties. No doubt he believed it a veritable witch's talisman; and from the sufferings which afterwards befell his enemies (not to speak of your own experience), one might almost fancy witchcraft to be not entirely a delusion after all."

"One might, indeed! But if, as you seem to imply, this locket enabled Armstrong to persecute Calbot and his wife, why did not they send it back or destroy it?"

"Simply because they were not aware of its evil nature, and fancied that Armstrong's (if it were his) profession of forgiveness had been genuine. Very likely Mrs. Calbot habitually wore it on her bosom, as Miss Burleigh did again yesterday, more than a century later. The persecutor must have been a devil incarnate, from the time he learnt his lady's faithlessness until his death; and after that—"

"A plain devil. But to come to the point, you think that the locket was the sole medium of his power over them?"

"Undoubtedly. Then, after their death, it remained in the family, but never happened to be used again: it is not a jewel to catch the eye by any means. It remained perdu until you fished it out for Miss Burleigh, and thereby stirred up the old hobgoblin to play his devilish tricks once more. But by a lucky combination of accidents you parted with her in time; she returned you the locket, thus freeing herself from the spectre; and you, by throwing it in the Thames, have secured him against ever being able to make his appearance again."

"It may be so, Drayton," cried Calbot in great excitement. "I remember, too, that when I gave her the locket she promised fealty to the giver! Now, in fact, not I but this cursed Armstrong was the real giver; and so Edna was actually surrendering herself to his power. But, supposing your explanation correct, why may not Edna and I come together again?"

"Well, my dear fellow," replied I, as I lit another Cabana, "unless you have acquired a very decided aversion to each other during the last few hours, I really don't see why you shouldn't."

"Drayton, I'm afraid to believe this true! Tell me how you came upon your evidence, and what degree of reliance may be placed upon it."

I told him briefly about the MS., and added the conviction (at which I had arrived during his narrative) that it must have been sent to me by my former friend, Armstrong's executor; and probably comprised the very papers which I had made an ineffectual attempt to secure at the auction sale. "The only lame point about the matter," I added, "is, that the MS. is wholly anonymous. All the names are blanks, and though I have no doubt, now, that they are Armstrong, Burleigh, and Calbot, there is no direct proof of it."

My friend's face fell. "There, it may be only a coincidence after all!"

"Nonsense! a coincidence indeed! If you have credulity enough to believe in such a 'coincidence' as that, you have certainly mistaken your profession."

"If you were a lawyer," returned he, "you would know that there is no limit to the strangeness of coincidences. But let me see the MS."

"It is there on the table, at your elbow."

Calbot turned and took it up.

"How's this— it's wet, soaking wet!" he exclaimed. "Drayton, I'm afraid I must have cracked that old vase of yours. It has been leaking, and the table is flooded."

It was too true. The precious water of life had been preserved through so many generations merely for the sake of spoiling the morocco of my study table at last. Vanished were my hopes of earthly immortality. Cautiously lifting the vase, in the hope that somewhat of the precious ichor might yet be saved, the whole bottom fell out. Calbot was sorry, of course, but he had no conception of the extent of the misfortune. He observed that the vase could easily be mended, as if the vase were the chief treasure.

"Never mind," said I, rather soberly, after we had sopped up the inestimable elixir, as well as we could, with our handkerchiefs. "I shall die an eternity or two the sooner, and shall have to get my table new covered, that's all. I hope, Calbot, that the good which your visit here has done you, will be a small fraction as great as the loss it has inflicted on me. Well, and how has the MS. come out of the scrape? All washed out, I suppose."

With a penitent eye Calbot took it up once more, and ran his eye over the last page. I saw his expression change. He knit his brows— looked up at me with a quick questioning glance— looked back to the page, and finally said: "Oh!"

"What?"

"It seems you had filled in the blanks before I came?"

"With the first four letters of the alphabet. Yes!"

"With the names in full!"

"What names?"

"Why, Drayton, the first thing I looked at was this record of 'ondyinge Hatred,' &c. It contains all the four names— yours as one of the witnesses of Armstrong's signature. They are written out in pale red ink, as plain as can be—"

I had jumped from my chair and taken the MS. from Calbot's hand. It was impossible— it was inconceivable, but it was true. The page was thoroughly wetted through, but there were the three names— the four names, for my own was added, in the character of compiler of the work— plainly traced out in light red ink. Could I have done it in a fit of abstraction? No, for the chirography was not mine— it was identical with all the rest of the writing. In my utter bewilderment, I raised my eyes to the wall, where hung the picture of my ecclesiastical ancestor— he, the alchemist, the busybody, the death-bed confidant, the suspected wizard— and my own namesake— we were the only two Toxophiluses in all the line of Draytons. Once more, for the third or fourth time that evening, it struck me that he looked excessively knowing and sly.

Who can analyse the lightning evolutions of human thought? I knew the truth before I could explain it. It crystallised in my brain all in a moment. A glance at the front of the MS., which had not been wetted, confirmed me.

I threw down the MS., clapped Calbot on the shoulder, and burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, which his astonished and concerned aspect served only to aggravate. It was some minutes before I could speak.

"It is a simple matter after all," I said. "My old progenitor, there on the wall, was a friend— confidential friend— of Armstrong's. It was he who wrote that MS., and left the blanks, which are not blanks, but names written in invisible ink. He prepared, then, the chemical reagent for the purpose of making the invisible writing visible whenever the time should come. Perhaps he meant to apply it himself some day; but, unluckily, death snatched him all unawares from the scene of his pious intrigues. The MS. got into the hands of Armstrong's heirs (from whom I this day received it). The reagent stayed with the Draytons. This evening you came and brought the two together in your own inimitable style. You see, wherever the paper is wet, the blanks are filled in: the untouched parts are blanks still. Oh John, John! I wish this had happened before I printed my article on 'Unrecognisable Truths:' it is a peculiarly apt illustration."

"Didn't I tell you," said Calbot, after a pause, "that there was nothing in the world so strange as coincidences?"

"There is the hobgoblin still unaccounted for," answered I; "but I have done my part; I leave the rest to you."

THE NEXT DAY but one came a note from my friend. It ran:

"What did I do at your rooms last night? Was I queer at all? I had intended calling on you that day, to tell you that Edna and I were going to be married April 1st, and to get you for my best man. Did I tell you? Because, if not, I do now. The fact is, you see, I had been reading over some curious old family documents (I think I spoke to you about them), and then I went up to Edna's and frightened her half to death with telling her ghost stories about the locket I'd given her as a betrothal gift (a queer little thing it is. Did I ever mention it to you?) Well, going home I met young De Quincey, and he proposed— he's always up to some devilry or other— he proposed doing something which I shall never do again; I was a fool to try it at all, but I had no notion how it would act. I'm afraid I may have annoyed you. I have an idea I upset your ink-bottle, and that I got it into my head that the ghost story I had been telling Edna was true. How was it? I know I felt deathly sick the next morning; I'm not certain whether it was the port-wine I drank, or that confounded hasheesh that I took with young De Quincey. I promised Edna I'd never take any more. Well, you won't object to being my best man, will you?

"J. C."

So far from explaining the essential mystery— the Ghostly Rival— this letter of John's only makes it, to my mind, more inscrutable than ever. Talk about coincidences! For my part, I prefer to believe in ghosts.

__________________

There are probably more Sherlock Holmes parodies than original stories...

2: The Umbrosa Burglary

R. C. Lehmann

1856-1929

Punch, November 4, 1893

This Sherlock Holmes parody was originally published as written by "Cunnin Toil". Later collected in The Adventures of Picklock Holes, 1901, with seven other stories.

DURING one of my short summer holidays I happened to be spending a few days at the delightful riverside residence of my friend James Silver, the extent of whose hospitality is only to be measured by the excellence of the fare that he sets before his guests, or by the varied amusements that he provides for them. The beauties of Umbrosa (for that is the attractive name of his house) are known to all those who during the summer months pass up (or down) the winding reaches of the Upper Thames. It was there that I witnessed a series of startling events which threw the whole county into a temporary turmoil. Had it not been for the unparalleled coolness and sagacity of Picklock Holes the results might have been fraught with disaster to many distinguished families, but the acumen of Holes saved the situation and the family plate, and restored the peace of mind of one of the best fellows in the world.

The party at Umbrosa consisted of the various members of the Silver family, including, besides Mr. and Mrs. Silver, three high-spirited and unmarried youths and two charming girls. Picklock Holes was of course one of the guests. In fact, it had long since come to be an understood thing that wherever I went Holes should accompany me in the character of a professional detective on the lookout for business; and James Silver, though he may have at first resented the calm unmuscularity of my marvellous friend's immovable face, would have been the last man in the world to spoil any chance of sport or excitement by refraining from offering a cordial invitation to Holes. The party was completed by Peter Bowman, a lad of eighteen, who to an extraordinary capacity for mischief added an imperturbable cheerfulness of manner. He was generally known as Shockheaded Peter, in allusion to the brush-like appearance of his delicate auburn hair, but his intimate friends sometimes addressed him as Venus, a nickname which he thoroughly deserved by the almost classic irregularity of his Saxon features.

We were all sitting, I remember, on the riverbank, watching the countless craft go past, and enjoying that pleasant industrious indolence which is one of the chief charms of life on the Thames. A punt had just skimmed by, propelled by an athletic young fellow in boating costume. Suddenly Holes spoke.

"It is strange," he said, "that the man should be still at large."

"What man? Where? How?" we all exclaimed breathlessly.

"The young puntsman," said Holes, with an almost aggravating coolness. "He is a bigamist, and has murdered his great aunt."

"It cannot be," said Mr. Silver, with evident distress. "I know the lad well, and a better fellow never breathed."

"I speak the truth," said Holes, unemotionally. "The induction is perfect. He is wearing a red tie. That tie was not always red. It was, therefore, stained by something. Blood is red. It was, therefore, stained by blood. Now it is well known that the blood of great aunts is of a lighter shade, and the colour of that tie has a lighter shade. The blood that stained it was, therefore, the blood of his great aunt. As for the bigamy, you will have noticed that as he passed he blew two rings of cigarette smoke, and they both floated in the air at the same time. A ring is a symbol of matrimony. Two rings together mean bigamy. He is, therefore, a bigamist."

For a moment we were silent, struck with horror at this dreadful, this convincing revelation of criminal infamy. Then I broke out:

"Holes," I said, "you deserve the thanks of the whole community. You will of course communicate with the police."

"No," said Holes, "they are fools, and I do not care to mix myself up with them. Besides, I have other fish to fry."

Saying this, he led me to a secluded part of the grounds, and whispered in my ear.

"Not a word of what I am about to tell you. There will be a burglary here to-night."

"But Holes," I said, startled in spite of myself at the calm omniscience of my friend, "had we not better do something; arm the servants, warn the police, bolt the doors and bar the windows, and sit up with blunderbusses — anything would be better than this state of dreadful expectancy. May I not tell Mr. Silver?"

"Potson, you are amiable, but you will never learn my methods." And with that enigmatic reply I had to be content in the meantime.

The evening had passed as pleasantly as evenings at Umbrosa always pass. There had been music; the Umbrosa choir, composed of members of the family and guests, had performed in the drawing-room, and Peter had drawn tears from the eyes of every one by his touching rendering of the well-known songs of "The Dutiful Son" and "The Cartridge-bearer." Shortly afterwards, the ladies retired to bed, and the gentlemen, after the customary interval in the smoking-room, followed. We were in high good-humour, and had made many plans for the morrow. Only Holes seemed preoccupied.

I had been sleeping for about an hour, when I was suddenly awakened with a start. In the passage outside I heard the voices of the youngest Silver boy and of Peter.

"Peter, old chap," said Johnny Silver, "I believe there's burglars in the house. Isn't it a lark?"

"Ripping," said Peter. "Have you told your people?"

"Oh, it's no use waking the governor and the mater; we'll do the job ourselves. I told the girls, and they've all locked themselves in and got under their beds, so they're safe. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Come on then."

With that they went along the passage and down the stairs. My mind was made up, and my trousers and boots were on in less time than it takes to tell it. I went to Holes's room and entered. He was lying on his bed, fully awake, dressed in his best detective suit, with his fingers meditatively extended, and touching one another.

"They're here," I said.

"Who?"

"The burglars."

"As I thought," said Holes, selecting his best basket-hilted life-preserver from a heap in the middle of the room. "Follow me silently."

I did so. No sooner had we reached the landing, however, than the silence was broken by a series of blood-curdling screams.

"Good heavens!" was all I could say.

"Hush," said Holes. I obeyed him. The screams subsided, and I heard the voices of my two young friends, evidently in great triumph.

"Lie still, you brute," said Peter, "or I'll punch your blooming head. Give the rope another twist, Johnny. That's it. Now you cut and tell your governor and old Holes that we've nabbed the beggar."

By this time the household was thoroughly roused. Agitated females and inquisitive males streamed downstairs. Lights were lit, and a remarkable sight met our eyes. In the middle of the drawing-room lay an undersized burglar, securely bound, with Peter sitting on his head.

"Johnny and I collared the beggar," said Peter, "and bowled him over. Thanks, I think I could do a ginger-beer."

The man was of course tried and convicted, and Holes received the thanks of the County Council.

"That fellow," said the great detective to me, "was the best and cleverest of my tame team of country-house burglars. Through him and his associates I have fostered and foiled more thefts than I care to count. Those infernal boys nearly spoilt everything. Potson, take my advice, never attempt a master-stroke in a houseful of boys. They can't understand scientific induction. Had they not interfered I should have caught the fellow myself. He had wired to tell me where I should find him."

_________________

Can this be how Holmes ends? Not with a bang, but a whimper?

3: The End of Sherlock Holmes

"A. E. P."

The identity of the anonymous author has never been discovered

The Manchester Guardian, July 1, 1927

IT WAS my intention to close these memoirs with the remarkable chain of circumstances resulting in the marriage of my friend Sherlock Holmes with Miss Falkland. For some time after that event my friend gave up professional work and went abroad with his wife. Our rooms in Baker Street were of course destroyed, and my practice occupied my full time, and certainly prospered all the better for receiving my undivided attention. From time to time, however, he would be recalled to my memory by some startling and unexplained case claiming my attention in the morning's paper; and in the "unforeseen circumstances" and "unexpected turn of events" or remarkable instances of fresh light being thrown on some obscure point would recognize my friend's unparalleled genius, though, with characteristic modesty, his name never appeared.

For instance, there was the remarkable case of the Hereditary Princess of Sthoit-Leinengen, which culminated in a royal divorce; and the still more recent affair of the Grand-Nurse-in-Waiting's tame monkey, which made such a stir and resulted in the suicide of a Russian Consul. It was when public excitement was at its height over the great Bribery Case in connection with the Pope's birthday celebrations, and suspicion had settled on a well-known workhouse official, that I again received intimation that Holmes was in England.

I had just come in from a long round when the maidservant brought in a note whose appearance struck me at once as familiar. As I tore it open I mechanically noticed that it was written on cream-laid paper, with a printed address, and that the stamp was in the right-hand top corner of the envelope. This lapse into long-forgotten habit made me think of Holmes, and I was not surprised to recognize his signature at the foot of the sheet.

"Dear Watson," it ran: "Can you come round to the old place at 3 P.M. to-morrow ? — Yours, S. H."

I hastily scribbled an acceptance, and the following day, having turned over my practice to my assistant and locked the dispensary door for fear of accidents, I hailed a "City Atlas" and soon found myself en route for Baker Street. (Holmes had taken rooms just above our former locality.)

The door was opened by a tired-looking maid. I entered, and encountered the gaze of a child about three years of age. He was wearing a miniature dressing gown, and had just been taking an impression of the cat's foot in a piece of dough.

Before I had time to speak he had crawled rapidly and noiselessly up the stairs and announced me: "Pa, there's a man to see you."

"Who is it?" answered Holmes's voice, and I was struck by the weariness of his tone.

"He's a doctor, poor, and he's got a wife, but she is away. He came up in the omnibus, it was very full, a lady got in too, but he didn't get up to let her have his seat, same as he ought to," said this remarkable child.

I entered in response to Holmes's invitation. The apartment was thick with tobacco smoke and Holmes was listlessly repairing a string in his violin. He held out his hand with something of his old heartiness, but there was a tired look in his eyes I did not like.

"Ah, Watson, I'm glad to see you again." Then, following the direction of my glance, "This is my son— Sherlock, come and say 'How do you do?' to the gentleman."

"He's quite well, he did have a cold, but that is quite well too, and he didn't put nothin' in the bag las' Sunday," finished this remarkable infant. I turned to Holmes in amazement. "But how on earth—"

"Oh, he knows," said my friend rather bitterly; "there isn't much he can't see. But it is your professional assistance I want you for now." Holmes was not the man to take such a step lightly, and my gravest fears were aroused. I glanced keenly at him. His eyes were closed, his temperature was normal, but the pulse was beating in quick irregular jerks, and symptoms pointed to a slight cerebral congestion; an application of the stethoscope showed me at a glance his nerves were all to pieces. He languidly turned up his sleeve.

"No," I said firmly, laying my hand upon a small hypodermic syringe he had taken from a pocket of his dressing gown, "I cannot allow any more morphia; you only need rest and a complete change."

"Heaven knows you're right, Watson, my dear fellow, but how the deuce am I to get it? Can you tell me that?"

I felt that here was something more than appeared on the surface.

"What is it that prevents you— not Moriarty again?"

Holmes looked at me in something of his old manner.

"Watson, Watson, when shall I teach you to eliminate the obviously impossible? We have already twice disposed of Moriarty— once in the Strand, and again at the Lyceum; you will remember the circumstances very well." He sighed. "No, it is not Moriarty."

His eyes wandered to his son, who was scraping the sole of a shoe and examining the matter so obtained by the aid of a powerful lens. "It was Martha meddled with my specimens, and she said it was the cat," the infant announced conclusively. His face darkened, and he crawled off after the offending Martha.

Holmes turned to me. "What do you make of it, Watson?"

I hesitated. "It is evident he has your talents; it must be very gratifying."

"Watson, it is killing me. All day long and every hour of the day he is at it. My wife has broken down— nervous system entirely shattered; no one will visit us; we can't keep a servant— they won't put up with it."

"Surely," I said, "it is not so bad as that; he is only a baby—" Holmes smiled bitterly. "He contrives to do a good deal in his way. He told the Dean's wife her husband had been married before, and that her diamonds were not real. He took the opportunity of announcing at an At Home that Sir Ronald's grandfather was a tailor in Stepney, that he made his money in patent pills, and that he was afraid of his valet. He took an impression in wax of the vicar's thumb and subsequently told him that his sermons were not his own, that he had some money on Daystar at the St. Leger, that his niece was a sempstress, and that his brother-in-law was doing time for forgery. He tracked the area policeman for over three weeks to find out where he went when he was off duty— and he told the tax collector his back teeth were false. You have seen for yourself he is after Martha now. She'll give notice next."

"Why don't you keep him in the nursery?"

"They can't. He outwits them in every possible way. No, there is only one thing to be done: I must take on the job myself. Watson, Watson, if you are a truthful person you will faithfully recount this in the memoirs you are giving to the public. I who have baffled Moriarty, I who have had a hand in unravelling most of the mysteries that have perplexed Europe, with knowledge enough of the seamy side of courts and the back doors of politics to bring about a European war— I am now compelled to turn all my energies to circumventing my own son; and, Watson, it is killing me."

He plunged his hands deep in his dressing-gown pockets, and his chin fell on his breast.

I crept out softly and closed the door.

_________________

4: In the Money

Arthur Somers Roche

1883-1935

Redbook Magazine, Sep to Dec 1935, and Jan 1936

THE GIRL POUTED. Granard grinned at her.

"Do it some more, Peggy," he said.

Blue eyes looked wonderingly into his cynical face.

"Do what?" she asked.

"The pout. I think it's swell. It's almost as good as the baby stare you're giving me now."

The blue eyes hardened. They would have been mean, but for a glint in their depths that could have been self-mockery.

"Bill Granard, do you know what?" Her voice was lazy, as insolent as the poise of her perfect body, as the carriage of her head, as the expression— now that the pout had vanished— of her full and lovely lips.

"Sure I do; but a debutante shouldn't use such words."

"I wasn't going to. I knew you knew. I was going to tell you something else about yourself. I was just going to say that you can provide a girl with as tiresome an evening as she could find."

Granard stared at her. There was a gleam of hard humor in his green eyes that matched the expression in hers.

"Hoity-toity and hi-de-hi! The kind of a girl that wants a second-act curtain every minute of the evening."

"And goes out with you and gets a prologue," she scoffed.

Granard surveyed her blonde beauty; the habitual air of insolence which she wore could not detract from that beauty.

"I get paid for my words. You can't expect me to give them away, Peggy. If I use up my vocabulary telling you how gorgeous you are, what will I do for phrases, clauses, sentences and paragraphs when it comes time to write my next story for the Globe?"

She fumbled in her vanity-bag. She produced a quarter, and laid it on the table.

"That ought to buy about a thousand words," she said.

Granard smiled.

"So you've been asking your father how much he pays me, eh?"

She nodded.

"I think he ought to be ashamed of himself. I told him so, and he replied that you were overpaid. He said he could hire a dozen men to replace you at half your salary."

"And you laid the blonde curls against his chest and pleaded with him not to fire poor Bill Granard, because you needed him in your study of how the other half live. That was certainly sweet of you, Peggy. It helps a man, when he feels himself slipping, to know that the boss's daughter will speak a word for him."

"I think you're the most hateful, impertinent—"

"I knew we'd get that second-act curtain pretty soon," chuckled Granard. " 'Boss's daughter denounces poor scribbler! Scribbler, crushed'— what the hell does he do? I guess he orders another drink."

He lifted his hand, spoke to a waiter. As the man departed, the girl settled back in her chair.

"Bill, you're the strangest man I ever met."

"Because I don't go crazy over you, and tell you you're a Norse goddess? The trouble with you, Peggy-my-love, is that you're spoiled. You want every man you meet to fall in love with you. And it's tough, but I don't care for blondes. I like cozy brunettes; you know, the kind you can sit with on a couch on a bitter winter evening, and never realize that the furnace has gone out."

"And I suppose she'd be all lighted up at sight of a freckled face and a snub nose and a gawky figure!" said the girl.

He shook a monitory finger at her.

"You forget my charm, Peggy."

Petulance left the girl's countenance. She smiled cheerfully at him.

"How did I overlook that? Remind me, always, when I forget it. But thank heaven, I've stirred you into speech at last. For a man who's about to start a vacation, you're the glummest person!"

"Maybe it's leaving you, sweetheart," he jeered. "Maybe those winter sports in Canada won't be so gay without you in the offing."

"If I weep tears of gratitude for these kind words, will the waiters put me out?" she mocked. She placed her elbows on the table, cupped her lovely firm chin in her hands, and stared at him.

"Bill, what's on your mind? You know, I go out with you because you're the gayest, most delightful, most irresponsible man I've ever known."

"Much obliged. I take you out because your father owns the Globe and maybe—"

"Of course. Everyone knows that." Insolence had completely gone from her now. She was, for a moment, not the hard-boiled child of her generation, but a nice girl who was supping with a nice boy. "You aren't yourself tonight, Bill. You grouched through dinner; you were sullen through the play— and it couldn't have been funnier. But you didn't even smile once. And now, for the last half-hour, you've sat and glowered. What's it all about? You promised me an exciting evening."

His eyes narrowed.

"Don't I always keep my word?"

"You haven't kept it tonight. Don't tell me that you're nervous and distrait because you're afraid of me. It can't be that behind your dour silence is a flood, a tide, a perfect torrent of words. You aren't mustering up courage to ask me to marry you?"

He shook his head.

"If I ever get feeling that way about you, I won't ask you— I'll tell you."

"Masterful man," she jeered. "Well, where's the excitement that you promised?"

"Turn casually. To the left."

The girl's vanity slipped from the table. As she retrieved it, she glanced at the group coming through the main entrance to the night club. The headwaiter was greeting a short, stocky, olive-skinned man. Other waiters were fluttering about, contributing to that confusion which always reigns in a Broadway resort when a celebrity of the moment puts in an appearance.

Peggy Cartwain turned back to Granard.

"What's exciting about them?" she asked.

"That's Islip Mackleton," he told her. "The short little man."

"What a funny name!" she commented.

"He likes it better than Isidor Mackelbaum. Maybe it is better."

The girl frowned.

"I've heard his name."

Granard sighed.

"Yes, darling; and Lindbergh is an aviator, and Roosevelt is President of these United States. Izzy Mackleton."

"Forgive me. I'm stupid. Of course. A criminal lawyer."

"The criminal lawyer! He's tried two hundred murder cases— more than that— and one client has gone to the chair."

"And today his latest client— is the name Abbott?"

Granard nodded.

"Got him an acquittal this afternoon. And as usual, he's making the rounds of the night clubs. He's Broadway's hero, and he wants his garlands of flowers. He's getting them. I guess each club has contributed one posy. The tall dark girl is Greta Waring; she sings at the Bijou. The plump blonde is May Kelly from the Weathervane. And the redhead is the dancer at the Abyss. This place will contribute its star performer."

"Interesting, but I wouldn't call it exciting," she said.

"It will be," he assured her. "Of course, debutantes are too busy to read much of anything except Cholly Knickerbocker, but you might have happened to hear the name of the man for whose murder Abbott was tried."

"Try being my equal instead of my superior," she smiled. "You'll be surprised at the fun we'll have. I'll react so sweetly. I know the name. Kelly Panta— what is his outrageous name?"

"Pantadosi. And his brother's name is Murphy Pantadosi. The harp-wop twins. As tough a pair as ever terrorized a news dealer or a dry-cleaning establishment. And I happen to know that Murphy is going to try and kill Izzy Mackleton tonight."

The faint hint of color on the girl's smooth cheeks drained from her veins. White-faced, she stared at him. Then the red came back as she laughed at him.

"So that's your idea of excitement? Trying to scare me—"

He interrupted her with the sort of gesture he might have used to brush away an annoying insect. She felt suddenly inconsiderable, small, something at which Bill Granard would glance but never stare. She wasn't used to this feeling. Only Granard, of all the men she had ever known, could give her this feeling of unimportance. She hated it, and yet was fascinated by it. The daughter of the proprietor of the Globe was no more important to the Globe's best reporter than any one of a dozen girls. Perhaps not more important than any one of a hundred girls. For she had sensed Granard's extraordinary popularity along Broadway. And not merely along that thoroughfare. She had thought to introduce him to Park Avenue, and had found that he was better acquainted there than herself. Men slapped him on the back, and girls tried to steer him into secluded corners. He wasn't handsome, not even good-looking. He played no games. But his mind functioned like a steel trap set with jewels, and his smile was incredibly sweet. From the moment she met him, she had wanted him to fall in love with her. She had used upon him every trick of her considerable repertory; she had given him smiles and glances and meaning whispers that had reduced other men to abject servitude; but Granard jeered and derided her efforts. But he liked her; this slight consolation was hers.

"I'm doing nothing of the sort. I'm giving you a ringside seat at an attempted murder. Murphy Pantadosi is going to come in here and kill Mackleton if he can."

"How do you know?" she gasped. Again the color had left her cheeks. Granard was in deadly earnest; she was certain of that.

"Don't ask me how I know things. Murphy hates Mackleton almost as much as he hates Abbott. He'll get Abbott later, but he wants Mackleton tonight."

"Does Mackleton know?" she asked in a whisper.

Granard shook his head.

"I wouldn't think so. He wouldn't be parading around Broadway without a bodyguard if he knew."

Into the girl's blue eyes came incredulous horror.

"And you haven't told him? You're going to sit here and let him be murdered?"

He grinned at her derisively.

"Can't take it, eh? The kind of a girl that's always weeping because nothing ever happens; but the minute something is about to happen, you want to duck. Shall I put you in a cab, sweetheart?"

"I think I hate you," she told him. "You're the most dreadful callous man I ever knew." She rose from her chair and looked down at him with blazing eyes. "I'm going to tell Mr. Mackleton—"

His lean hand reached out and caught her wrist. She was amazed at the strength in his thin fingers. She sat down again with an undignified thump.

"Don't be a fool," he whispered. "I'm not going to let Izzy be killed. But I owe that little shyster something. He crossed me on two stories last fall. Izzy needs a scare. But four men are trailing Murphy. They'll jump him in plenty of time to save Izzy from everything but hysterics. You've never seen a man in hysteria, have you? Well, Izzy can sob and scream before a jury, but it's an act. Watching him do the real thing ought to be something to remember. Drink your highball and compose the pretty little nerves, darling."

"But suppose the men don't stop him?" she whispered.

Granard chuckled.

"That will be tough on Izzy, but a swell thing for the New York bar."

"You wouldn't care," breathed the girl.

"Why should I? Mackleton is a disgrace to his profession. He's kept more bloody-handed killers out of the chair than any other lawyer in America. I think it would be retribution."

"And you would be willing to play God! Bill Granard, you're the—"

"I know. You said it all a minute ago. Scotch will bring the roses back to the lovely cheeks. Better try some," he advised.

She lifted her glass; at the strange expression that suddenly appeared in his eyes, she put the glass down. She followed the direction of his look. Their table was beside the dance floor at one corner. At an opposite corner, thirty feet away, sat Mackleton and his companions. On the dance floor, three yards from Granard's chair, stood a swarthy man. He was looking at Mackleton; his hand was in his right-hand jacket pocket. As she looked, horror in her eyes, Mackleton screamed.

His shriek was as reedily thin as the cry of a woman. And as his voice shocked waiters, dancers and diners into rigidity, the hand of the man on the dance floor came from its pocket. She saw a gleam of metal. Then something dark went by her in a long diving tackle. Granard's shoulder struck the swarthy man at the hips. They went down with a crash. As she stared, she was oddly reminded of an ocelot kitten she had owned two years before. For Granard's movements were as swift and sure as those of the little leopard. The would-be murderer never had a chance. Granard was astride him, pulling his right hand up across his back to his shoulder-blades, until sheer agony forced his victim to drop his revolver. Then Granard, securing the weapon, leaped to his feet, dragging his prisoner upright. He shook a finger in the convulsed face of the swarthy man.

"If you killed Izzy, what lawyer would be left to save you from the chair, Murphy?" he asked. "You be a good boy and run along home to bed."

"Bed!" Mackleton was beside Granard now. In his voice lingered traces of the agonizing terror that had possessed him a moment ago. "Jail, you mean."

Granard smiled at him.

"Then I'll have to write the story for the Globe, Izzy. And I don't want to. Vacation has begun for me. But if I write it, I'll have to tell how Izzy Mackleton screamed like a girl, and hid behind a girl. Murphy's a hot-headed boy. He won't try it again. That right, Murphy?"

Pantadosi shook. Ankles and knees struck together. His teeth chattered.

"I'm through," he muttered.

Granard pushed apart two waiters. Ten feet away, Peggy Cartwain wondered at the ease with which he sent the waiters reeling away. He didn't look strong. He pushed the now terrified Pantadosi, in whose heart was no longer vengeful hatred but only terror, through the opening in the little crowd. He turned to Mackleton.

"Put him in prison, and his cousins will go to bat. If you're smart, you'll let it ride, Izzy."

Mackleton stared at him. He nodded slowly.

"I guess you're right. Thanks a lot, Bill. You couldn't drop in to see me tomorrow morning, could you?"

"Leaving for a vacation in the morning. Sorry," said Granard.

"South?" asked the lawyer.

"Montreal."

"Better go South," said Mackleton. "I mean it. Thanks again." He turned away, and Granard looked after him a moment, puzzlement in his green eyes. Then, with a shrug, he returned to the table where Peggy sat.

"You let the man go. He wasn't arrested," she said. Her hands trembled as they rested on the table.

Granard lifted his drink and drained it.

"Sure. Just a temperamental Irish-Italian. He made a gesture, and he's satisfied. So is Mackleton. For if Mackleton makes a gesture, then Murphy's relations will feel they'll have to make some, and one of them might be successful. The Broadway code. Honor is now satisfied."

"But I should think—"

He interrupted her.

"You wouldn't think like Broadway," he laughed. "Don't try. Minds work differently over here. Gangsters are gone, but thugs remain. Good second-act curtain?"

"The men you said were following Pantadosi— where are they?" she asked.

"He must have given them the slip. What difference did it make? I was here, wasn't I?"

"But suppose you hadn't managed to seize him?"

"That's the woman of it. Never satisfied with results, but always putting in ifs and buts. I did manage. Tired? Worn out with our dull evening?"

"I want you to take me home," she said evenly.

He summoned the waiter, paid the check and they walked from the night club. Women stared and men pointed. The man heard people mention his name. But if she noticed or heard, she gave no sign. In utter silence they rode to her home on East Sixty-fifth Street.

"Going to ask me in for a nightcap?" he inquired as the cab stopped.

"I'm not. And when you come back from Montreal, please don't telephone me."

"So?" His lips pursed as he stared at her in the semi-gloom of the cab. "I'm too tough for you, eh?"

"Much," she responded.

He leaned suddenly forward, and his lips found hers. For a moment she forgot that tonight she had learned to hate him. She was conscious only that his kiss was as sweet as his smile. Then she pushed him from her.

"To remember me by," he said.

"I didn't need it," she said. "I won't forget you. You're—"

"Not again," he pleaded. "After all, you expected a prologue."

"You flatter yourself. It's the end."

He alighted from the cab and assisted her to the sidewalk. He stood at the door of her home until a servant opened it. Then he bowed and reentered his taxi. Ten minutes later he entered his own apartment on Central Park South. On chairs in his comfortable living-room were two huge suitcases. Against a wall stood a pair of skis. He picked up the latter, carried them into his bedroom and put them in a closet. From the same place he took golf-clubs and tennis-rackets and stood them against the living-room wall. Then he opened the suitcases, and from them abstracted all garments suitable to winter wear. He hung them in the bedroom closet, replacing them with flannels and lightweight sport clothes and white shoes. Then, swearing softly, he climbed into bed. He was asleep almost instantly.

At eight the following morning he pushed away the hand that had shaken him into wakefulness. He sat up and yawned at his servant.

"Hated to do it, Mr. Granard, but you wanted to catch that Montreal train."

Granard knuckled his eyes. He yawned again.

"You'll find my ticket in my pocketbook on the dresser. Breakfast ready?"

The man murmured assent.

"I'll serve myself. Dash down to the Grand Central and exchange this ticket. Run over to the Pennsylvania and get me a compartment on the afternoon train to Florida."

"Florida?" The cadaverous face of the servant didn't change its habitual expression of melancholy.

"Miami. That ought to be far enough South. My bags are packed. The train leaves at two-thirty. You be at the station with my transportation. And Martin, my changing my trip from Montreal to Miami makes no difference to you. You're to leave my Scotch alone. The rye is bad. I don't care what you do with it. But remember— you be sober when I return. I'll send a telegram, and you'll have thirty-six hours in which to straighten up. Am I clear?"

"Very, sir," replied the man.

Granard grinned.

"Another thing: No chorus girls."

"Some day, Mr. Granard, I'm going to try wine and women. You've warned me so much against them that I'm getting curious." Something that was a remote cousin to a smile appeared on Martin's thin lips.

"That is the subtle idea that lies behind my warnings," chuckled Granard. "Hustle along."

He bathed and shaved and breakfasted leisurely. He smiled as he read, in his own paper, the account of Mackleton's histrionic address to the Abbott jury yesterday. Izzy was a swell lawyer, but it was too bad the jury couldn't have witnessed Mackleton's act last night. Tired jurymen deserved an occasional laugh.

At ten o'clock Granard stepped out onto Fifty-ninth Street. March was making a leonine entrance. Snow was falling, and a north wind swept across Central Park so savagely that the flakes stung the skin. He picked up a taxi at the Plaza and gave Mackleton's office address on Times Square. He shivered as he settled back in the cold cab.

Mackleton had said to go South. Mackleton wanted to make return for the life that Granard had saved last night. Mackleton was a coward: he was a dishonest shyster. But he never forgot a favor. If he suggested a vacation in the South, he had a reason.

Suddenly Granard didn't care what the reason might prove to be. The raging blizzard that had descended upon New York made him wonder why he had ever thought of going to Canada. In the south there would be golf and tennis and swimming and fishing, and dancing at night beneath the tropic moon.

There might be, too, a girl down there who could make him forget that he had stupidly fallen in love with Sam Cartwain's daughter. And wasn't that a smart thing to do! To let himself go overboard for a debutante who hadn't a thought beyond the moment. For a girl who would want always to drag him from his career.

Then he grinned gayly. He was getting a little ahead of himself. She wouldn't want to drag him away from his career. Her only interest in him was the fact that she didn't think he had fallen in love with her. Conceited little kitten! Then he laughed at his description of the tall blonde Peggy. Then he frowned. Damn her, he wouldn't think of her again.

ii

A PRETTY blonde secretary greeted Granard with a warm smile.

"Go in and get kissed," she said.

"I'd rather stay here," grinned Granard. "Izzy wouldn't delegate the task to you, would he?"

"I'm not sure it would be a task." Her smile was warmer.

"Let's go into that sometime," suggested Granard.

"I'm a working girl; I'm only free from five in the afternoon until nine in the morning."

"Then I'd have to work fast," said Granard. "Izzy feels mellow?"

"You saved his life. You'll have a tough time explaining that to Saint Peter."

"Maybe a long life of penitence will atone," said Granard. "You don't like your boss?"

"I always say that newspaper men are quick-witted," said the girl. "Go in, hero, and modestly accept Izzy's thanks."

She threw open the door of an inner office, and Granard entered the room. Mackleton was seated behind a large flat desk on which were two telephones, memorandum-pads and briefs. The stocky lawyer pushed back his chair and advanced toward his visitor.

"Bill!"

"Save it for your next jury," said Granard. He dropped into a chair beside the desk. Mackleton's hand, that had been reaching for Granard's, dropped futilely at his side. He sat down opposite Granard.

"Bill, you saved my life last night."

"Well, I'm still a nice chap," said Granard.

Mackleton shook his head almost sorrowfully.

"You don't fool me, Bill. You pretend to be—"

"Hard. But underneath my tough exterior, I'm even harder. What did you want to see me about this morning?"

"Well, shouldn't a man want to say something to a man that saved—"

"Put it in a letter," said Granard. "Izzy, you said something about taking a vacation in the South."

"Sure I did." The lawyer beamed. "And when Izzy Mackleton makes suggestions, he backs them up. I got ten grand for clearing Abbott. Well, if it hadn't been for you, I wouldn't be here to spend it. So here's something for you."

Across the desk he pushed a piece of paper. Granard noted the amount of the check payable to himself. Ten thousand dollars. He made no move to touch the check.

"What made you think I'd be here this morning?" he asked.

"You're a newspaper man. A good newspaper man. You'd know that when Izzy Mackleton drops a hint, it's a good one."

"I was badly fooled on a couple of your hints last fall," said Granard.

Mackleton smirked at him.

"But you hadn't saved my life then."

Granard nodded.

"You think a lot of that life, don't you, Izzy? I'd never have valued it at ten thousand. A dime would be closer."

Mackleton laughed.

"Always the same. Just a kidder. Well, aren't you going to take it? Don't you want it?"

"You know I don't, Izzy," said Granard. "Izzy, you didn't even enter this check on the stub. That's how safe you felt."

Mackleton colored. His eyes were guilty. Then he laughed.

"Well," he said, "if you'd taken it, I would have entered it." Into his eyes crept admiration. "Bill, you never get fooled, do you?"

"I just told you— twice by you. But not again. Izzy, I canceled my reservation to Montreal. My man is getting me a room on the afternoon train to Miami."

Mackleton clicked his teeth.

"Extravagant! You should have come to see me before you sent him for the ticket. I didn't say Miami. Palm Beach is the place. Now, maybe you won't get a refund."

"And I want to cry," said Granard. "And why do you want me to go to Palm Beach?"

Mackleton shrugged.

"You're a funny man, Bill. You like reporting. Twice you have refused to become an editor. Half a dozen times you have turned down good jobs outside your profession. The money doesn't mean anything to you. You get a hundred and fifty a week from the Globe, and your private income is about eight thousand a year."

"You didn't know about the mole under my left shoulder-blade, did you?" asked Granard.

"I could have found out," said the lawyer.

"Why the interest?" Granard asked.

"I see a lot of you around Broadway. It's always good to know things."

"I'm flattered," said Granard. "You're right. If I hadn't known about Murphy Pantadosi last night—"

"You knew that he was going to try to kill me?"

Granard laughed.

"And you didn't tip me off?" Mackleton's face grew white. For a moment Granard thought the little lawyer would be ill. But he managed to recover himself.

"Why should I? You lied to me last fall. You needed a little scare. Fool me again, Izzy, and I won't be there when the next man decides to give you the works."

Mackleton stared at him.

"And if you hadn't happened to be quick—"

Granard smiled amiably.

"You get it, Izzy. I wouldn't be here asking you why you think I ought to go South. And you haven't told me yet."

Slowly Mackleton shook his head. He seemed to be debating something with himself.

"Still, you did save my life," he said reluctantly.

"Maybe, under the circumstances, you'd better tear up that check quickly," said Granard. "Write another for five thousand, and your sense of proportion will be satisfied. I won't take that one, either, but you'll feel better."

"Bill, you've got no use for me at all?"

"Not the slightest," Granard assented cheerily.

"That's what I like about you. I wish I could afford to be as honest as you are."

"You wouldn't like it, Izzy. You'll do better the way you are. And time is passing. Why do I go to Palm Beach?"

Mackleton surveyed his visitor wonderingly.

"Last night I was filled with gratitude. You got me right. I was just showing off when I wrote that check. But I did want to do something for you. And I knew, whether it was vacation or not, you'd rather get a line on a story than anything else. You know, Bill, you're a lot like the newspaper men I used to know twenty-five years ago. Like Frank O'Malley and Lindsay Dennison. You can write, and you know news. And you love your work."

"So you want me to go to Florida. Get on with it, Izzy."

"You were in the Cypress Club last night. Anything there strike you as funny?"

"Only your yelp when Murphy drew that gun on you. Izzy, that made us square for your lies last fall."

"But nothing else?" The lawyer ignored Granard's derision.

"Nothing particular. Except, maybe, that Jimmy Trimp seems to be in the money again."

"What made you think that?"

"His wife wore a sable coat that must have cost in the neighborhood of ten thousand dollars. All his friends seem prosperous lately. I've noticed them around here and there. Like the good old days of prohibition. Big tips to headwaiters. All that sort of thing. Heavy spending."

"You notice things, don't you?"

"Anyone with his eyes open would notice things like that. But what happened at the Cypress Club last night that I should have noticed?"

"Only what you've just told me. Now, if you go down to Palm Beach and sort of breeze around, maybe you'll get a line on where the money comes from that buys sable coats for the wives of the men like Jimmy Trimp."

Granard lighted a cigarette. He leaned back in his chair and studied the olive face of the criminal lawyer.

"That wouldn't be much of a story. I'm afraid the Globe wouldn't pay the telegraph charges. I'm a reporter, Izzy, not a gossip-writer. Make it clearer."

"I wouldn't know how," said Mackleton.

"You'd make it clearer to a jury," objected Granard.

"Then there'd be some facts; there'd be a case; there'd be a crime and a defendant."

"And just now there's only the fact that Jimmy Trimp's wife wears a sable coat. Not much of a story in that."

"No? Well, if you can't see the lead, I can't show it to you."

Granard ground his cigarette in an ash tray on the desk.

"What's the idea, Izzy? Do you want to be coaxed? You surely don't expect me to change my plans, go to Florida instead of Canada, on this sort of a tip?"

Mackleton's thick lips parted in a smile.

"You'd cancel a trip to Africa and go to the North Pole on less than this. Bill, there's a story in Palm Beach."

"Of course there is. There's a story in Belfast, Maine, and another in Peoria. There's a story everywhere, news everywhere. But that doesn't mean that I'd sit six months in Maine or Illinois waiting for something to break."

"You won't have to wait very long in Palm Beach," Mackleton assured him.

"Is Jimmy Trimp going down there?"

"I wouldn't know," replied the lawyer.

Granard stood up; irritation was in his eyes and voice.

"I hope Murphy Pantadosi gets brooding and takes another try at you, Izzy."

He drew his coat closer about him and started for the door.

"Don't get sore," cried Mackleton. "If I could tell you any more, you know that I would."

"I don't know anything of the sort." Granard paused and looked back at the lawyer. "You don't know, you say. But you must have an idea. What kind of a story do you think is going to break down there?"

"I wouldn't make a guess. And something else, Bill; we never had this talk; I never tipped you off to go South."

Granard's keen eyes studied Mackleton. Something in the lawyer's voice puzzled him.

"Izzy, are you afraid of something?"

Mackleton attempted bluster.

"Who? Me? What would I be afraid of?"

"Practically anything," jeered Granard. Speculation appeared in his eyes now. Izzy Mackleton had given him the vaguest, most nebulous reason for going to Florida. But Izzy had made the suggestion out of gratitude. That meant that the lawyer knew definitely that something was going to happen in Palm Beach. Mackleton was afraid to say more than the little he had said. Mackleton wanted assurance that this little would never be repeated by Granard.

"Okay, Izzy. If you've been playing games with me, you'll be terribly sorry. Because I know games myself. I'm just mean enough to play one on a little shyster that did things to me."

"The things you say when you're kidding," said Mackleton. "I'm not playing a game, Bill."

Granard nodded curtly. He completed buttoning his coat across his chest and walked through the door. He didn't offer to say good-by.

"There's no lipstick on you. Didn't Izzy give you a nice big kiss?" The pretty blonde secretary grinned impudently at him.

"The terrible way you talk about a kind employer," said Granard.

"It's the mean side of me," said the girl. "You wouldn't believe how gentle the other side is."

"I'm a modest man. I wouldn't dare look," said Granard. He walked toward the outer door. The girl followed him. Izzy Mackleton had an enormous practice, but he had no partners, no clerks, no office staff, nothing but an office-boy. On another floor of the building was a firm of lawyers who attended to details for Mackleton. But the blonde secretary was the only person, with the exception of Mackleton himself, who worked in this suite of offices. There was no one to overhear the girl as she spoke.

"When I went to school, I read about a monkey and a cat and a fire and some chestnuts," she said.

Granard stopped short.

"Izzy doesn't look like a monkey," he said. "Give your boss a break."

"You don't look like a cat," she retorted.

Granard looked at the door of Mackleton's private office. It was still closed.

"Tell me all, sweetheart. Withhold no confidences from your Uncle Bill."

The girl shrugged. She turned away, and Granard was given opportunity to stare at her rather lovely back. The office dress she wore hid little of a most delightful figure.

"That's all— and sweetheart, to you," she said.

It was Granard's turn to shrug, and he did so. Then he opened the outer door and went into the hall. He descended in the elevator to the lobby and pushed his way through the revolving door to the street. The wind blew harder here in Times Square than it had blown on Central Park South. Pedestrians, bent over, sought to protect their faces from the biting crystals. A traffic policeman beat gloved hands together and stamped his heavily shod feet upon the ground. Granard, standing on the curb, held up a futile hand to a dozen taxis. But cabs, usually plentiful, were occupied today. In despair Granard started for the subway. He leaped back to the sidewalk just in time to avoid a taxi that skidded perilously close to him. It stopped and a man alighted. As he paid the driver, Granard recognized him. It was Jimmy Trimp. If he recognized Granard he gave no sign. He pulled his hat over his eyes and pushed through the gale toward the revolving doors through which Granard had just come.

"Where to?" asked the driver as Granard stepped into the cab.

Granard glanced at his wrist-watch. It was eleven-thirty. He gave the man the address of his own apartment. Up Seventh Avenue and across Fifty-ninth Street the car proceeded. The traffic, Granard decided, had never been more impeded than on this early March day. It was ten minutes before twelve when he entered his apartment. Martin was there.

"The Globe called five minutes ago," said the man. "I didn't expect you back here. It was the city editor. He told me to be sure and have you call him from the station. I said I didn't expect to see you until I met you at the train. I have the tickets and I'll have your bags in your compartment. The train leaves at two-five. Shall I prepare lunch for you?"

Granard shook his head.

"I'll get a bite somewhere; perhaps on the train."

He gave Martin his coat and sat down by the telephone, dialing the number of the Globe. In a moment he was connected with the city editor.

"Bill Granard speaking. Is this Carewe?"

"You're a hell of a newspaper man," growled Carewe. "You stop a killing in a night club and don't give it to your own paper. How come?"

"Vacation began at six yesterday," laughed Granard. "Anyway, that one was off the record. How did you hear it?"

"The Globe doesn't cease to function just because you're on a vacation," said Carewe. "You wouldn't care to be interviewed by a reporter from our paper, would you, Mr. Granard? We have some of the nicest young men who'd like to question you. Or if your tastes run that way, we could send up a girl reporter."

"You couldn't be kinder, Mr. Carewe. But my mother told me that only common people liked publicity. Let it go, Sam."

"But the other papers may carry it," protested the city editor.

"Isn't that too bad?" commiserated Granard. "Wouldn't it be awful if the Globe was beaten on such a tremendous story? What can they print? Pantadosi got rough, and I changed his mind. Forget it."

"You've changed your mind about Montreal, your man told me. You're too swell, anyway. A manservant, and trips to Palm Beach. Who's been slipping you money for keeping things out of the Globe?"

"All the big people," laughed Granard.

"Why Florida?" insisted Carewe.

"I don't know. Call it a hunch. Maybe I need more freckles. Sam, what do you know about Jimmy Trimp?"

"I hear he's in the money," said the city editor. "Why?"

"I just wondered what you knew. I hang around Broadway, but I haven't heard any talk. Have you?"

"Nothing, except that he went broke after prohibition. He opened up a place on the Jersey side and lost a mint. He tried to run a wheel somewhere in the Fifties—"

Granard chuckled.

"I know about that. I went in there one night. You stumbled over the wires that control the wheel. It was too raw. He didn't make anything there. Haven't heard what his racket is?"

"Funny you should ask," said Carewe. "Only last week I suggested a Sunday special. What's happened to the bootleg millionaires? I thought it was a swell idea."

"It was and it is," agreed Granard. "But you don't know where Trimp is getting it?"

"Haven't an idea. A lad that knows his Broadway and his Park Avenue the way you do ought to be able to get the answer."

"When I come back from my vacation I'll look into it," promised Granard.

"You will not," said Carewe. "The Rennsler breach-of-promise trial begins two weeks from Monday. You'll be sitting in that courtroom for three weeks. Well, have a swell time and if you run into anything that's young and rich and lovely and wants a husband, don't write— telegraph. Even if it's just rich, let me know."

"Send your photograph to the train. Maybe I can have the wedding all arranged before you leave New York," said Granard.

He hung up the receiver. Funny, but when one was all packed and ready to go somewhere, the brief time of waiting for train or boat was always a bore. He looked at his watch. Nearly two hours before the train left. Of course, he'd better allow plenty of time for the trip to the Pennsylvania Station. The blizzard was getting worse. But even such time allowance left him with well over an hour to kill. Well, he might as well go over to the Colony and eat luncheon. He had breakfasted several hours earlier than usual and felt hungry.

"I'll meet you at the train, Martin," he said. He let the man help him on with his overcoat. As he descended to the street and as he rode in a taxi the short distance to the Colony Restaurant, his forehead wrinkled in concentration. What was Izzy Mackleton driving at? Why did the fact that Jimmy Trimp, ex-bootlegger, was in the money cause Izzy Mackleton to suggest a trip to Palm Beach to Granard?

The lawyer hadn't been talking idly, either. Something was going to happen in the Florida resort that would be of tremendous interest to the half million readers of the Morning Globe. But what could that happening have to do with a man like Jimmy Trimp? Why did Mrs. Trimp's possession of a sable coat cause Mackleton to tell Granard to go South?

There was something else, too, that was puzzling. Ruth Tyman, Mackleton's pretty blonde secretary, was notoriously close-mouthed. Newspaper men had cross-questioned that pretty girl scores of times, trying to get from her information concerning cases in which Mackleton was engaged. But they had always failed. But this morning she had gratuitously mentioned the fable of the monkey and the chestnut. What chestnuts did Mackleton want Granard to pull from the fire?

iii

GRANARD entered the Colony and gave his hat and coat to the attendant and walked down to the bar. At this hour, barely half-past twelve, the restaurant was deserted. An hour from now it would be crowded, but Granard had the bar to himself.

He lunched here infrequently and dined not very often. His hours prevented him from making engagements. But on his day off, which was Wednesday, he tried to eat two meals here. He was favorably known to the management. A waiter spoke to him.

"Would you care to order now, sir?"

Granard studied the menu presented to him. He chose oysters, egg benedictine and a mixed green salad.

"And a pint of white wine," he added. Then he turned his attention to the cocktail being shaken for him. He sipped it leisurely, lighted a cigarette and strolled into the dining-room. He sat down at a table near the door and attacked his oysters. He was about ready for his eggs when a gay group entered the restaurant. They stopped short at his table.

"For the love of Mike," cried a young man. "I thought you never got up until one o'clock, Bill."

Granard looked up at the merry face of Shane Kilday. He rose as he recognized the two girls. Peggy Cartwain gave him the coolest nod, but Helen Gorlande, as dark as Peggy was fair, beamed on him.

"You must lunch with us, Bill," she declared.

Granard hesitated, but the expression on Peggy Cartwain's face decided him. She didn't want him, eh?

"I'd love it," he said. "But I'll have to hurry through my meal. I'm catching a train."

"Same here," said Kilday. "We're all catching a quick bite."

Granard spoke to his waiter and followed the trio to a table evidently reserved in advance. A fourth chair was placed for him and he sat down between the two girls.

"Where are you going, Bill?" asked Kilday.

"Palm Beach," Granard replied.

"On the two-five? Well, is that swell! Now we can get some bridge. What a foursome," said Kilday.

Peggy Cartwain looked at Granard. Into her face had come color, and there was anger in her blue eyes.

"I thought you were leaving for Montreal this morning?" she said.

"Changed my mind," smiled Granard.

"The best decision you ever made in all your life," said Kilday. "Here are these two girls going down there, and only one cavalier. Of course, the world knows that one Kilday is worth ten other men, but even Kilday seeks occasionally a moment when he isn't making two or three girls happy. The big heart of Kilday sometimes likes to pour itself out for just one girl."

"I hear," said Helen Gorlande quietly, "that there really are a few men in Palm Beach."

"But not Kildays. And not, when one stops to think about it, Granards. Men, yes, masculine bipeds. But lacking in the debonair grace of Kilday and the gay charm of Granard. Girls, I congratulate you. The break of the century, I call it. Where are you staying, Bill?"

"Haven't an idea. Only decided to go South this morning. Some hotel, I suppose."

"You suppose! When I've been given an apartment for the next two weeks! You are staying with me and nowhere else. Bill, can you picture us? Tomorrow night we'll be at the Cabot, the loveliest night club in the world. We'll be gentlemen. A Kilday and a Granard can be nothing less than gents. We'll take these two lovely creatures to dinner at the Patio. Afterwards we'll take them to Bradley's and perhaps we'll present them with a green chip or two. Then we'll take them to the Colony. Ernie Holst will recognize me as I enter. He'll slip into a dreamy waltz and will Helen know bliss! Half swooning from ecstasy, I'll lead her back to our table. Arthur Brown will sing a love song. Helen, you're going to feel so give-inny that you won't know yourself. Later, I'll drive you along the ocean to the Rexters'. Maybe the moon will be turned on in their patio and someone will bring us a farewell drink. We'll sip that libation to the stars and the moon and to Eros. And then— oh, then, Helen—"

"I'll yawn as prettily as I can, slap your naughty hands and say good night," laughed the Gorlande girl.

"I suppose you will. And then Kilday will go scouting around the next morning. Kilday will drop in at the Layton pool. Kilday will display his lithe form at the Benson pool. Somewhere Kilday will find a girl who knows why patios were built and the moon created."

"I didn't know you were leaving town," said Granard to Peggy.

"Didn't you?" The girl turned her shoulder and addressed Kilday. Granard pursed his lips, and for the brief time that luncheon consumed, he devoted himself to Helen Gorlande. At the conclusion of the meal, for which Kilday insisted on paying, the two girls went to the dressing room. In the lobby Kilday stared at Granard.

"Thought you and Peggy were buddies," he said curiously.

"Aren't we?" Granard evaded.

"Far be it from Kilday to comment on a matter that a friend doesn't wish to discuss. But if the lovely Peggy didn't bring a large chunk of the blizzard that's raging outside right into this restaurant, and wrap it tenderly around your neck, then Kilday's perspicacity is on the wane. What knife has cut your love in two?"

"Make an effort, Shane. Try to be less of a damned fool than usual."

Kilday nodded.

"Consider the effort made. But I hope you two will fix it up, whatever it is. Both the girls are staying with the Rexters. It would be nice if the four of us— pshaw, the Florida moon is healing."

The girls emerged from the dressing room. Their bags were already in their rooms on the train. They went through the door and stood a moment under the porte-cochere. The blizzard had increased in ferocity. Granard shivered as they waited for a taxi. In a moment one arrived. Kilday, with a malicious grin at Granard, hustled the Gorlande girl into the machine and slammed the door. The starter summoned another taxi.

"Mind if I take you to the train?" asked Granard.

"I certainly do mind. And I think you're being too impertinent. I told you I didn't want to see you again. So you force yourself upon us at luncheon—"

"Don't be a silly little girl. How did I know you were lunching at the Colony?"

"How did you know I decided very early this morning to go to Florida? I suppose Shane Kilday told you. You probably told him that I didn't like you and you two got together and decided it would be humorous to annoy me. I don't want you in Palm Beach."

"Now isn't that too bad? If I told you that I had no idea until I met you inside that you were going to Florida—"

"I'd think you were lying. Exactly as you were lying last night when you said that four men were watching that murderous wretch who tried to kill Mackleton."

"Harsh words, my Norse goddess."

"I don't want you to call me that. I don't want you to speak to me. I don't want you to ride to the train with me. I don't want to know you."

"In other words, you don't want me. Is that it? Well, let it go at that."

A taxi drew up at the curb. He assisted her into it, and told the driver to take her to the Pennsylvania Station. Then he secured another machine and drove alone to the same place. Martin was waiting for him at the train gate.

"Some friends of yours just went down the steps," he said. "Miss Cartwain, Miss Gorlande and Mr. Kilday. They all have rooms in the same car as you."

"I know," said Granard. He shook hands with his man and descended the steps. As he stood on the platform waiting to ask the conductor where his car was, a woman in sables brushed by him. Behind her followed the tall, wiry figure of Jimmy Trimp. The ex-bootlegger nodded to Granard. Granard returned the nod. He looked thoughtfully after Trimp.

Mackleton had spoken of Trimp this morning. Trimp had entered the building where Mackleton maintained his office. Ruth Tyman had made a strange remark that might well have been a cryptic warning. Granard shrugged his broad shoulders, spoke to the conductor and entered his car.

iv

KILDAY walked to the window and looked out.

"It's like some Spanish town," he said. "That alley, the little restaurant, the shops. And this is just one beauty spot. Bill, we're going to love this place."

"I do love it already. The ride across the lake was enough to win me. It's swell of you to put me up, Shane."

"It's swell of you to stay with me," said Kilday. "Nice diggings." He eyed Granard soberly. "You told me not to make a damned fool of myself yesterday and I went right ahead and tried to put you and Peggy in the same cab. But you'll admit that I behaved myself since. I didn't try to bring you together all the way down here, did I?"

"You certainly didn't," conceded Granard.

"But Peggy needs a beau down here. You two ought to make it up."

"We haven't quarreled. Peggy doesn't like the kind of man I am, Shane. She'll find plenty of beaux."

The ebullient Kilday sighed.

"I suppose she will. And I'll have to make up foursomes with her and Helen and some other man. When I'd much rather have you along. Why don't you ignore her?"

"I've done pretty well the last day and a half," chuckled Granard. "I stuck close enough to my room, didn't I?"

"And left us to play three-handed bridge. At that, it was good practice. They call it Towie and it's the rage down here. But what I mean is why don't you dine with me at the Rexters' tonight? Peggy's had plenty of time to get over her grouch. She'll want to step tonight."

Granard shook his head.

"Sorry, old man, but I'll wander around by myself. Thanks just the same. And thank Mrs. Rexter for me. Tell her that I hope she'll ask me another time."

"Don't think she won't," said Kilday. "We've been in Palm Beach one hour and we have ten invitations. Men are rare down here. It's the happy hunting ground for the bachelor with a dinner coat."

"Then I think I'll go hunting," laughed Granard.

Fred Ainsley, the friend who had given his apartment to Kilday while he was absent in California, had left a colored man to look after his guests' needs. Granard left Kilday to dress and in his own room found that evening clothes had been laid out and a bath drawn. The colored man had also prepared a highball. Granard drank it as he waited for the water in the bath to cool. He was half dressed when Kilday paused in his room to say good-by.

"Dine at the Patio, drop in at Bradley's for a while and then go on to the Cabot. Those are my suggestions for a perfect evening. You'll see people you know at each place and you'll have a swell time. I'll probably run into you and if Peggy is still in a pet we'll find another girl. So long."

Granard finished dressing leisurely. Abe, the very efficient colored man, had procured a small car for him. He instructed Granard how to reach the Patio restaurant and Granard sallied forth into the balmiest night he had ever known. The moon was full and the stars were brilliant and the air was perfumed. He drove to the ocean and stopped a moment to watch the lazy swells break into creamy surf. And he arrived at the Patio restaurant about eight-thirty. The headwaiter greeted him warmly. Granard had seen him fulfilling the same function at the Colony Restaurant in New York; as he was conducted to a table half a dozen people called to him. He stopped and shook hands but refused invitations to dine. Tomorrow he would be eager to become part of the gayeties of Palm Beach, but tonight he wanted to be a spectator. He wanted no distraction that would prevent him from seeing the place as an outsider. Some day he might even write about Palm Beach and he wanted his first impressions to be printed indelibly upon his memory.

He responded amiably to the headwaiter's suggestion. He found the stone crab delicious, the lamb perfect, and even conceded that banana ice cream was not without charm. And as he ate he watched couples on the dance floor, noted the people at the tables. There was Eddie Cantor. There was Edna Ferber. There was Herbert Swope; discussing racing with him was young Alfred Vanderbilt. Names known all over the country were here tonight. But finally he paid his check, and the starter outside directed him to Bradley's Beach Club. The statement that he was staying with Shane Kilday brought him admission. He watched the play for half an hour then wandered outside, got into his car and was directed to the Cabot Club. He was proceeding through the arcade that led to the restaurant when a girl greeted him.

"Bill Granard! Whatever are you doing down here?"

Granard stopped and shook hands with the charming brunette who had accosted him.

"The same question to you, Milly Welton. I thought you were in the Frivols."

"So I was. But I decided I needed a rest. And here I am."

"But not alone," said Granard.

The girl smiled invitingly.

"I am tonight. And you?"

"I'm alone. But don't tell me that you're in this place all by yourself. I've seen a dozen lovely women tonight, but still a girl like you wouldn't find the competition too strong."

"Honestly, I just dropped in here thinking I'd see some party I wanted to join, but I didn't. I was on my way back home. But if you're alone and can dance half as well as you used to—"

With exaggerated courtesy he offered her his arm.

"When Milly Welton condescends, what man's pulse could remain at seventy-two?"

He led her to a table by the dance floor. As they sat down he drank in the beauty, the indescribable charm of the place. At this comparatively early hour— it was only half after ten— the tables were only half occupied, but the spirit of those present, a gay spirit that responded to the charm of their surroundings, lent the place a feeling of not too crowded intimacy.

"Not champagne," cried the girl. "Bill, you're the most extravagant newspaper man I ever knew. Last time we were out together you bought me champagne. Remember?"

"Don't remind me. I felt sentimental. You were very lovely that night."

"It was the opening of last year's Frivols. It was a hit and I had a line. I felt like a real actress. I surely was high that night. But you— you didn't respond."

"You're a nice girl, Milly," he said embarrassedly.

"You mean I was. Jimmy Trimp didn't feel the way you did. What a fool I was. You gave me good advice. Gee, you were swell. But I thought I knew it all. So now I leave shows in the middle of a run and take trips to Florida. But not with Trimp."

"No? With whom? Don't answer. I don't care and neither do you. Why talk about things that have passed?"

"I didn't mean to, Bill. But I often think of you. I've never forgotten that you could have been— well, you know what I mean. And you were too fine. I just want you to know, have always wanted you to know, that I think you're the tops."

"The same to you, Milly. Shall we dance?"

"I'd love it," cried the girl.

Granard danced excellently and the girl was competent. They moved about the floor rhythmically. But as they approached their table, the hand on Granard's arm tightened until the girl's nails bit almost painfully through his sleeve into the flesh.

"Do you see what I see?" she whispered.

Granard looked at the entrance. Mrs. Trimp no longer wore her sable coat, but her too-luscious body was clothed in a creation much too ornate for Palm Beach.

"I see Mrs. Trimp and her husband," said Granard. "But I thought you just said that one was all washed up."

The girl's body swayed against his own. For a moment Granard thought she would faint. Then she recovered herself and walked to the table. But as she sat down, she reached for her glass and drank the champagne greedily. As she put the glass down, she looked with frightened eyes at Granard.

"Bill, you won't let anything happen to me, will you?"

"Happen to you? Certainly I won't. But what could?"

"What often happens to girls who know too much? Bill, I'm frightened."

He frowned at her.

"Of what, Milly?"

Her words of reply seemed ridiculously melodramatic in these lovely surroundings.

"Of death, Bill. Of being murdered."

Granard glanced quickly about. No one was near enough to have overheard them. He gave his entire attention to the girl again. She was shaking with fear.

"Bill, I had to tell you," she said.

"Go on telling me," Granard bid coolly.

"Go on?"

He nodded.

"Here?" she demanded with a dismay which set him glancing around again.

"You mean he— your trouble— is here?"

"I don't know where he is," Milly replied.

"Then he's not Trimp?"

"I don't know who he is."

Granard bent forward. "Then what is the trouble, Milly?"

"I don't know what— except that somebody will kill me, if I don't keep 'quiet.' " She reached for the rest of her champagne.

"Keep what quiet, Milly?" Granard asked.

"That's what I don't know," the girl whispered, setting down her glass empty. "I 'know' something; or I'm supposed to know something which somebody will kill me for, if I 'say anything.' But God knows, Bill, I don't know what it is."

Granard could not, without turning, see Trimp; but she could, and her eyes went quickly toward Trimp's table and down again.

"How's he in this?" Granard questioned quickly.

"Jimmy? I don't know."

"But you know he's in it?"

"He's the one sending me the money, I think."

"What money?"

"The money I get in the mail."

"How much money?"

"Five hundred dollars each time."

"How often?"

"I've had it twice."

"Not checks, of course?"

"No. Cash— bank notes. Five hundred-dollar bills."

"What comes with them?"

"Nothing— but four words. They're on a plain white sheet."

"Typewritten?"

"Yes."

"What are the words?"

" 'For a good girl.' "

"The same both times?"

"Exactly the same."

"Nothing else?"

"Not a word, Bill— not a scratch. The envelopes are perfectly plain. The kind you buy at a post-office."

"You had two, you said."

"Yes."

"Where were they mailed?"

"The first in New York."

"New York City?"

"Yes. I got it there, before I came down."

"Then you got the other here?"

"Yes. This evening. It was different in one way."

"How?"

"It came special delivery."

"To you here in Palm Beach, of course."

"Yes; and it was mailed here."

"By Trimp, you think?"

Milly shook her head. "Oh, Bill, I don't know!"

"But you said you thought he is the one sending you the money."

"Because I can't think who else it might be. And Jimmy's in that racket now, isn't he?"

"What racket?"

"The racket that— that makes big money out of people's troubles, and makes them pay out big money, too."

"You're a sweet kid, Milly," Granard said. "You never could say the hard word. Yes, Jimmy Trimp's a blackmailer. And just now he happens to have something especially big on somebody."

"Who, Bill?"

"Somebody you know, apparently; but you don't know who it is or what it is; but Jimmy Trimp knows, and he thinks you do too."

"Then you think Trimp did send me the money?"

"I didn't say so," Granard put in hastily. "I was just following your guess. . . . But it wasn't the money that frightened you, Milly."

"No; it's— Bill, it's the man who calls me up."

"On the phone, you mean."

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Twice in New York, Bill."

"And then here?"

"Yes, Bill; just about an hour ago."

"What does he say?"

"That I've got to be careful— damned careful."

"About what?"

"He's sure I know."

"You talk to him, do you?"

"I've tried to; but he doesn't answer anything I say. He just says I've got to be damned careful. And tonight— well it got me, Bill."

"Why tonight, especially?"

"He told me everything I'd done recently, Bill. He's been about— watching me."

"You don't know his voice, of course."

"No. He doesn't even suggest anybody I know."

"He's not like Trimp at all?"

"Not in the least. . . . But he's watching me. He watched me in New York; and now he's watching me here.... More champagne, Bill," Milly appealed, moving her glass.

He poured it for her. "Tell me how these calls began."

She shook her head. "Not here. He's watching me.... I don't mean Jimmy Trimp. I mean him. I can feel he's watching me. He'll call me tomorrow— if he hasn't got me before then— and tell me just how I sat and talked to you." The music was playing again. "Let's dance to the door, Bill," she proposed, "and then go out. Go out in the dark."

As he turned to signal the waiter, Granard glanced over the room; he saw Trimp rising from his table with his wife. They went together to the dance floor. He saw a few acquaintances, many strangers; he noticed no face particularly intent.

In a moment he had Milly in his arms, but she danced perfunctorily, dully, thinking only of escape from the room; and they danced merely the half-circle to the door.

"I've my own car," Granard explained; "no driver." And they went out to it.

He could feel her relief as she settled beside him and they drove away from the lights on the road near the shore. He asked her nothing while the car was moving, but used the time to check his own thoughts.

The tip which Izzy Mackleton had slipped to him seemed to be hot. Somebody, who presumably was now in Palm Beach, had done something he had to cover up; and the signs were that it was more than usually outrageous— and therefore more than usually costly.

Izzy knew about it; but it was not Izzy's business to make his money of "the know"— that is, not to make his money directly. Izzy had other ways of getting his. Jimmy Trimp played the direct take; that was Jimmy's racket. For Jimmy to be in the know of something, meant that Jimmy promptly was on the pay roll. Jimmy did not believe in allowing a time lag after he learned something which must be covered up.

But the payments to Jimmy, large as they might be, would not be complete; he could come and come again for his coin— as long as he kept what he knew covered up. So if someone else also was in the know, Jimmy had to keep him— or her— quiet.

The matter of the money mailed to Milly needed no further explanation.

The telephone-calls could be connected with the same affair and yet not be traced to Trimp's activities. It seemed to Granard that somebody else, other than Jimmy Trimp, also believed that Milly Welton possessed damaging or dangerous information; and he was taking his own course to silence her. He certainly had her scared.

As Granard drove, she pressed close to him for protection; and soon he stopped the car.

"Tell me the rest of it now, Milly," he said, but he realized that she had little left to tell; no more, indeed, than the detail of the words over the phone which had threatened her. She honestly had no idea in what way she was a danger to anybody else.

"I hadn't done a thing, Bill; nothing was different. Just that man began calling me and somebody mailed me the money."

"Exactly when did he begin calling?"

"It was a week ago yesterday."

"Who did you tell?"

"Nobody at first."

"Then who?"

"Ralph."

"Ralph Strather?"

"Yes, Bill."

"What did he think?"

"He wanted me to leave the show."

"That want is hardly original with him, Milly."

"He wanted me to marry him."

"When you didn't— for you didn't, did you?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"He wanted me to come down here."

"So you came— alone?"

"No; with Ralph's sister— Esther Railston."

"So you're staying with her?"

"Yes."

"Where's Ralph?"

"He stayed in New York; but he's on the way down here now, I'm sure. I wired him."

"To come?"

"No; just that the Voice is in Palm Beach.... Ralph stayed in New York to try to trace him."

"And because you weren't ready to make this a honeymoon."

"I suppose so."

A car approached with only its dim lights burning, and Granard felt Milly pressing closer to him. He held her quiet, watching the car which slowed almost in front of them. Suddenly its bright lights switched on, and the car, after almost halting, caught speed again, and Granard heard a girl's mocking laughter. Peggy's laugh; and he got a glimpse of her. And of Shane Kilday.

Another girl and another man were in the car. Granard scarcely saw them.

Milly removed her soft body from the close contact with him.

"Oh!" she whispered, contritely. "Friends of yours! Sorry, Bill."

"Don't be silly," Granard said, pulling his feelings back from the car that had passed. "You were saying you're with Esther Railston."

"She has a house here, you know."

"Is her husband here?" Granard asked practically.

"No; but there are servants, of course."

"Men in the house?"

"Yes. I ought to be perfectly all right in the house, Bill," Milly said. "I know I'm all right. I suppose I was crazy to come out. But I'd just got the call there."

"From the Voice. Who else heard it?"

"Nobody. A servant called me to the phone. I didn't tell Esther afterwards. I don't want to bother her— at least until Ralph gets here. I came out first only to telegraph him, so they wouldn't know I'd sent for him. Then I felt I had to see somebody."

"I'm glad you saw me, Milly," Granard said.

"And I'm glad I told you. I didn't mean to tell anyone. I just wanted to see who was here in Palm Beach that I knew.... Then I saw you."

"And Jimmy Trimp," Granard reminded her.

"Oh, Bill, what do they think I know?"

"I'll try to tell you— tomorrow, Milly."

"I feel much better.... You're awfully— steady, Bill."

"Steady?" Granard repeated, disappointed.

"That's what girls say of dull men, don't they? Forgive me, Bill. I meant it takes a lot to shake you. It was luck for me I found you. I'm sure I'll be all right in the house for the night. In the morning, Ralph will be here."

"He'll have to fly, then."

"He'll fly, I think. He likes to fly, you know."

Granard thought, too, that Ralph Strather would fly; almost any man would fly, if he could, when summoned by this girl.

"Thank you, Bill, for being here," she said; and her soft fingers clasped over his in her impulsive acknowledgment of his protection. She had warmth and gentleness, this lovely girl; and someone threatened her.

Who? And why?

He doubted that Ralph Strather, flying through the night to reach her, would bring much information. Ralph, though he went in for flying, was the steady type. Her adjective, Granard thought, went well for Ralph. Strather was stubborn in a way which made other men dub him a bit stupid. The thorough sort— always personally strained through chamois his gasoline before a big flight and personally examined the spark-plugs.

Ralph, if he started tonight, would arrive in the morning; but he would bring little in the way of elucidation with him.

"Do you know where Esther lives, Bill?" Milly asked.

"I know nothing at all about Palm Beach," Granard replied. "But I'm learning."

"I'll teach you this way, then," she said; and reluctantly he reached forward and started his engine.

Half an hour later, he returned to the apartment he shared with Kilday. Shane was not about, but the alert little colored man was on duty.

"Collect all the recent newspapers you can, Abe," Granard bade him, "especially New York papers between a week and ten days old."

Abe went out and left him alone in the apartment.

Granard had brought a bundle of papers with him; and he spread some of them before him. Their contents— and especially the items local to New York City— were of course familiar to him. The first-page columns, which paraded political and economic developments, he ignored. There was news from Washington which promised a personal scandal; but Granard could not conceive of any connection on the part of Milly Welton.

There were plenty of sensational stories of the personal type; but during the last ten days four stories had almost monopolized the headlines between them.

The contest, which had come to court, for the guardianship of the Letherton child (and her millions); the murder, as yet unsolved, of the show-girl Sally Doane; the divorce testimony of the maid of Mrs. Jasper Plack; the suicide of Selden Treft.

Over the first of these stories Granard shook his head; that had already proceeded beyond the point of hushing-up. As to the second and the third, he now had his answer. He had asked Milly about them before he left her. She had never met, nor, to the best of her knowledge, ever heard of Sally Doane; and Irene Plack had been equally a stranger to her. Selden Treft, whatever his past, was dead; and— Shakespeare had said it for such as him.

"Nor steel nor poison,

Malice domestic, nothing can touch him further."

Granard lit a fresh cigarette and went to the window. The midnight was quiet, moonlit and cool; at a tantalizing distance was dancing. He could hear the music less than he could feel the rhythmic, throbbing pulsations reaching him through the night air.

Peggy was dancing somewhere in that direction— Peggy, who had passed him with that mocking peal of laughter when she had caught him, like any Eighth Avenue beau on a summer lane, "necking" in a car. How else could she have seen it?

His lips pressed tighter; and he thought how Peggy pouted when she danced with him, playing at being displeased.

He turned on his heel and applied himself to the newspapers.

He realized that very likely the affair, in which Milly Welton unwittingly was involved, had not yet come to public notice at all. Something exceedingly serious might have occurred and have been so competently concealed that no inkling of it yet had appeared in print. In that case, his search of the papers was useless.

But the chances were that something had been printed— something trivial and innocuous had been given out to cover a terrible truth. Underneath some news item which was superficially innocent and inconsequential, lay a secret which had to be hidden at any cost— and which had been hidden for eight days, at least.

It was a week ago yesterday that the voice over the phone first had frightened Milly Welton in New York; and the time coincided aptly enough with Jimmy Trimp's new prosperity. Prompt as he was to collect, he was also prompt to spend. A week was just about the time required for Jimmy's wife to display a new sable coat.

Granard thumbed over again the society columns and the humbler pages of the papers. Perhaps the merest paragraph of arrival at Palm Beach or of sailing for the Riviera held the hint, if he could read it.

Abe returned with a great bundle of newsprint under his arm. Granard thanked him and sent the little man to bed; and patiently spread the papers out under the lamp.

Shane Kilday let himself in with his latch-key and silently, for he was really a considerate young man, and it was possible that Granard had preceded him and was asleep.

Granard, he immediately saw, was ahead of him, and was asleep— not in bed, but in a chair in the living-room before the table, which was strewn with newspapers.

Shane closed the door quietly and stood for a moment staring at his friend.

It may be an almost too-revealing matter to come upon a man robbed of the mask of his pretences which he keeps in place when awake; and it is especially so when he is seen, not in bed, but dressed and in a chair, nearly in an ordinary posture— but for his head dropped forward and his mask removed.

Some men look older and declare ugly things. Bill Granard, the hard-boiled, looked like a boy. A woman, Shane thought, would have watched him long before awakening him.

Shane stepped back and noisily reopened the door. Granard started up and swung around. "Oh, hello!"

"Sorry," said Shane, pocketing his key as if he had just taken it from the lock. "Didn't know you were doing a night watch. Not sitting up for me, I hope."

Granard shook his head.

"Happy dreams?"

Granard blinked. "They'll do."

"But marred by remorse."

"Over what?"

"Somebody's spoiled evening. She saw you, of course."

Granard offered no comment; and Shane passed him and stepped to the window, where, standing with his back to Granard, he gazed out. The hour was three, and moonlight lay on this land like a sheen that seemed to shine of itself. There was no stir in the air; it was cool.

Granard appreciated the stillness. The distant, disturbing pulsations of dance music had ceased.

"What's in the papers?" Shane presently inquired.

"It's what isn't in them," Granard replied.

Shane turned quickly. "Oh, something you know— and you were looking to see if it was 'out.'"

Granard shook his head. "Not quite that, Shane," he said.

"What, then?"

"It's something I don't know— and I was looking to see if anyone else does."

Shane regarded his friend. "Thought you'd declared a vacation."

"I did; and I'll take one— here, I hope."

"When?"

Granard pushed his newspapers into a neater heap; and he arose. "I guess when human nature takes one, Shane," he said.

"I see! Stumbled into something down here, did you?"

"Close again, Shane; but not quite on the button. I stumbled into it in New York; but over it again down here."

"Oh! Then she's in it?"

"You saw who I was with?"

"Of course; and we were told afterwards."

"People are pleasant that way. . . . Sleep in a chair often?"

"No," said Shane. "Generally I manage to make it to a bed."

"Stick it out in a chair sometime," Granard advised. "You doze off differently."

"What does it give you?"

"A special slant, sometimes."

"On what?"

"Whatever you're working on; for instance— weaknesses."

"And worse?"

"And worse."

"What about them?" Shane inquired.

"I was thinking how dumb the bunnies are, who are forever printing figures on the cost of crime, and the amount we'd save if everybody went in for morals and honor and what not. The fact is, we'd be just about ruined."

"We?" said Shane.

"The world, I mean; or at least civilization. I fell asleep, Shane, making a rough calculation of the percentage of our present working population that would have to go on relief if everybody really went honorable. It would be an economic calamity."

Shane nodded. "What to tell me about tomorrow?" he inquired abruptly.

"What about it?"

"You're carrying on with Milly— or with us?"

"Milly," said Granard, "sent for Ralph Strather tonight. She thinks he's flying down."

"He would. Ralph likes everything the hard way. But he's a damn good flier. What about him?"

"I'm looking after Milly till he gets here," said Granard.

"That's what you want me to tell Peggy?"

"If she has to be told anything."

"Good night."

"Good night."

When Granard awoke, the sun was high, the morning half gone. Abe, the quick little colored man, seemed to have been awaiting the first sound of activity; and he had remembered Granard's desire for newspapers. A half-dozen morning editions, from Miami to Jacksonville, accompanied the coffee and fruit on the breakfast-tray.

Granard glanced over the headlines. If anything extraordinary had happened during the night, it was not yet celebrated in type.

Shane continued to sleep.

Peggy probably also slept, Granard considered; at least, she would not yet be about. A little later on the beach, perhaps, but more likely in the afternoon. Hers would be the slimmest, the most graceful of the cool, rounded legs splashing into the sea. She would bend her lovely body, thrust forward suddenly and go under, and then swim— with someone swimming beside her. Not himself.

A clock somewhere struck eleven; and Granard reckoned that Ralph Strather, if he really had set out last night in his plane, would have arrived. Granard took up the telephone, called the number which Milly had given him, and inquired of her.

"Oh, yes sir," a servant said. "Miss Welton is about." Afterwards he heard Milly's voice, and with her first word, he caught her concern.

"Bill?"

"Hello, Milly. All right?"

"I am, Bill."

"Then who isn't?" Granard attempted cheerfully.

"Ralph— I'm afraid."

"What about him?"

"I don't know."

"Where is he?"

"Flying, Bill. He left Newport News at ten o'clock last night."

"Newport News, Virginia? How do you know?"

"He wired me from there— a night message. I just got it this morning."

"What did he say?"

She repeated it verbatim: "'On my way to you. I have learned a lot. With you in the morning. Conditions perfect.'"

"That means to you that he's flying?"

"He's flying his pontoon plane, I'm sure, Bill— following the coast-line. That's what he likes to do. He thinks it's safer in good weather; anyway, that's what he does."

Granard agreed. Unquestionably, Ralph was flying and in his seaplane. How else would he have stopped at Newport News on his way to Florida? Ralph was one of those solid souls who trusted to the sea, depending upon the innumerable harbors and inlets and bays along the Atlantic coast for a landing-place at any moment of need. Ralph was strong on the mechanics of flying, but weak on navigation. On a calm moonlight night he preferred simply to follow a clear, unmistakable coast-line to plotting his way far across country or attempting to ride the radio beams from Washington, Raleigh and Charleston in his land machine.

So Granard did not question that; what he queried was the time; "Ten o'clock last night he was at Newport News, Milly?"

"The telegraph company says so."

"Then he never got your wire in New York."

"No; he must have left before I sent it. He was on his way already—" Her voice broke. "I don't like it, Bill. I don't like it a bit! He ought to be here."

"I'm coming over, Milly," Granard said.

"Oh, please!" she begged him.

He hung up and he sat back gazing at the palms outside his window. Nothing could be more utterly peaceful than palms on a quiet sunny noonday. His mind repeated the telegram from Ralph Strather: "On my way to you. I have learned a lot—"

A lot, Granard thought; but probably not enough. Not quite enough.

He leaned to the phone again and asked for Long Distance. "I want the city desk of the Globe in New York City," he said. . . .

"How's it there, Carewe?" he asked when he heard the city editor's voice. "Still a blizzard?"

"I suppose," said Carewe, "you're phoning from an extension on a beach, under an umbrella shaded from the sun. I trust you're entirely comfortable."

"If weather was good up there last night, Carewe," Granard said, "Ralph Strather. Got the name?"

"Ralph Strather," Carewe repeated.

"Right. He left Long Island in his seaplane late in the afternoon probably. He'd fly it himself."

"I know," said Carewe.

"If weather was bad, he might have left New York some other way."

"It wasn't bad."

"Then probably in his own ship he got down to Newport News about ten at night; and he continued, bound for here."

"But hasn't arrived?"

"Not yet."

"And no word?"

"Not since Newport News."

"He was alone?"

"As far as I know."

"What was his hurry?" inquired Carewe, practically.

"That's why I called you. Perhaps you can find out."

"How much," demanded Carewe, "do you know?"

"I know he felt he had to be in a hell of a hurry, Carewe."

"Woman?"

"Yes."

"He was getting to her or away from her?"

"To her."

"Who?"

"Milly Welton."

Carewe whistled softly. "She's there?"

"With his sister, Mrs. Ken Railston. Milly's wired him to come; but before he got her wire, he must have left."

"In his hell of a hurry," Carewe added.

"That's it. Find out what set him off, if you can; if you can't, find out where he was and who he was with yesterday. And I'll call you later."

"Hold on!" Carewe attempted to command, but the wire did not answer. With anyone else but Granard, he would have traced the number in Palm Beach and called back. As it was, he simply swore, slammed down the receiver and called over a couple of reporters.

Granard drove through quiet shade-girt streets, past pleasant, secure-seeming places. A stranger would call this a part of Paradise, he thought; then he recollected that he was himself a stranger to Palm Beach.

But he was no stranger to the lives of the people who wintered here, summered at Newport, Narraganset or Southampton, and, between seasons, indulged their various fancies for England, Scotland, France or for Italy, the Tyrol or Tunis.

He glanced aside at a great cool mansion which gave to the eye every evidence of security and permanence; and his mind clicked on items of gossip about the possessors of that splendid structure. Granard wondered, sometimes, whether their own feeling of the falseness of their affections made some of these people seek the more the architecture of happiness.

A little further along, his mind matched another great house with the almost open secret of its domestic discords. A year or so ago Jimmy Trimp, or some one of his ilk, might have made some money out of that house, Granard thought; but that particular situation was "pay-dirt" no longer. No one took the trouble, now, to deny it.

But here were the homes of happier couples— happier, Granard cynically considered, so far as he knew. Jimmy Trimp, perhaps, might know otherwise.

The Railstons were pointed out as a particularly happy couple— Esther Railston, who was down here, and now was entertaining Milly Welton. A big blonde girl, was Esther Railston, pleasant, good-natured and popular— perhaps the more so because she was too slow-witted ever to be "clever," if she were inclined that way. Her brother Ralph was never clever; and he was always well-liked. A shade of stupidity, Granard hazarded, was required for the recipe for general popularity. One liked a friend of whom he— or she— need never be afraid.

At the door of Mrs. Railston's house, Granard learned that she had gone out, but that Miss Welton was in.

Indeed, she was waiting for him; and as soon as the servant admitted him, Milly led him to the corner of the garden where she had taken her refuge. Breakfast had been brought her some time ago, he saw, and laid before her on the pretty shaded table; but he saw, too, that she had touched nothing, not even the fruit. The coffee in its silver pot was cold; and the butter had softened. A servant brought out a fresh pot, and cold, firm pats of butter, taking the other away.

"Breakfast, Bill?" Milly offered.

"Had breakfast, thanks," Granard said. "But evidently you haven't."

"No."

"Why not? No more news?"

"That's it, Bill. No more news— when we both know he ought to be here; or some word from him should be."

She sank into her chair, and he gazed down at her. She was not dressed for the day. She had on a loose, lovely gown for the garden. Her hair had been arranged, but her lips and her cheeks were pale.

She seemed slighter and more fragile than before; and more appealing. And always she had been appealing enough to men— to too many men who were unaccustomed to be balked of their desires. From girlhood, she had had to fight and fend for herself, Granard knew. He was well aware that frequently she had found champions; but no one knew better than Granard, that a girl had her greatest difficulties, sometimes, with her champions. Such as Jimmy Trimp!

Ralph Strather was one champion, at least, whom she never had had to fear. A bit of the Galahad there was in stubborn, slow-witted Ralph, who lay this morning— where?

"Flying conditions have been perfect all morning," Milly said.

"That's right."

"Then Ralph's down! He must be— down!"

Granard realized that, weakly, he would have much preferred to reassure her. She was afraid, this morning, not for herself but for the Galahad she had found in Manhattan or rather who had found her and taken her under his protection— his stubborn, slightly stupid protection. For now, he had got into trouble himself; and Granard did not believe it was merely trouble with his plane.

Granard had no patience with the silly convention which causes one to protest, weak-mindedly, the opposite of the probable truth.

"Yes, Milly," he said. "Ralph may be down."

"But you've not heard that he is!"

"No. I've heard nothing. I merely agree with you; the chances are— Ralph's down."

"Where? And is he— killed?"

"Neither of us can even guess of the chances of that," he caught her up. "He might have got down, fairly safely, in some inaccessible place. He's a damn good flyer."

"Oh, he is!"

"We both believe he headed down here from Newport News, clinging to the coast. There's a lot of coast, and inlets, between Virginia and here; and an awful lot of that coast has poor communications— or none at all. Ralph might be in any of a hundred spots and be perfectly safe—"

"But you don't think he is!"

"No," said Granard, "I don't; and neither do you."

"I read to you Ralph's message," Milly presently said. "He wired me 'I've learned a lot!'"

Granard nodded.

"He meant, I think, Bill," she said, "that he learned the thing that threatened me. As soon as he was sure, he wouldn't waste any time getting to me. And he didn't. He started down to me— flying. Last night."

Granard made no comment.

"Last night— in that Thing that threatened me— was a special time, Bill," she said. "Remember?"

He did, but he questioned her: "Remember what?"

"The Voice warned me especially, last night, to be careful. And last night that money was sent me, special delivery, reminding me again to be 'good'"

"You were," said Granard.

"Yes. And I had you with me. Nothing happened to me, Bill. Ralph— he'd found out something; and he was alone. I wonder if what was to happen to me, happened to Ralph instead? Do you suppose, Bill, they did it to Ralph instead of to me?"

"It?" Granard repeated.

"Did they kill him, Bill?"

Her nerves and her fears were spinning now; her mind almost too much alert. She was not stupid, this ex-show girl; she was not slow-witted at all.

She turned her head, listening. She had caught, a second or two earlier than Granard, the hum of an airplane droning at a distance.

"It's coming from the south— not the north," he said; but still she bent forward, tensely, staring into the sky until the winged thing appeared and declared itself a big transport plane on the route toward Jacksonville.

"They may meet Ralph," Milly said; but her next words were: "Or they may see his wings on some shore— or in the sea."

"They'll not follow the shore or be close to it beyond Jacksonville," Granard said.

"They ought to. An alarm ought to be out, Bill! They ought to be searching for him now."

"I put an alarm out before I came here," Granard now told her. "I phoned my paper in New York. By now, they've started things."

"Then you thought all the time he was— down. Bill, get me a plane!"

"You?"

"If he's down, he'll need help now— not later."

"I'm getting a plane, Milly."

"For us both?"

"For me, Milly."

"Then I'll get a plane too— or you take me with you."

v

PALM BEACH and the long lagoon of Lake Worth lay below. Shining sands, specked by parasols and the tiny impertinences of human figures, edged an azure sea upon which floated the slender seed-pods of ships.

The seaplane, pointing north, ceased to climb; it ceased even to seem to move. It felt as if suspended, anchored by some incredible gossamer thread to the sun, so that it, like the sun, stood still, allowing the sea and shore to slip on and on underneath. Only the racket of the propeller gnawed at this divine illusion, reminding of the effort required to support this height.

Granard, often as he had flown, found himself caught again by the agreeable sensation; and he gave himself to it. There was little sense, along this stretch of sand, in scanning the beach for a seaplane down. Anything here long ago would have been reported.

But Milly's eyes already were searching.

She searched Jupiter Inlet and St. Lucie; the lazy, indolent channel of Indian River and the shore of Hutchinson's Island. Granard gazed down, and he searched too; and the pilot aided them.

But Granard expected nothing here.

They sighted airplanes, of course, in the air and on the land and on the sea; but nothing that they saw hinted of disaster. Twice they turned back, when Milly cried out and pointed; but once she immediately was satisfied; and the second time, they merely circled a hundred feet over the suspect machine and then went on again.

Past Titusville and Daytona.

The sun, which had seemed to suspend the plane, no longer aided that illusion. It was losing something of its height while the machine maintained its altitude.

Granard bent beside the pilot. "We'll look in at St. Augustine for news."

There was none of Ralph Strather, nor of his plane. Palm Beach had no word of him; and neither had the newspaper in New York.

"Strather left the city a little after noon yesterday, Bill," Carewe said. "He left in a hurry, and as far as we can find out, alone. He didn't fly from here in his own plane. He took the three o'clock plane from Newark to Washington. It seems he had a ship of his own at Newport News. Between Washington and Newport News, he picked up a friend. We don't know who, yet. Strather was pilot, and he had a passenger when he took off from Newport News about ten o'clock."

"Nothing since?"

"Nobody has a thing since."

Granard stepped out of the booth, and Milly confronted him.

"Bad news, Bill?"

"Ralph was flying with a friend, Milly."

"Who?"

"He picked him up in Washington, or between there and Newport News. They don't know who. Got any ideas?"

She shook her head. "Ralph had lots of friends," she said, with quivering lips. "He had friends everywhere— everywhere he went. He hadn't an enemy in the world. An enemy of his own," she qualified; and Granard, watching, knew what went through her mind. Yesterday, Ralph Strather who had had only friends, and no enemies of his own, had discovered something exceedingly perilous to the possessor of that discovery.

Granard touched her to steady her; and she leaned on his arm as they went back to the plane.

Four dark specks soared and circled in the sky. Birds— birds of ill omen. They flapped their broad, short wings, and dropped down toward the shore; then they flapped their wings and rose again.

They were watching some object over which they circled, these sinister sentinels of the sky. Buzzards, with black, bald heads.

Wings. Man-made wings; silver wings which stayed out straight and did not fold when they ceased to fly; the wings of a plane appeared against the sand of the shore.

The ship stood in shallows between a little sandy island and the Georgia shore. It stood stranded beside a pool left by the tide running out. Specks surrounded it; black bare heads: negroes, curious and frightened.

The buzzards were waiting for them to go away.

Granard reached to the seat opposite his, and his hand met Milly's and grasped it.

The pilot pointed down the nose of the plane, and he circled below the buzzards. Gently, with a sweeping splash on the surface of the little bay not yet drained of the tide, he put the pontoons down; he turned and "taxied" about beside the ship which rested on the sand.

The negroes— many of them were boys— had run away. But above, the buzzards watched, flapping wings that were willing to wait.

Granard stepped down; and he turned to Milly. The pilot followed them.

A single figure sat in the stranded plane. It occupied the pilot's seat. The place for the passenger was empty.

That figure, in the pilot's seat, was fallen forward. His profile was plain and perfectly recognizable.

"Ralph!" Milly Welton cried. "Ralph!... Ralph!" as though she might awaken him. But he did not stir.

He showed no hurt; and his ship displayed no damage. It had not crashed. When the tide flowed full again, it might float and fly once more. But Ralph Strather was dead. There was no doubt whatever about it. They had discovered Ralph, and he was dead.

Granard caught Milly, and he thrust her back while he, and the pilot, stepped forward.

They entered the cabin; and they saw, then, the wound. Ralph had been shot, once, in the back of the head. A pistol shot which showed the blackened powder marks.

They stepped out. "Someone shot him, Milly."

"Ralph!" she stared. "Ralph— instead of me! They killed him— instead of me.... He found out the thing that threatened me; and so— they killed him!"

Granard put his arm about her. It was a useless gesture, he realized, without influence either upon her grief or upon her fear. But a man, at such a moment, had to make some gesture of protection; so he stood in the soft wet sand, holding Milly and yet denying his mind to her.

For a few moments he denied his mind even to the objects which his eyes were seeing. He was not on the shore before this seaplane in which Ralph Strather sat slumped forward in the pilot's seat; Granard felt himself again facing Izzy Mackleton in the lawyer's office off Times Square.

"Go South!" Izzy had told him. "Go to Palm Beach. You'd cancel a trip to Africa and go to the North Pole on less of a tip than this. . . . There's something going to break in Palm Beach. . . . You won't have to wait long there for it."

Well, Izzy was right. There had not been long to wait; and the "break" was even bigger than Izzy had promised him. What a story to have in one's hands!

And Granard, as he stood staring about, realized that this was but the start of it. This shooting of Ralph Strather could not possibly be considered by itself; it was clearly a consequence to, and an incident in, some other enterprise.

An enterprise of which Izzy had had more than a hint. How much more? Granard wondered, as he stood there in the wet sand with Milly Welton sobbing and shaking with fear in his arms.

"Bill, don't leave me!"

"Of course I'll not leave you, Milly," he said, gazing down into her wide frightened eyes. Then his eyes set again to scanning the sand of the tide-slip.

It showed the prints of many feet small and large, but all bare. Not one of the feet had been shod; and not one of them, Granard noticed, had made prints with the toes cramped together as would have been left by a foot recently freed from the confinement of shoes. All displayed the wide, separated toes of people habitually barefooted. They seemed, without exception, the footprints of negroes such as those who had scattered at the descent of the second plane.

Granard looked for them and saw several of them watching from a discreet distance.

Milly again was speaking to him. "When— when—" she began; and finished: "How long has Ralph been dead?"

"Six hours, Milly, judging from the tide."

"What do you mean— judging from the tide?"

"It's run out since the passenger left the plane, Milly. There are no shoemarks but our own in the sand."

She steadied herself a little, and for a few moments studied the sand. "That's so, Bill."

"We know, Milly, that Ralph had a passenger. Whatever else may be uncertain about him, it's almost sure he wore shoes. And anybody who wore shoes, and was in this plane, left it at least six hours ago while the tide could still wash out his footmarks."

"The passenger's, you mean," whispered Milly.

"Yes."

"For Ralph never left the plane at all."

"Probably not."

"His passenger killed him!"

"It looks like it, Milly."

"He flew down here with Ralph!... What did you tell me in St. Augustine, you heard about Ralph— and his friend?"

"Friend?" the pilot repeated. He put in at that word, standing beside them. "Your friend," he said, "had a hell of a friend along."

"Blaine," said Granard, "does it look to you that they had to make a forced landing?"

Blaine shook his head. "Not for any mechanical failure, as far as I can see. I can make sure by turning her over. But I'd say, Mr. Granard, if your friend was forced down, it wasn't by his engine."

"Don't get in again just yet," Granard warned quickly. "We'll touch nothing about the plane— any of us, for a while. Fingerprints, you see."

"I'll catch us a black boy," Blaine offered, "and find out what they know." He started off across the soft sand.

Granard took Milly to the seaplane in which they had flown. When he released her, she sank down upon one of the pontoons.

"Ralph's family," she whispered. "His father— and Esther. She's waiting for word, Bill. We have to send— something to them."

Granard gazed down at her, small and slight and pretty and appealing; and again he thought, as he had a thousand times before, that nothing in life may be so destructive as such a bit of fragile femininity. It endowed a girl with a danger to herself, and to others, for which she was not responsible and which she could never completely control. She had been born desirable; and she had grown from girlhood in possession of a power over men which she had never meant to wield to anyone's disadvantage, much less to his destruction. Yet merely by being— by existing— she spread ruin over others. She showed herself on a stage; and some man, whom she had not so much as seen across the glare of the footlights, from that moment ended the orderly way of his life and set out in pursuit of her.

Granard knew that the girl encouraged few, indeed, of the men who swarmed about her. She was essentially sweet, as he had said to her; she never intended anyone harm. It had been from no urging of hers that Dan Fletchen, after meeting her, neglected his wife and goaded his wife to seek Reno and divorce him, so he could be "free." The pitiful fate of the little accountant Gregory followed no fault of hers. The little man had not even spoken to her; she had never so much as met him when he began embezzling, out of his infatuation for her, and his determination to put himself in a position to have money to spend on her. Jimmy Trimp, she despised and refused; but she could not discourage him. Walter Yardell, perhaps, she had loved. Then there had been Thornway.... Now Ralph Strather sat in his seaplane, slain on some errand for her.

Granard knew Ralph's father, whom Milly had just mentioned. He was the senior Strather of his generation, the head of a secure, firmly founded family, careful and conservative. That meant, a bit slow and stupid. Ralph had come honestly enough by his characteristics. The men of this family, whatever affairs they might have on the side, married in their own set and of their own sort. Not one had wedded a show-girl.

Granard glanced at the still figure in the pilot's seat of the other plane; he gazed again at Milly, and he thought: "If they had killed you, Ralph's family would have been only relieved. But they didn't kill you; they got to him." And Granard formed in his imagination the headlines when this news reached New York.

"What will we say?" Milly's quivering lips asked him.

"I'll take care of his sister," Granard promised; and he thought what to say to her, the only one of Ralph's family who had not fought him for his infatuation for Milly. "I'll take care of his father too."

"He's in New York."

"I know," Granard said; and he thought of the house in New York which had been the Strathers' through two generations, and which would have become Ralph's— and Milly's, if he had lived and she had married him.

Granard wondered, as he looked down at her, whether she was thinking of that too. He felt sure she was not— not at this moment, at any rate. She was gazing toward the store whither the negroes had fled, and Blaine had followed. Blaine was returning with a little group which he had collected.

"They're coming here?" Milly said.

"No," said Granard. "I'll meet them."

"Bill— you're not leaving me here?"

"I'll just step away, Milly. I'll see you, and you'll see me." He stooped and touched her hand. For a moment, before she let him go, she clung to his fingers.

"Thank you, Bill," she said, and she sat on the pontoon, her toes in the wet sand, and supporting herself with her hands to keep upright.

She could not hear what Granard asked and what the negroes answered. Only the deep boom of one black man's voice was borne to her on the breeze. They used their hands as they talked, pointing and gesticulating. Milly shut her eyes. It let her deny, for a moment, that anything had happened, that Ralph was dead.

His arms were the strongest and steadiest that ever had enfolded her; his breath, when he had kissed her, was clean like a boy's; and he had been a man with money— with much, much money.

The boom of the big negro's voice aroused her; she opened her eyes, but she did not immediately look up; she examined the sand, and a shadow swept across it, lazily, patiently with flapping wings. A buzzard.

Milly shut her eyes again. She wished she had married Ralph; and in this wish was yet no thought of the great house that would have become his and hers. She shivered, wishing for his arms, which never again could hold her. Another's might be more thrilling, but no other man's ever could feel so strong and steady.

"Milly!"

She started up. "What is it, Bill?"

"The negroes found the plane about an hour ago. One of the boys happened to see it. He came near it alone, and got frightened and ran away, but he told about it. Then those that we saw came down here.... No whites are anywhere about."

"The passenger, Bill? Ralph's passenger— who shot him?"

"Nobody's seen him. Nobody's seen any stranger about. The big man—"

"With the big voice—"

"—says he heard a noise in the dark; in the dark just before daybreak."

"The shot, Bill?"

"No. If he heard anything, it was the airplane engine and the propeller. Maybe he did hear it; he imitated it.... If he did, Milly, Ralph was in the air, here, just before dawn. He made a good landing; that's clear."

"But why did he? Why did Ralph come down?"

"He did; that's all we know. And I've told you all the negroes know, which is nothing.... Milly, I'm going to the nearest phone— it's about five miles away— to talk to New York."

"Ralph's father?"

"No. My paper."

"Bill, you'll not have him hear it from the paper!"

"No. I'll call him before it's in print. But I've got to leave you now."

"Take me with you!"

Granard shook his head. "Blaine will stay with you. He'll watch the plane— both planes. Be a good girl, Milly."

"A good girl?" she caught at that, and repeated it. "That's what the note said that came with the money. Each time it said it. 'For a good girl.... For a good girl.'"

"I remember," Granard nodded; and he thought of Trimp, and Trimp's wife with her sable coat over her too-luscious body. So Ralph Strather was part of the price of that coat!

vi

GRANARD started off, striding over the pools in the sand. The big negro with the booming voice— they called him Zeky— was waiting for him; and a retinue of blacks ran before and behind.

About half a mile from the shore, Zeky had a mule and wagon; and Granard shared the seat with him. The road was rutted and deep in dust; and Granard coughed when the mule stopped and the dust drifted over him. There were white folks in the town, Zeky's booming bass assured Granard, though they passed none but negroes on the road.

However, the town was still only a spire in the distance when a cabin appeared, white and trim; and a wire ran to it. A white woman stood in the doorway; and Granard jumped down.

The wire was for a telephone; a farm line, but it tied to an exchange which dealt with "long distance."

"Carewe?" Granard said at last when the call to New York was completed.

"Where's Ralph Strather?" said Carewe.

"The nearest town is Talousa."

"Florida?"

"Georgia. On the coast. He was following the coast, as we figured."

"He crashed?"

"No. Not a mark on the plane— or the pontoons. He got down all right. Then he was shot."

"Killed?"

Granard gave Carewe the facts; and he could feel, as he repeated them, the clustering of other men about the city editor at the other end of the wire. Already they were preparing the story; someone was setting up a huge headline; someone else was drawing a diagram; others were sorting over photographs of Ralph Strather, of his father, of the big house in New York and of the place on Long Island. They were getting out their pictures of Milly, and their clippings and reports of men and events connected with her before.

"Carewe!" said Granard quickly. "I'm calling Ralph's father. I'll talk to him from here.... Then you can send over somebody to see him, if you want.... I'm calling Palm Beach too."

"His sister, you mean," said Carewe, "who had Milly Welton staying with her?"

"Yes, Carewe."

"Milly's not with you now?"

"You mean can she come to the phone? No; she can't, Carewe. I left her with the pilot on the shore."

"Then you give us a line for her."

"To hell with your line for her!" Granard denied it, savagely; but knew he must give it, or they would have to make up one of themselves.

"She flew with me to find him," he reminded Carewe. "Make something of that."

"When she found him— what?" Carewe demanded.

"Damn you, Sam," Granard refused him. "I was with her; she was with me."

"Then you certainly know how it hit her."

"She's not the point!" Granard found himself protesting, futilely as he well knew, to protect her.

"Oh, isn't she?"

"The point, stupid, is the passenger— the friend Ralph took aboard at Newport News."

"A hell of a friend!"

"You've caught a line on that, Carewe! Blaine, our pilot, said it too."

"How did it look in the cabin?" Carewe demanded. "As if there'd been a struggle?"

"No struggle," said Granard. "Not a thing disturbed. They'd landed— that is, it seems that Strather must have put the plane down; and then, when he was sitting still in his seat, his passenger shot him."

"Without warning, apparently."

"That's it."

"By any chance, did he leave anything behind him— the passenger?"

"Fingerprints, we hope," Granard replied.

"No baggage— or garment?"

"We found a bag aboard, but clearly it was Strather's. I'm scaring up some fingerprint powder, if this county has any. We'll 'dust' the plane inside and out," Granard continued. But he thought, as he talked, that the passenger's fingerprints, even if found, would prove of small service. How to name the man to fit them to? Fingerprints were invaluable when they corresponded to other prints, already on file at New York police headquarters or at Washington; when they were prints of a man who already had a "record."

Small chance that Ralph Strather's passenger could be named in that manner; and Carewe was considering this too.

"Good luck to you!" he wished ironically.

Granard hung up; and he stepped back from the telephone, which was a ponderous, old-fashioned instrument, secured to the wall.

The woman of the house was watching him; throughout the talk, she had been behind him, and of course she had heard everything he had said. She was excited and shaking.

"There's a friend of yours flew down here," she repeated to Granard, "and was killed on our shore?"

"That's it."

"A Yankee like you?"

Granard nodded, dismissing the difference between Ralph Strather and himself, which would seem, to this neighborhood, insignificant beside their similarities. "From New York," he said. "And with him was another man like him— or me," Granard added. "Did you happen to see or hear of any stranger on the road— or keeping to the woods, perhaps— early today?"

The woman shook her head. "I can inquire," she offered.

The telephone bell rang; and Granard picked up the receiver and replied.

"This is the operator at Talousa," a girl's voice said. "You want Sheriff Denkirk now, sir?" The operator, of course, also had listened; and she had both ends of the talk.

"Give me the Sheriff in a few minutes," Granard said. "First get me New York again. Have New York locate Mr. Winston Strather for me.... After that, I'll want Palm Beach. I'll give you that number."

The New York operator located Mr. Winston Strather at one of his clubs; and Granard spoke to him. The call to Palm Beach then was completed; and Granard spoke to Ralph's sister.

As soon as he finished, the phone rang again.

"This is the Talousa operator," the local girl's voice said again. "Mr. Granard, our Sheriff is on his way to you. He'll stop in at Mrs. Heath's, where you are. He wants you to wait there for him. And I'll tell you, sir, he's bringing Kelsey Clark, who's mighty smart with fingerprints powder, with him."

"Good girl," Granard approved her. Probably better for present purposes, he thought, than the Sheriff. "You know the people hereabouts," he said, "who might see or hear of a stranger coming up from the shore early this morning?"

"Yes sir, I know."

"Then start calling them. The man we'd want is a Northerner, probably; he ought to be well-dressed; probably—"

"Oh, I get you!" the girl interrupted eagerly. "You mean, we're to look for a gentleman."

THE NEWS was out. The bare facts, at first, as they were spread by radio news-flash. This told that William Granard, of the New York Globe, and Milly Welton, recently of the Frivols, had chartered a seaplane to search for their friend Ralph Strather, who, in his own seaplane, was missing. They had found him and his plane on the Georgia shore. Strather sat in the pilot's seat, dead; he had been shot— murdered, evidently— by someone who had shared the flight with him.

In New York, the family and friends of Ralph now had the news; and Izzy Mackleton had it. And his pretty blonde secretary, who had spoken to Granard of the monkey and the cat and a fire, and some chestnuts which the cat coveted.

In Palm Beach, everybody had the news. And Jimmy Trimp and his luscious wife were at Palm Beach, in their extravagant, luxurious suite. Jimmy had the radio tuned to the news announcement, but tuned low, so that he could hear it distinctly, but so that it would be difficult for anyone who might be eavesdropping on the other side of the door to discover that he was interested at all in the item.

When the crisp, perfectly enunciated words of the announcer took up some other topic, Jimmy Trimp swiftly twisted the dial, hoping to pick up added information from another station. But no other news was on. Jimmy most urgently required further information; but he dissembled display of his anxiety, though only his wife watched him.

He did not like it that Cora was watching him so closely while she dressed, though he liked to watch her at all times. He never had been foolish enough to confide to Cora, or to any other woman, the secrets of his transactions. Jimmy operated by having other people in his power, not by putting himself in the power of anyone else— particularly not by putting himself in the power of a woman.

He did not delude himself that Cora was so stupid that she did not suspect— or indeed actually know— the nature of his profession, which at times so illy and at other times so extravagantly provided for them. In fact, Cora and he had terms of their own by which they referred, between themselves, to the more pleasant aspects of his activities.

The periods of prosperity, for instance, were times when someone— male or female but otherwise anonymous— was "kicking in" with plenty of coin. The principal was, therefore, a "kick-in." When Jimmy had one— or more— all was well or better; when a "kick-in" of even an inferior sort was lacking, times were thin.

Jimmy had admitted— indeed had he not celebrated with her the fact?— that he had a most prodigal kick-in just now. The trouble with a transaction so profitable was not only that it might suddenly go sour, but without warning go too "hot" also. The precept of "no profit without risk" went, multiplied, for Jimmy's profession.

Cora stepped into the room where Jimmy continued patiently to twist the radio-dial. She was in her most distracting state of dishabille, and Jimmy lifted his eyes to let them rove over her appreciatively.

"Hello, baby," he approved her.

Cora came closer, and before essaying more with him, tempted him until he suddenly seized her; then, petting him, she ventured:

"Something not so good, Jimmy?"

"Maybe," said Jimmy boldly, "something's better."

"How much better, big boy?" Cora hailed that idea greedily.

"How much more," returned Jimmy, this being no moment for cool calculation, "could you use, baby?"

"How much more," countered baby, "can you get?"

"Plenty," promised Jimmy, and then qualified with, "— if what's happened is what I think."

And it might be a lot better for him, he realized; that is, he might have just double the hold, which he had had before, on his kick-in. But on the other hand, he might have nothing at all soon, and less than nothing. Certain consequences which he had always considered but which never had touched him yet, might come close this time— and more than merely close.

Cora could feel this realization in her contact.

"But maybe, big boy, it might go worse."

"Maybe," Jimmy reluctantly admitted.

vii

PEGGY CARTWAIN had the news, and not directly from the radio. Several of her friends phoned her; and between their calls she waited, with a dull feeling of offense and expectation, for a call from Granard.

He had called Esther, she knew. Of course he had had to. He had phoned Shane.

Why should he phone her?

Peggy's mind warned her that he had no reason to, merely because he— and Milly— had found Ralph Strather dead on the Georgia shore. She had known Ralph, but as scarcely more than an acquaintance. She would miss him now, merely as a name no longer to be carried on the list of men to include in any large formal affair. Yet, it was not pleasant to think of Ralph dead— shot by someone presumably of his, and therefore also of her, general "set." It was startling, shocking.

Peggy felt that Bill Granard should realize this. She was sure that he did realize it, if he thought of her at all; for no one was so incisive as he in appreciating effects. She felt, therefore, that he was deliberately ignoring her; and it infuriated her that she wanted and waited for his attention, even by long distance.

She had, or could have at smallest encouragement, plenty of attention from other men close by; but she sat in her room near the phone, answering it whenever it rang, and replying to other voices while she pictured Bill with Milly on the shore near Ralph's seaplane— and Bill beside Milly, close beside her. Very close indeed.

Peggy thought how she had surprised them, when the headlight flashed on them last night. He had been easy for Milly Welton then; how much easier he would be now! Bill Granard, the hard-boiled newspaper man!

Peggy wanted to laugh; she wanted to dismiss the idea of him. But here she held on, reaching for the phone each time it rang, each time again with that expectation.

He could not be continually with Milly. The police, or whoever were the local authorities, must be examining him, and Milly, for what they knew; and he must be busy, also, sending out news— the shocking sensational news which would go on the wires to New York, and which Carewe would rush to the presses and send to the streets under screaming scare-heads, in her father's paper.

Her father, and she, were in it too. To be sure, her father was removed from personal contact with the items headlined in his paper. Her father, in these days, was a proprietor more than a publisher; but his profits were drawn from the sale of sensations, which made them only the more distasteful to the girl.

She thought again, as she had before, that the money in her handbag, the always-renewed balance at the bank which made good the many checks she drew, came from the profits from the spread for sale of catastrophe, disaster, vice, crime and the various cruelties— with occasional spectacular kindnesses and mercies thrown in— of man to man, and woman to woman, and man to woman and woman to man.

Peggy told herself that if she married Granard she would better this situation by not one whit. The income upon which he lived was independent of the paper; but news— human violences, frailties and passions— were the breath of his body. She could not imagine Bill Granard removed from the arenas of conflict which provided that shocking, fascinating, alluring commodity— news.

Peggy refused to herself the idea that under any circumstances she would marry Bill Granard; but she could not shake him from her feelings. She wanted him to speak to her; she wanted his attention; she wanted, too, some brief, curt comment of his which would tell her— what nobody else would know— the actual truth underlying the published news.

That was one trouble with trying to ignore Bill Granard. He made other men pallid, or innocent, by comparison— as her father made most of the older men of her acquaintance. When you lived by, and for, and in, news, you knew things that no one else ever learned— much, much more than ever you published.

Others felt themselves wise, prattling repetitions of the little that news people permitted in print.

But Peggy told herself again that she abominated "news"; she hated Bill Granard, who was up there on the Georgia shore, with Milly Welton. And, with Milly Welton, he remained there, or in the little town of Talousa.

They, and the inquiry into the fate of Ralph, naturally dominated the discussions between the girls and men sunning themselves on the Florida sands the next day.

"Bill Granard, for once in his life," Shane commented, as if with satisfaction, "isn't a free agent."

"You mean Milly's got him?" some mischief-maker said, glancing at Peggy and turning the eyes of the others toward Peggy too.

"The Talousa sheriff's got him— and Milly too," Shane returned. "Material witnesses, you know; and all that sort of thing."

"Oh!"

"What makes an ordinary witness, Shane," Helen Gorlande asked, "into a material witness?"

"The amount that he— or she— knows or is supposed to know," Shane explained.

"How much," a man beside Helen questioned, "do you suppose Bill Granard knows— and isn't telling?"

"And Milly?" the same mischief-maker put in again.

Peggy said almost nothing; and she soon left the group. But she was back on the beach the next day; and across the shining sand, she saw Bill Granard in a bathing-suit.

He appeared unheralded, and he strolled along, glancing up the beach and gazing out over the sea, as though nothing whatever had happened, as though no one would be interested in his coming. As a result, the first few who noticed him were slow to recognize him; but Peggy knew him as soon as he was in sight.

The crispness of his stride, even when he slowed it to a stroll, was unmistakable; there was vigor in the way he stood; and Peggy, watching him, felt her pulse hurrying and her body becoming warmer; and she insisted to herself that she hated him.

Somebody called out his name, and jumped up; a dozen others, girls and men, jumped up and surrounded him, all clamoring, questioning him.

Peggy sat silent; and soon she was alone, staring over the sea. She sifted sand through her slim fingers and whispered to the little rills of sand: "I hate him... I hate him.... Where's Milly? Is she with him?... Where did he leave her?"

At last a shadow stood over her; and she knew whose it was. In his way, he had satisfied the others and freed himself of them; he was alone, looking down at her. She looked up at him.

"Going into the sea?" was his greeting.

"Not now," she said, and was furious at her own heart for its hammering.

"Then neither am I," he told her, and dropped down beside her.

"Where's Milly?" she asked, not meaning to.

"She left for New York, from Talousa, just before I started this way," Granard said.

"You flew?"

He nodded. "I came back with Blaine in the plane. Milly's on the train for New York with Ralph's family— and Ralph."

Peggy said hastily: "I know. Esther left here yesterday morning. She said they'd have services at home— on Long Island. Why didn't you go?"

"Am I family?" Granard returned.

"Is Milly— when she didn't even mean to marry him?"

"Who told you that?"

"Esther. Isn't it true?"

"It's true."

"For she told you."

Granard gazed over her slim and perfect body, his eyes resting at last on hers; and she met his gaze.

"We quarrel as well as ever," he observed.

"What else," she retorted quickly, and he watched now not her eyes but her full and lovely lips, "what else is there to do with you?"

"When shall I show you?"

"Parked-car Romeo!" Peggy cast at him, as he kept watching her lips.

Granard let that go by default. He gazed down, discovering the little heap of sand which she had piled up, sifting sand through her fingers. He patted it flat, and then heaped it up again.

"I've been putting a few things in print," he said. "Read any of them?"

"Yes," she admitted.

"In fact, all of them?" he demanded.

"Yes, all. That is, everything through this morning's papers."

"There's more to come."

"More of the same thing?" Peggy questioned distastefully.

"It's a rather useful thing," Granard retorted.

"To whom?"

He gazed at her coldly, and let himself say: "Financially useful to you, for one, I'd say." And he saw her flush. "But that wasn't," he added, "what I meant."

"What did you mean?" Peggy defended herself. "The facts you've given out could be put in two paragraphs, or less. What are they? Ralph Strather was flying down here to follow Milly Welton, who was staying with his sister. He picked up a friend— or at least a passenger, whose identity is still unknown. And apparently the passenger shot him, left Ralph in a lonely spot on the coast of Georgia, and disappeared. Milly and you found him there. That covers the facts you've printed, doesn't it?"

"It does."

"But you've made of it pages and pages. And you know what sort of pages. Agony stuff!"

He said nothing.

"Agony stuff made for amusement!" she continued.

"Damn well made," Granard grunted.

"Too damn well made!" Peggy accepted. "That's the trouble with it. I mean, it's made by too good a man, or a man who ought to be too good for it— but isn't. Why do you do it, Bill? You've no need to. You've money of your own. You don't have to work; yet you do work," she went on wonderingly, "like nobody else on the paper."

"What would you have me do? Loaf?"

She started; she couldn't imagine him loafing. "Not loaf," she admitted.

"Then what? Peddle stocks and bonds?"

"Of course not."

"Try my hand at poetry?"

"At least not give your life to disaster, crime and every human baseness and degradation."

"Suppose they amuse me?"

"That's just what I was saying; that's the trouble. They do. It amused you the other night to take me to the Cypress Club and show me a near-murder— and that might have been a murder."

"And that might, if it had come off, been a better thing," Granard added.

"It would have more amused you, I suppose."

"Just possibly— I'm not sure yet, Peggy— it might have saved a much better man's life."

"Ralph's, you mean?"

"Possibly. I don't know yet."

"How could Izzy Mackleton, being killed in New York, have saved Ralph in Georgia?"

"I'm not saying he could; but I rather suspect—"

"What?"

"That out of over-sentimentality, I made a mistake."

"What over-sentimentality?"

"The weakness— or perhaps it's vanity, Peggy— that leads a man, who ought to know better, to interfere with a natural course of events."

"Such as?"

"Well, the impulse of one Murphy Pantadosi, when he feels peeved, to empty his automatic into the person of his peeve. On that occasion, Izzy Mackleton... Yet if I hadn't interfered to 'save' Izzy, when I knew what was coming, you'd have said even more to me than you did. And you'd have felt worse.... As it happened, it seems extremely probable that by saving Izzy, I condemned Ralph to death."

"You mean Izzy Mackleton shot him?"

Granard shook his head. "Nothing so simple as that, Peggy. Nothing nearly so simple. Something much more—"

"More what?"

He tantalized her: "Amusing."

"Amusing again!" she cast back at him.

He nodded. "There are three general attitudes which one can take toward this tragic comedy we call life, Peggy, my child," he replied, aware that he was further infuriating her. "The most popular attitude, by all odds, is to attempt to ignore it. Never by any chance explore it for yourself, or try to think about it. If anyone is so rude as to bring up realities, suggest a swim, or hurry and start a bridge game.

"That is," he amended, "if four are present. If there are only three polite people at hand, then the game is Towie. You're good at both bridge and Towie, I know.

"If you happen to be cursed with a low mind that makes you, instead of peddling stocks, feel impelled to dive down into the underside of things and muck around the realities which emerge, more or less, into news, you have the choice of only two emotions."

"What?" she asked.

"You know them; laughter or tears. I prefer the former, whenever possible."

"God help," said Peggy, "the girl that marries you! I'd marry a bad man— or even a dull one— before a man that has no heart. I'm going into the water, Bill." And she rose before she recollected how he had just described her sudden necessity for a swim.

Half an hour after Granard had dressed and departed from the beach, he happened across Jimmy Trimp. The accident of this encounter had required no little arrangement on Granard's part; and Jimmy, he saw, suspected it.

Jimmy was going after game fish, he said; and obviously he was garbed and equipped for a nautical occasion. He had a launch and crew waiting for him; and he had with him one companion. This was a wide-awake, compact person of some thirty years which could not safely be put down as having been uneventful.

"Mr. Leonard," Jimmy made introduction of this experienced gentleman, "—Mr. K. L. Leonard, of Philadelphia," Jimmy extemporized as an afterthought, Granard guessed. "Mr. Granard," Jimmy continued to his friend, "is of the New York Globe; and he is just back from Georgia."

"That's right," Granard confirmed, and added: "I found Ralph Strather up there."

Mr. Leonard met his eyes evenly and shook hands with a strong-fingered, sullen heartiness. He said he was pleased to meet Mr. Granard, and said, further, that he read his pieces in the paper.

Like Jimmy, Leonard was somewhat ostentatiously costumed and equipped for "game fishing."

"Ever caught a tarpon or sailfish, Mr. Granard?" Jimmy inquired, as a devotee of the art.

Granard answered in the negative.

"Then why don't you come along with us?" Jimmy invited, disarmingly; and Granard crossed him by immediately and positively accepting.

"Wonderful weather," Granard offered, walking down to the boat between the blackmailer and his friend.

"It'll do," Jimmy granted.

The three got aboard.

There was considerable delay, before the launch left the dock, which confirmed to Granard his early guess that the expedition had been camouflage for a far more practical purpose of Jimmy's. Now he had to go fishing.

Jimmy consulted carefully with his "captain" and pointed the boat out to sea.

Mr. K. L. Leonard, of Philadelphia, settled himself on one side of Granard in the stern; Jimmy sat on the other, and he passed cigars.

Jimmy conversed about the right tackle for tarpon. Mr. Leonard remained taciturn and thoughtful. His fishing gear included, Granard felt sure, at least one automatic pistol; but however vague Mr. Leonard might be as to the employment of other items of his equipment, he undoubtedly had little to learn about that.

Outwardly all continued serene, while side by side sat Granard, who had in his head information of vital importance to Jimmy; and Jimmy, who must know an essential part, at least, of what Granard needed to learn.

It was Trimp who turned the talk, at last, inquiring casually:

"How did you leave Milly?"

"Head up," Granard replied, without looking around.

"She went to New York?"

"She started there," Granard said, meaning to give Jimmy something to think over; and there was a pause before Jimmy proceeded with the advice:

"She ought to go back to the show."

"Why?"

"She's a show-girl, ain't she?" Jimmy argued.

"But she's not broke, Jimmy," Granard bluntly said.

"No?" questioned Jimmy unconvincingly; and he supplied, as too obvious an afterthought: "I got you. The Strathers are taking care of her."

"She's a good girl," Granard ventured; and he felt tight attention on the side where Mr. Leonard sat. But there was no other response.

"And it gets her something," Granard continued.

Jimmy and Mr. Leonard (of Philadelphia) meant to keep their eyes steadily on the sea, Granard thought; but this brought them a glance at each other.

"The hell it does!" Trimp said.

"It does, Jimmy," Granard assured him.

"How much?"

Granard decided to take the chance. "Five," he replied.

"Grand?" returned Trimp.

"You know better than that, Jimmy," Granard retorted boldly. "Five centuries."

"From Strathers?" was Jimmy's best effort; and there was silence for a minute, during which the skipper came back from the bow. He believed that fishing should begin.

Leonard cast a glance ashore and made his first contribution. "Deeper water," he demanded.

"There's fish here," the skipper insisted.

"Not the right sort," Granard volunteered.

"Get out," Leonard ordered, "a mile more."

"You want sailfish?" asked the skipper.

"Why don't you tell him what you want, Jimmy?" Granard said.

"What do you think we want?" Trimp returned.

"A good, hungry shark, I should say," Granard answered, "or a biting school of barracuda."

The skipper returned to the bow.

Jimmy Trimp bent away from the breeze, and with some difficulty lighted a fresh cigar. Mr. Leonard applied himself, very briefly, to a flask.

"No, thanks," Granard refused; and he settled back in his place between Jimmy the blackmailer, and his friend Leonard of Philadelphia. Was his the voice who, up to the time of the killing of Ralph Strather, had threatened Milly over the phone?

The boat ran on in silence, and Granard reconsidered his position. He had practically told Jimmy, and Leonard, that Milly had informed him of the money— and logically also of the threats— she had received. An inference from this would be that she had told Granard also of the secret which was hers— or which the senders of the money and the threats believed to be hers.

He looked about at his companions; and he saw— or he imagined that he saw in their faces— plans of procedure with him which paralleled the procedure with Milly.

Jimmy Trimp, the blackmailer, would prefer to buy him off, if he could; the friend from Philadelphia would prefer to kill him.

"What kind of a tank town," Jimmy presently brought up talk again, "is Talousa?"

"Not so tank, Jimmy," replied Granard cheerfully. "The sheriff's no Sherlock Holmes; but they've got one damn clever telephone-girl."

Jimmy nodded. "I know. I can read. I've seen your build-up for her. What are you heading the skirt for? The movies?"

"I kept under cover the real find, though, Jimmy," Granard continued.

"Another?" said Jimmy. "Who is she?"

"He, Jimmy. He has no business in any tank town. He's ready for the big time; and this case is giving him his chance to show it."

"All right," urged Jimmy, "who is he?"

"The local fingerprint expert, Jimmy."

That took effect.

"What did he find?" asked Jimmy.

"What do you think he developed when he dusted his powder on the metal under the passenger's seat, Jimmy?" Granard retorted. "A recipe for doughnuts?"

Jimmy took a long look out at sea before he inquired:

"Whose fingerprints were they, Granard?"

"The passenger's, Jimmy."

The blackmailer took a little more time to think that over.

"I'll tell you this, Jimmy," Granard continued presently: "He tried to wipe all his fingerprints away. He seemed to have had plenty of time; so he doused a rag into the sea— the plane was in shallow water then— and he swabbed over all the glass and metal surfaces in the cabin that had been touched— but he missed a bit of the back of a metal rail under his seat, where probably he was holding on when the ship was coming down and landing.

"Kelsey Clark— that's the name of the local boy who is making good in a big way, Jimmy— didn't miss that spot when he went dusting with his fingerprint powder; and he got some beautiful impressions."

For another brief period Jimmy Trimp considered the horizon. Granard did not turn to his Philadelphia friend; he ignored him altogether.

"Where are they?" Jimmy challenged at last.

"The impressions? Where would they be, Jimmy? One set stays in Talousa, of course; another set has gone to the Bureau at Washington."

Jimmy gazed forward; the breeze was blowing from the bow, and the motion of the boat made more wind, so that it was impossible for the boatmen to hear what was said; and Jimmy saw that they were about their own business.

He turned back to Granard. "What's on your mind?" he said.

"You, Jimmy— and a blind jade."

"Jade?" said Jimmy.

"A skirt, Jimmy," Granard explained.

Jimmy considered this and shook his head. "Not a blind one in my book, Granard," he denied.

"She hangs around the courts, Jimmy— in brass, sometimes in stone. She's the skirt that holds the scales, and she goes by one of those fancy names like Liberty. Justice, they call this dame."

Jimmy waited, suspiciously. He glanced at Leonard, but with no hint of objection to his hearing. Plainly, his Philadelphia friend was completely in the know; and Jimmy preferred, rather than otherwise, his presence.

"You've been taking money out of something, Jimmy," Granard proceeded pleasantly. "Some slip that somebody made. I hope it was just a dirty scandal.... The business up in Georgia, of course, is more. You haven't been counted in that sort of stuff before, Jimmy. I've an idea that you weren't counted in this before it happened. I've an idea that it was something of a surprise to you. If I'm wrong, no harm done; if I'm right, maybe you can suggest something."

Jimmy's teeth set hard on his cigar. He did not move.

Leonard moved; and Granard, only by an effort of control, kept himself from jerking.

"I'll suggest something," he said.

"What?" Granard faced him.

"We rented this scow,"— the friend from Philadelphia spoke not at Granard, but across him to Jimmy,— "to fish. Let's get fishing."

Two hours later Granard stepped ashore, not without some satisfaction at finding himself on land again. As a fishing expedition— in all senses of the word— not much could be said for the success of the afternoon. The three brought back, between them, one tarpon.

Granard parted from his fishing companions at the dock, and went immediately to Shane's quarters. Shane was out; but Abe, the clever little colored man, had been constantly on duty. There had been no calls from New York or from Talousa, or from Washington.

There hardly was time, Granard reckoned, for a report on the fingerprint impressions from the Bureau of Identification; and he further realized that the report, when it came, must be, almost surely, negative. As he had realized, when phoning Carewe from Georgia, there was small chance indeed that the "friend" and the killer of Ralph Strather was the sort to have his fingerprints filed in Washington.

However, Granard had discerned that Jimmy Trimp had not been so sure of this. Why else had he succeeded in disturbing Jimmy with his tale of the impressions under the passenger's seat?

Granard continued to think that over....

Night came; and Shane returned. Granard went out.

If he had been right in believing that he had interfered, during the afternoon, with some camouflaged errand of Jimmy's, it might be a good guess that Jimmy would be setting out, in the dark, on his business again....

It was near midnight when Jimmy, alone, appeared on the street and promptly disappeared therefrom. Up an alley, through rear passages.

Granard trailed him, carefully, cautiously, turning in and out of the alleys and back areas.

At last, before a darkened door, the blackmailer halted and tapped. It did not open; no response at all, so far as Granard could hear, came from it.

Jimmy went on past it. Granard passed it.

Then it opened and a light shone out.

Granard spun about, and the light flashed on him, as he flattened himself against the wall.

The light played in Granard's eyes but he managed to make out, behind the light, the stocky figure of the morose fisherman of the afternoon, Jimmy's friend "Leonard" of Philadelphia.

Trimp, who now was behind Granard, stopped and stood still.

For a moment Granard let himself be satisfied by the stillness behind him, which apprised him of the probability that Jimmy was not moving off— nor creeping upon him. Granard was keeping his eyes on Leonard, and especially on Leonard's hand, which was free of the flashlight.

"Was that you?" Leonard challenged Granard quietly— too quietly.

"Was that me— what?" Granard returned, as quietly.

"At the door."

"No."

"You're with Jimmy?" Leonard asked.

Granard jerked his head about, gaining a glance at Jimmy which told him nothing, however, except that Trimp was there behind him.

"Is he with you, Jimmy?" Leonard inquired of Trimp.

"Yes; he's with me," Jimmy said.

"Then come in. Him and you— come in!" Leonard invited, and drew back, pushing the door wider open.

Jimmy, the blackmailer, stepped up. "Staying with me, Granard?" he said.

Granard followed him through the doorway, and Leonard let them pass him, and then came on behind. There was a short passage illumined only by the flashlight, which Leonard snapped on and off twice during the dozen steps to the inner door.

At the door, Jimmy halted, and with his hand on the doorknob, he looked around.

"Okay," Leonard said to him from behind Granard, and immediately he extinguished his flashlight. The passage was pitch dark; and there was no sound but the slight rasp of breathing.

Granard half turned and put out his hands in the dark, the left in the direction of Jimmy, and the right toward Leonard. His hands could not save him from a shot; he considered the chances of a shot, but he did not expect one.

If Trimp were not there,— if Leonard had this business alone,— a pistol flash, before now, would have flared in the blackness; or so Granard guessed. But Jimmy used his head; a shot made noise and spilled blood, which might be inconvenient. A blackjack did neither. Granard stood in the dark, slightly crouched, with his hands extended at full arm's-length.

Suddenly the door at the end of the passage flew open, and light flooded out. Jimmy Trimp sprang through the doorway and slammed the door behind him, leaving the passage again blind dark.

In the moment of light, Granard saw Leonard standing just out of reach from him. Leonard's left hand held the flashlight tube; his right bulged in his side pocket. A pistol, beyond doubt.

As Granard moved, Leonard snapped on his light, and they looked at each other. Within the house, some further door slammed; then there was silence again.

"Okay," Leonard said now to Granard. "Go where you want. It's okay by me," he softly repeated.

"What are you doing?" Granard asked, as coolly as he could. He was aware that they had accomplished the object of their maneuver; Jimmy Trimp was away and by himself. Granard merely would make himself look foolish, attempting to follow him. Jimmy could proceed at his leisure, and without oversight, upon his business of this night.

"What do you mean," Leonard returned, not unamiably, "what'm I doin'?"

"I mean," said Granard, "are you sleepy? Were you going to bed?"

"No. I wasn't goin' to no bed."

"Out there, you asked me in," Granard reminded him. "You didn't mean just in here."

"You want to come in?" Leonard returned, less amiably. "All right; come in," he said, and he opened the door through which Jimmy had disappeared.

It led into a fair-sized rectangular room with blinds drawn over its windows, and with three doors beyond— one evidently the second door which Jimmy had slammed in his exit, one a closet door, and the other communicating with a sleeping-porch. There was no bed in the room, but many articles of attire— man's attire, exclusively. This was a man's room.

Tobacco, a whisky bottle and cards were on a small table— the cards spread in an interrupted game of one of the simpler forms of solitaire. There were three large photographs of women— different girls but of the same type, and in very similar states of exposure of their charms. They were all young, but none of them was slim. Mr. Leonard evidently liked his ladies well rounded.

There was a photograph of a boy, about five years old, in a large ornate silver frame. But what distinguished the room was its display of articles of masculine attire and adornment.

A wardrobe trunk stood open but only partly unpacked near the center of the room. Granard's first glance counted four coats on its hangers. The closet door, half open, disclosed half a dozen suits in a row on the clothes-rail; new, "natty" suitings in tan and brown and grey and green. A pearly suit and another of the sort advertised in the north as a "Palm Beach" suit lay on a chair. A shelf showed hats— a dozen, at least; there was a rainbow rack of ties; and on the floor by the wall, a row of shoes, white and tan-tipped, tan and black-tipped, white banded with brown and with black, white with scallops and crescents; fifteen or sixteen pairs altogether.

Granard could not keep his eyes from running along the line of this display. He looked up and met the gaze of their possessor; and he surprised a deep flow of uncomfortable color under Leonard's swarthy skin.

He kept his eyes from inspecting the over-tailored, over form-fitted suit which Leonard was wearing; and he did not glance down at the man's shoes, though Leonard now was examining him from scarf and shoulder to shoe-tip. It had not occurred to Granard, during the fishing expedition of the afternoon, that Jimmy's morose friend Mr. Leonard was a votary of fashion; for the single suit on display during the afternoon was limited in its effect. The display in this room, however, made full confession; and Granard's own presence, in his ordinary attire, only emphasized to Mr. Leonard his own fatuity.

"I paid plenty," the man defended himself sullenly, "plenty— plenty for those suits— and the shoes."

Granard said nothing.

"What the hell's the matter with 'em?" Leonard challenged.

"Nothing," denied Granard.

"The hell there ain't!" Leonard refused this, his eyes roving again over Granard. "I don't look like you in none of 'em. What did you pay for what you got on, Granard?"

Granard shook his head.

"I bet," offered Leonard, "you didn't lift it above two hundred fifty for the suit."

"I didn't," Granard admitted.

"Then," said Leonard, "I paid more than you. The so-and-so stuck me. Who's your tailor, Granard?"

"He's in New York," Granard said.

"So's my blankety-blank," Leonard said with feeling.

Granard turned the subject.

"Your boy?" he inquired of the child in the silver frame.

"You're damned shoutin' he's mine," said Leonard with some satisfaction. "And he never was nobody's little accident, neither. I always wanted a kid; and I got me one."

"That's good," said Granard. "Where is he?"

"That's my business where he is.... But I'll hand you this: I'm heading him for Gorton."

"Gorton?" said Granard.

"The swell school— don't you know it?"

"Oh, yes," Granard admitted, realizing the fellow meant Groton. "I do."

"Where Roosevelt went to see his kid," Leonard further defined the institution. "And I read Roosevelt went there himself, too."

"He did," Granard agreed.

"So it's the swell school— ain't it? I mean, Roosevelt's a swell too, ain't he? He ain't just a President. He's a swell. He never was no Lincoln."

"No woodchopper," Granard again agreed.

"Sure. I read it. He was a swell, if he never got a vote. So Gorton's got to be good, ain't it?"

Granard nodded. "It's good."

"Then Harvard for Grant," Leonard went on.

"Grant?"

"That's his name. Grant Leslie. Good name?" he referred it to Granard.

"Good for what?" Granard inquired.

"To get him anywhere."

"After Gorton," said Granard, careful not to make a correction, "and after Harvard, where do you want to put him?"

"Well," Leonard gave this back to his guest, "what would you say?"

Granard gazed at the features in the heavy silver frame; alert eyes, too close together, which could develop either shrewdness or cruelty— or both; a nice straight nose, unlike his father's; but he favored Leonard again in his short, stubborn chin. Granard could not deny himself a glance at the three photographs of the half-dressed women, wondering which— if any of them— was the boy's mother.

Leonard, watching, read this thought: "I got her pitcher, Granard," he said. "But I don't keep her out. She had," he added after an instant, "what it takes."

"I don't doubt it," Granard said.

"She had it like a tent,"— Leonard regarded her three rivals or successors or whatever they were— "on all of them."

Granard nodded, and did not make the mistake of further inquiry.

"Drink, Granard?"

"Not now, thanks."

"Cigarette?"

"Thanks."

"Sit down?"

"All right."

Eyes on each other, neither offering any advantage nor trying to take any, they sank simultaneously into chairs half the room's width apart. Leonard carefully kept his right hand away from the pocket where he had his pistol. He continued to hold the flashlight in his left hand; but as Granard noticed this, he laid it down on the table near him.

The round tube rolled and fell from the edge of the table, and Leonard jumped for it; but after putting himself in motion, suddenly he checked himself and let the flashlight lie on the floor. He sat back, regarding Granard.

"About your boy, Grant," Granard said conversationally, but his mind not on the subject at all, "are you figuring that— after Gorton and Harvard— he'll have to work?"

"Maybe," said Leonard shortly. "Also, maybe not." Plainly, his mind had left the matter; he shot a glance at his watch.

It was the time, Granard guessed, for Jimmy's appointment with someone somewhere near, and Leonard's thought went to that, but not anxiously. In the nature of the business, Jimmy could manage it alone, even if Leonard had first planned to accompany him; and very probably he had not. One caller would attract less attention than two; and, at least, it must be a furtive affair.

"I'd figure, if the boy were mine," Granard went on easily, "on travel, after college— Europe, certainly; London, Paris— and Rome."

Leonard was paying only formal attention. There was some sound at the front of the house. Was Jimmy back already, Granard wondered.

Leonard arose. Granard sat quietly, and he caught an instinct, stifled again, which started Leonard toward the flashlight; but the man left it on the floor and went from the room.

He left the door open behind him, but Granard moved so that he could stoop and pick up the flashlight without being seen, unless Leonard reentered the room. Leonard did not immediately do that; and Granard took the nickel tube in his hands.

He twisted the cap at the bottom, exposing batteries— exposing, too, a little space beside the batteries into which paper had been pushed, as if only to pack the batteries firmly.

Granard drew this out, felt a circlet inside— a ring of white metal with a gleaming green stone, brilliantly cut. He saw at once it was an emerald, and no common one. Its size alone would have distinguished it, aside from its setting and its shape. Granard knew he had seen it before, and not in a box or in some jeweler's window. He had seen it on some woman's finger. Whose?

His mind was spinning fast, but not swiftly enough to tell him before he was warned to pack it back in its paper wad, replace it in the tube and screw on the cap. He laid the flashlight on the floor, and was in his chair again when Leonard returned.

"Damn dames," pronounced Leonard morosely. His mood of the afternoon, and of the early moments of this evening's encounter, claimed him again.

Granard ventured no comment; and Leonard stood, studying the floor. It might be a mannerism; it might be, Granard realized, that Leonard noticed some change in the position of the flashlight. If he did, he made no mention of it. Slowly and as if absent-mindedly, Leonard picked up the nickel tube and stepped into the next room, this time closing the door behind him.

Without moving, Granard waited the outcome of the investigation which, he was certain, was going on at the other side of the door.

The man's face was a mask when he again presented himself. Granard felt that one guess of his was as good as the opposite, as to what Leonard had learned. At least, he knew that he had his stone.

There were few amenities exchanged before Granard departed.

The air of the street was as agreeable to Granard as the return to shore had been, after the fishing expedition. The night remained mild, calm, reassuring. There was the beat of distant drums in dance rhythm.

"Whose ring? Whose ring?" beat in Granard's brain at the accent of the measure. He was surer than he had been at the moment when he had held it in his hand, that he had seen that emerald, in its peculiar platinum setting, on a woman's finger. A privileged finger, an important finger, at some table where dined men of wealth and of peace, and women who were wives or widows of great fortune.

How had the ring been hidden in the handle of Leonard's lamp?

Not because it was stolen. For if it had been lost to its owner by theft, word would have been given, a report spread, and a reward probably offered for its recovery. This had not been done. Moreover, Jimmy Trimp was no thief or partner of thieves. Jimmy was a blackmailer.

Probably, then, the ring was a payment, or more likely, given as a pledge of a cash payment later to be made. It marked extortion, but not theft; and it marked the victim as a woman.

A woman, not a man, was paying Jimmy and Leonard. It was with a woman, not a man, that Jimmy had had the appointment which he had proceeded to keep this night....

Granard let himself into the apartment which he shared with Shane.

"Calls?" he inquired of Abe.

"One from New York City, sir."

"The paper?"

"Mr. Carewe, sir. He said it is most important."

"Call him back," Granard bid.

"Bill," said Carewe's voice from New York, "what's new down there?"

"Not much," Granard replied, carefully. "What have you got?"

"Something big on the fingerprints from Ralph's plane."

"Whose are they?" Granard asked.

"Too fast, Bill. We haven't fastened the name on them yet. The prints don't fit any on file at police headquarters, or in the Washington Bureau. The man who rode with Ralph Strather certainly never had a police record; and he hadn't voluntarily put his prints on file in the civil identification lists, either."

"Then what's so good that you have on them?" Granard demanded. "A 'no record' report? You called me to cheer over that?"

"You'll cheer, Bill! But it's hell to put it into a headline."

"What?"

"The man who took the last ride with Ralph Strather— and shot him— is the same man who took the last drink with Sally Doane— and shot her."

Granard drew in breath quickly as his thought spun about this statement. Sally Doane was a show-girl who had been shot and killed in New York, ten days ago, by some yet unknown "admirer." The man had gone to her apartment with her; they had been drinking; then a shot. The man had escaped, leaving no indication of his identity but a thumb and a fingerprint on a cocktail glass.

The headlines next morning had declared him a "society man"— a "mysterious playboy." And the murder of Sally Doane had supplied one of the sensations of the same week which brought the first threat to Milly Welton from the Voice; and which brought to Milly, in the mail, the first five-hundred-dollar bill marked "For a good girl."

But Milly had said she never had had anything to do with Sally. She had not even known Sally. Milly would not even have heard her name, had not Sally Doane been shot so sensationally by some not-yet-named "friend." She never had played in a show with Sally. Sally Doane was, to Milly, only a girl who had been shot, having taken to her apartment some mysterious "friend" who had drunk with her, and then killed her and disappeared— leaving as evidence of his identity only a few fingerprints on the glass which he had held.

The trouble had been that these fingerprints tallied with none on record anywhere.

Now Ralph Strather had been accompanied, on his flight from Newport News, by some "friend" who, at last, had shot him and disappeared— leaving fingerprints which tallied with the fingerprints left on the glass found beside Sally Doane.... The details of the discovery of this fact were coming from Carewe over the phone.

"Where's Milly tonight?" Granard asked.

"Here," said Carewe, and he named the hotel.

"You've told her about the tally on the prints?"

"Of course I've told her," Carewe returned. "But she's no good to us. She's collapsed, practically, Bill. After Strather was buried. She stood up to that; then she's gone to pieces. Anything keeping you there, Bill?"

"Why?" Granard returned.

"If you came up— and you'd better fly, Bill— you might get something from Milly."

"Then you think she has something?"

"Who can tell what any girl's got?" Carewe complained. "But something has struck Milly so hard that it's shoved her completely under. You'll leave in the morning?"

"A little later," Granard replied; and after more talk, which led to nothing, he hung up.

He had not mentioned the emerald ring to Carewe. How could Carewe, from a phoned description, help him identify the owner? Moreover, Granard had no certainty that it was connected with the affair which had involved Milly and drawn Ralph Strather on to his death. Jimmy Trimp and his friend "Leonard" undoubtedly had more than one iron in the fire; and two might be extremely "hot" at the same time.

Granard went to his room and undressed, plagued by the image of the emerald which he almost, but not quite, could "see" upon a woman's finger. Whose?

Peggy might help him, he thought. A girl, even though she did not go in for gems herself, noticed them on others. It was amazing, the catalogue of articles of adornment which women carried in their minds.

He sat down, and lest sleep might destroy the sharpness of his recollection, he made a drawing of the ring, as he remembered it.

viii

IT WAS SHORTLY after nine in the morning when Abe awoke him.

"A telegram, sir," the little colored man said. "I figured it might be important."

It was. Milly's name followed eight words:

"Am returning. Please be there when I come."

Granard creased the yellow slip between his fingers, trying to satisfy himself as to what this appeal to him implied. Indecision, he thought— indecision before a dilemma which she could not resolve by herself.

He recollected, of course, Carewe's description of her as having been shoved "completely under."

"Reply, sir?" Abe asked him.

Granard wrote, simply, "I will be here," signed his name, and handed it to Abe who phoned it to the telegraph office.

"You'll have breakfast now, Mr. Granard?" the little colored man asked.

"Whenever you're ready, Abe.... And by the way, is there green ink, or perhaps a green crayon, about the place?"

"No sir; but it's hardly a step to a drug-store."

"Never mind," Granard bade, but after he had shaved and dressed, he found a bottle of green ink on the desk in the living room.

He colored, with some care, his drawing of the emerald.

He wished he knew by what means Milly was returning— by train or by air. But he had intentionally kept out of his telegram to her any question which might upset her own plan. A fragile plan, at best, he thought; and he thought that, when she actually left, he would hear again from Carewe.

He looked at the clock and called Peggy. To his surprise, she herself answered.

"Up?" he inquired.

"And 'decent,'" she replied, adopting the word of the Broadway jargon for "dressed," but she failed to make her voice frivolous.

"Going out?" he asked.

"Not now."

"I'll be over," he announced.

"I'd like that," she said, and her monosyllables strengthened his feeling that, in her sphere, also, something had happened since he had seen her.

He found her alone, and in no morning negligee, but dressed as if she had been about to go out, early as it was. Also she had breakfasted.

She not only was serious, as he had expected, but plainly she was troubled too. Her mood stirred him; a woman's mood, it was— stubborn, protective, defensive, secretive and a little frightened too. She was more than a little frightened, he realized, before he had spent a minute with her, talking of trivial things.

A glance about the room told him that she had had a newspaper, and had read it and rumpled it and thrust it aside. Peggy watched him, as he noticed this; and she waited for his eyes to return to her.

"You've seen that, of course, Bill," she said. "Or you knew it before it went to press."

He nodded.

"What goes to press in the next edition, Bill?" she demanded of him.

He shook his head, studying her.

"You mean you don't know," she challenged impatiently, "or you're not telling me?"

"Perhaps a little of both," he said.

Suddenly she stamped her little foot. "Bill, tell me!"

"Tell you what?"

"What's coming next?"

"What's made it so important to you?"

"A queer thing, Bill!" she told him. "A strange thing!" And she looked at him, her eyes big; and her lips parted and troubled.

"What thing, Peggy?" he said, very gently. He led her to a sofa upon which she seated herself. She pulled one foot up under her and stared down. He placed himself behind her, close to her; and gave her a little time.

"What thing, Peggy?" he finally repeated.

"A perfectly terrible, frightful thing— if it's true, Bill!" she said. "But first tell me; do you know yet who he is?"

"The man who killed Ralph— and Sally Doane?" Granard said.

"Yes. The man— of the fingerprints."

"No, Peggy; I don't know."

"Does anybody know?"

"Anybody," said Granard, "of course takes in a lot of ground. Several people— or a few, at least— know. We think Jimmy Trimp knows, and his friend Leonard. I got some evidence last night that a woman knows—"

"Milly, you mean?"

"The woman I have in mind isn't Milly. Milly doesn't know— or she didn't," Granard corrected, "when I last saw her. But perhaps she does now."

Peggy ignored this, if she heard it. "Of course the man himself knows," she said shivering.

"Of course," Granard agreed, closely watching as much of her face as she let him see.

"It's on his mind every moment— what he's done," Peggy proceeded. "He killed Sally Doane in New York days and days ago; and then he killed Ralph. But nobody saw him, either time."

"Nobody," said Granard, "who has offered to help the police."

"But both times," Peggy pursued her own thoughts, "he left his fingerprints behind him. They haunt him, you see; they would haunt him, wouldn't they? They must!"

"Sally and Ralph haunt him?" Granard said, knowing she did not mean them; but he wanted to force her to her own plainer words.

"Perhaps they do, Bill! He has them too! But I meant— his fingerprints."

"He certainly made a mistake," Granard said, "to have left them."

"He didn't think about them when he shot Sally Doane, the paper says," Peggy whispered. "Probably he'd not shot anyone before. It excited him too much; and besides, he'd been drinking. They found fingerprints everywhere— especially plain ones on the cocktail glass. When he shot Ralph, he'd had— experience."

"He thought of prints then," Granard agreed. "He tried to wipe his away from the plane. But he missed one set of impressions."

"So now," Peggy breathed, "he'd wipe anything he touched, wouldn't he?"

Granard waited; but she did not go on, by herself.

"What have you heard, Peggy?" he asked and amended: "Peggy, what have you seen?"

She drew closer, quivering. "Bill, I've seen— him!"

"Him? Who?"

She whispered, aghast at her own declaration: "He wipes everything he's touched, when he thinks no one sees him."

"When did you see him?"

"Last night."

"At a dinner?"

Peggy shook her head. "No; it was afterwards. But I'd almost noticed it before."

"Almost?" Granard repeated her word.

"I mean— I'd felt, earlier, that something was strange. Last night— it was late, after we'd danced— I saw he was— wiping off things."

"Like silver, you mean?"

"Yes. His fork, and the handle of his spoon; and the sides of his glass."

Granard had held himself from the direct challenge of the question, "Who?" And he kept to that restraint.

He realized that Peggy was not ready to speak a name, to accuse of murder a dinner companion— and one with whom later she had danced. Her nearness to accusation was shaking her; and Granard knew that he would completely silence her, if he tried to force a name from her.

He took a different direction, drawing from his pocket the bit of paper on which he had sketched the ring with the stone which he had colored to its emerald green.

"Did you ever see the original of this?" he asked.

She took the paper and stared at it; she lost breath a moment, and then looked up. "Yes. Why?" she said.

"Whose is it?"

"His mother's," she said; and she gazed at him, aghast at what now she had told. But still he refrained from trying to force her on to the name. "What is this, Bill?" she asked of him. "Who made this— drawing?"

"I did."

"Of her ring. Where?"

"I happened on it, Peggy," he said, "in a peculiar place. A blackmailer has it; a partner of Jimmy Trimp's. When I found it, I remembered seeing it sometime on some woman's finger. It's an extraordinary stone in size and shape, and an extraordinary setting. I was sure I'd seen it, but I couldn't think on whose finger. I couldn't take the ring with me; so I made a drawing, hoping you could help me."

Peggy went whiter and hit her lips. "Help you to what, Bill?"

"The identity of the woman who was being blackmailed. For it's surely blackmail, Peggy. That's the business of the man who has the ring."

"He might have stolen it."

"No; he's a blackmailer, not a thief. He made her give him the ring."

"Give it to him?"

"As a payment, or possibly as a pledge for later payments. It must be worth twenty or thirty thousand dollars. And probably it represents considerable progress in the line of extortion. Before taking rings, my friend undoubtedly had got all the ready cash the woman could scrape up."

"To save her son," Peggy whispered.

"Exactly," Granard agreed.

"And you think I'll tell you who he is?"

"Have I asked you?" Granard retorted, refusing the stupidity of reminding her, at such a moment, that she was shielding a suspect of a murder. She had not seen Ralph Strather seated so still in his plane, with the buzzards soaring above him; Sally Doane was scarcely a name to her. But very recently she had been beside a frightened man who felt himself a fugitive; and she had surprised him wiping away marks made by his fingers, lest they drag him to his death.

Granard had aroused the protective instinct in her; and he knew, when a woman gave away to that, nothing could be done with her. It made her irrational but more splendid. She stirred him so that he spoke in his own defense.

"What do you think I would do, if I knew?"

"Too much."

"You want nothing done?" Granard challenged her.

"No. Not— nothing."

"Then what?"

She was silent.

"The first thing I would do," Granard proceeded, "would be to make sure of him."

"Have him locked up, you mean?"

"I mean— make sure he's the man."

"Oh! By his fingerprints— which he wipes away?"

"By one, at least," Granard corrected, "which he didn't wipe away."

"Then what will you do?"

"If he's not the man, nothing," Granard replied, and was aware that now he was temporizing.

"But if he is," Peggy pressed him.

"He is," Granard refused evasion. "We both know that. And who he is, I'll know soon— if I like."

"Whether or not I tell you."

"Of course."

"You'll trace him through his mother; for I told you she was his mother."

"And I know he was with you last night."

"He wasn't the man with me!"

"Of course not, but he was in your group. And it's clear that his mother is here. It'll not be hard to match them together."

"Yes; she's here," Peggy admitted. "I know her; you know her. You also know him, at least by sight. Bill, it will be— if it's true— a tremendous scandal. Beyond anything before. His mother, Bill— does she deserve it?"

The irrational instinct of woman's protectiveness claimed her again, making her temporarily immune to argument. Granard saw this; and he found nothing better to say than:

"She seems to have deserved— him."

"She didn't, Bill! That's the most awful part of it. She never deserved— him; and she'll strip herself— or let your friends strip her of her last penny; she'd endure anything to save him."

"'My friends,'" Granard said, but let further protest go by default.

"Bill," Peggy begged, "leave this to me— just for today."

"How much do you mean by this?"

"Him and his mother. Your investigation— how long will it take you, Bill, to trace them down— if I don't tell you who they are? Would you have them by noon?"

"By night, I should certainly hope," Granard replied.

"Then by night, I'll have them for you. At least, I'll tell you who they are. And by night, we'll know— both of us— whether what we think is surely true. For I'll bring you a print of his, Bill. One of those he won't have wiped away. But you've got to give me all of today."

She rose, and he stood facing her.

"You're going to trust me, Bill— aren't you?"

"Of course I trust you," he said; and by his words he meant that he trusted her not to warn her friends away. He felt sure that at least she would not do that; but how far she could force herself to proceed against them, he did not know.

A tinge of color flushed in her cheek and faded. He wondered to what thought it was tell-tale. He felt her opposed to him. He liked loyalty— to her class, to her kind, to her sex, and to that fundamental instinct, stirring beneath all else, which marked woman.

"Good-by, then, Bill, until tonight. After you go, I'll go out."

Preceding her, and not even glancing back, Granard thought of her emerging from the house and proceeding about her extraordinary errand. She would be fashionable and frivolous-looking, as always. He went to the beach, intentionally, avoiding any path she was likely to take; but soon he was among them, acquaintances and friends. His mind automatically separated the men known to have mothers living.

At noon, at his apartment, he received a wire from Carewe, informing him briefly that Milly had left New York by airplane.

After five o'clock, Peggy phoned him, and he went directly to her.

"They're gone," she told him. "They're both gone. . . . Bill, I swear I did nothing to frighten them. I expected him all afternoon. But they've gone."

"Where?"

"I don't know. They drove away together. They took a car and drove away alone."

"You might as well give them a name," Granard said.

"He's Theron, Bill!"

"Theron Drendale!" Granard realized. He had not seen him in Palm Beach; he had not seen him recently in New York or elsewhere. Theron Drendale was one of those men mentioned frequently but seldom conspicuous— weak, wealthy, ubiquitous but in his own furtive way. He had been no special friend of Ralph Strather's, Granard thought; but he had been no special friend of anyone's. Everybody knew him; no one ever singled him out.

His mother, everyone knew and also mentioned. She had divorced his father (who since had died), and she had married again, divorced her second husband and resumed the dead Drendale's name. Her own father had died and left more millions in trust for her. She had never had but the one child, Theron, who now was near to thirty, and who had never married.

Perfectly he fitted into the place of the cautious, furtive "friend" of the show-girl Sally Doane. Perfectly he fitted the requirements of the "friend" whom Ralph had picked up at Newport News, and who had accompanied Ralph to the plane so inconspicuously and quietly that no one had been able to describe him; no one really had "seen" him.

And now, with his mother, he had disappeared. For that was what Peggy meant. He had taken his mother with him, and no one else, and had fled. Who had alarmed them?

"Theron Drendale," Peggy was saying, while this raced through his mind.

"You didn't see him today?"

"No. I meant to but— failed."

Granard did not demand details of her attempt. It was enough for him, and for her that they had fled.

Granard's mind went back to midnight when "Leonard" entertained him while Jimmy Trimp proceeded on his important errand. Perhaps it was simply as a result of this that the principals in the matter had fled.

"Do you know when they left?" Granard asked.

"It was early this afternoon, but I just now found it out. They started south, someone said."

For Miami, Granard guessed. Or they might immediately reverse their course and make for Tampa or Fort Myers, anywhere.

Peggy was repeating the little she had learned. It was plain that she protected them no longer. It was as if she felt they had flaunted her protection of them when they fled. This too was unreasonable; but Granard was thinking, as he had before, that a girl only gains from unreasonable emotions.

No cruelty had come to her. Now she wanted them caught; but when caught, she surely would spare them again.

"Bill, it's my fault," she blamed herself. "I let them get away."

"They haven't got away," Granard denied. "Even if they get to Cuba."

Miami, he thought again; and the Havana plane.

Twenty minutes later he was driving to Miami, where he learned, after some inquiry, that a woman and a younger man, who gave their names as Mr. and Mrs. Ellister, had chartered a special plane to take them to Cuba. The descriptions which Granard gained left little doubt of the actual identity of "the Ellisters."

Late in the night, Granard returned to Palm Beach; and he went almost immediately to the apartment which he shared with Shane. As usual, Shane was out, but Abe was on hand to report that Mr. Carewe, in New York, had phoned him repeatedly.

Carewe's news proved interesting. He had no new development directly on the Strather case, but he had learned that Izzy Mackleton had departed suddenly for Florida.

"By plane?" Granard inquired.

"You know Izzy," Carewe returned. "He'd not leave terra firma for a Federal appropriation. But he got out in an awful hurry on the night train. . . . It must mean a big break is coming quick."

Granard silently agreed. Izzy was not one to waste his time; he would be on hand, in an emergency which required him, neither too soon nor too late. "Seen Milly?" Carewe inquired.

"Not yet."

"But she flew; she must be there— or didn't she arrive?"

"She's here," Granard assured Carewe.

"At the Railstons' again?"

"Yes. Ralph's sister met her, I hear, and took her home. Nobody blames her, Carewe."

"Try to make her talk," was all Carewe replied.

ix

GRANARD CALLED at the Railstons' at ten in the morning. Milly was not up, and Esther Railston refused to let her out of bed; but she sent Granard in to see Milly.

"She hardly slept at all. She couldn't sleep on the plane; and she's been almost in collapse since she got here. It's what's on her soul, as she puts it," Esther said. "But she won't talk to me. She will to you. She's been waiting for you."

Esther took him into Milly's room and left him alone with her.

"Bill, sit down, please; but don't ask me anything. They've asked me so much.... What could I tell them?

"I know now why Jimmy Trimp thought I was a 'good girl'; I know now why the Voice threatened to kill me.... Sit down near me, Bill; and don't— don't ask me anything."

"You never loved him," Granard stated quietly.

"Loved him?" Milly caught at this. "No.... No," she admitted. "But I knew him— so well."

Granard watched her a moment more, and decided it was time to tell her: "I know him too, Milly."

She jerked back. "You do? You mean— he's arrested?"

Granard shook his head. "I mean, I know his name, Milly. And I've known him, too; slightly."

She sat supporting herself again with her arms, and staring at him. Her lips moved, but she did not speak. At last he heard her say as if to herself more than to him: "You wouldn't trick me?"

"We both know," Granard said as quietly as he could, "that he's Theron Drendale."

Her lips parted, but her breath sighed through them. "Yes," she said; and a moment later: "Where is he? Do you know?"

"He left the country yesterday, Milly. He flew with his mother from Miami— for Cuba."

Milly began gathering herself together; she sat straighter, and no longer needed the support of her hands. "You mean— he's got away?"

"He's got across to Cuba," Granard said, and witnessed in this girl something of the same change which had come to Peggy when she learned that Theron had fled.

"He'll stay there?" Milly asked.

"Do you want him back?"

"I?" she said. "Oh, if he just could never come back! If he just could— vanish!"

"Maybe that will happen, Milly," Granard said.

"But the police— won't they bring him back?"

"The police don't know yet that he killed Sally Doane— and Ralph," Granard explained. "Only you and I have found it out. And you know more than I. You know— don't you— why he killed Sally?"

"Yes; I know. After I realized it was Ronny who killed her, I knew how it happened. I knew— almost as if I had been there— just what he did."

"Because," said Granard, very gently, "you could imagine him killing you?"

She nodded, and stared away; and Granard remained quiet. He ceased even to look at her, but gazed away out the window.

"Ronny could have killed me," she finally said. "He was a frightening person to be with sometimes.... I know exactly how he came to kill Sally. He suddenly completely lost control of himself, and she didn't know how to handle him.... How well did you know him, Bill?"

"Scarcely at all," Granard replied, without turning.

"He wasn't a man's man," Milly kept on in the past tense, as though Theron Drendale, like Sally and Ralph, were dead. "But he had an appeal for women."

"Some women," Granard permitted himself to interject.

"He could be sweet, Bill. He could. It wasn't just his money that made a girl like him. He could be so very sweet— and so very, very terrible."

Granard continued to gaze away.

"When Ronny wanted to please you, there was nothing— absolutely nothing— he wouldn't do for you.... And when he wanted you to please him, there was nothing— he thought— you shouldn't do for him."

"And when you wouldn't?" Granard said, without turning.

"Then came the trouble.... It was terrible, Bill.... He gave me a bracelet once; a marvelous old piece with diamonds and sapphires and rubies. I never wore it.... I gave it back to him when I sent him away."

"To Sally Doane."

"I didn't know it was Sally he took up next."

"He never told you?"

"He never told anyone what he was doing— at any time. He was the most careful man I've ever known. He'd never have taken me out where I'd be seen with him, if I hadn't made him. That was one thing we quarreled about. Sally didn't make him take her out with other people. That was one of her big mistakes.... He wanted always to be alone with you. So he was alone with her when they quarreled and he killed her; and no one else knew even that he was her 'friend.'"

"Not quite nobody else," Granard objected.

"You mean Jimmy Trimp knew, then?"

"Jimmy, I think, had been watching him for some time," Granard said. "That was Jimmy's game— to 'get something' on a man who wanted to keep things hushed up. But Jimmy hardly hoped for a break as big as hush-money for a murder."

"So Jimmy knew he'd gone with me."

"And then gone to Sally."

"Jimmy figured I must have known that," Milly said. "I see that now. Besides— there was the bracelet."

"The bracelet Drendale gave you, and you gave back?"

Milly nodded. "And he gave to Sally Doane. It was on her arm, when they found her dead. I know now that all the papers told about it at the time. One even had a picture of it; but I never saw it, and I never read the descriptions. I don't read details of murders in the papers, Bill. The killing of Sally Doane was nothing to me; I never dreamt she died with a bracelet on her arm that I had worn."

"And Jimmy Trimp never dreamt you didn't know it, and so could tell who killed Sally," Granard finished. "Well, Jimmy's action— and the Voice's— is now perfectly clear."

"But Ralph," said Milly; and with his name, her voice failed her.

"Yes— Ralph," Granard echoed; and they gazed at each other, remembering the figure in the pilot's seat of the plane on the Georgia sands, and the buzzards circling overhead.

"Bill," appealed Milly, "is this why Ronny killed him?"

"You've worked that out too?" Granard said gently.

"We know Ralph found out something— in New York," Milly proceeded. "Ronny was still in New York— but his mother had come down here."

"That's right," Granard encouraged her. "Mrs. Drendale knew what had happened. She already was paying— and paying plenty— to Jimmy Trimp and his friend. She left New York for here; and they followed her down. Perhaps they came on the same train."

"But Ronny stayed in New York," said Milly. "Why?"

"Figuring it was safer," Granard suggested. "A city usually seems safer than a smaller place, to a man in trouble. Besides, he wasn't especially expected here. His mother was. If she suddenly changed all her arrangements without good reason, it would call attention to her— and Ronny. That was the last thing she wanted. So she came, as she'd arranged."

"When Ralph found out something in New York," Milly said, "Ronny was around. Probably he had an eye on Ralph; for he knew how much I liked Ralph, and that Ralph wanted to marry me."

"Probably he figured that Ralph knew anything you knew," Granard added for her.

"But I think Ronny got wise, up by himself in New York."

"You mean, he realized— as Jimmy Trimp didn't— that you had no idea he'd taken up Sally Doane?"

"Yes. And that I'd not recognized the bracelet. I guess he just about got to feeling that I was 'safe,' when he ran across Ralph in some way, and learned that Ralph had turned up something."

"What, do you figure?"

Milly shook her head. "We'll never know— exactly. But it made him kill Ralph."

"So the nature of it, at least, is clear," Granard proceeded. "Ralph had picked up something which had to do with the killing of Sally. It wasn't enough to tell him that Ronny killed her; but it was enough to clear up the case, if the information got to somebody else."

"Me, you mean?"

"Yes; probably you. So Ronny followed Ralph from New York— it's certain they didn't leave the city together— and caught up with Ralph at Newport News. Ralph took him aboard; he liked to give a lift," Milly said, her eyelashes suddenly wet.

"We both know what happened," Granard said quickly, to spare her more.

"I've tried to think whether Ronny followed Ralph to kill him; or whether something came up between them when they were flying. Not that it makes much difference," Milly whispered, "except in the images in your mind.. . Nobody recognized Ronny at the airport at Newport News. Ronny saw to that. It was night— and they just knew that some friend of Ralph's got aboard."

"Yet that doesn't prove," Granard said, "that he'd planned then to kill Ralph."

"No. For Ronny always hid what he was doing— even if he wasn't doing anything particular at all.... But it makes no difference," Milly repeated. "Ralph's dead; and Ronny— soon they'll be making me help to kill him too. Should I— must I help them, Bill?"

Granard bent forward, and caught her hands, and for an instant, held them tightly. She whispered: "That means— you'll help me, Bill?"

"Of course I'll help you. I'll always help you."

"Then tell me— who else can I trust now?— what to do!"

"I'll tell you to do nothing now," Granard reassured her. "Nothing more than you've just done."

"But I've done nothing at all, Bill."

He shook his head. "No," he said. "You've made my move perfectly plain to me."

He felt her shiver. "Your move, Bill?... I see. Of course, you'll do something.... Bill, what are you going to do about Ronny?"

Granard held her hands more tightly in his clasp until her shaking lessened a little. "Whatever I do, will be mine, Milly," he said at last. "You'll not be in it. You'll have no responsibility for it."

"But what will it be?"

He bent, and still holding her hands tightly clasped, he kissed her forehead very gently. "The best thing for everybody that I can possibly bring about," he promised her; and a moment later he left her.

x

HE WENT out into the sunlit street and into the warm, agreeable languor of the day. Young people passed him on the way to the beach, or toward tennis-courts and the golf-course; the air of the place was for pleasure and play. Death, for them, dwelt far away.

A few weeks ago, Granard was thinking, Theron Drendale was not unlike some of these men; death must have seemed distant indeed from him. But now, twice he had visited death upon others; and had made his own life forfeit. But how clumsy to send him to the "chair"!

The idea set marching in Granard's mind the pageant of news sensations offered him: Theron Drendale's arrest and extradition; his return to New York under guard; his arraignment, indictment; his trial.

What counsel? What counsel for his defense?

Izzy Mackleton, of course. Izzy, who had left New York on the night train, night before last; Izzy, who had given Granard originally the tip to come down here, promising that something big was soon to "break," because Jimmy Trimp so conspicuously was "in the money."

Granard's mind went back to the remark made by Izzy's blonde secretary, who was alone with him, for a moment, just after he had taken his "tip" from Izzy and was leaving.

"When I went to school," the girl had said, "I read about a monkey and a cat and a fire and some chestnuts."

Granard remembered his own words. "Izzy doesn't look like a monkey," he had said.

"You don't look like a cat," she had retorted, and had told him no more.

Her meaning now had become more plain; and Izzy's action in giving Granard the tip to go to Palm Beach had become much less altruistic.

Murder had been done, Izzy knew; and someone, with much means, was paying Jimmy Trimp big blackmail— someone potentially a client for Izzy; but in the situation, there was not a penny for a defense attorney until that someone, so valuable to Jimmy, was named, accused and arrested. Then, for every thousand dollars paid in tribute to the blackmailers, ten thousand would be offered in fees in the desperate attempt to save the prisoner from the chair. In such a situation, the family would post its last penny, if necessary. But first, there must be an accusation, an arrest, an indictment.

The allusion to the monkey and the cat, and the chestnuts in the fire, needed no further elucidation.

Granard gazed up at the hotel where Izzy, if he was now in Palm Beach, would have established himself; but Granard did not go in. He went by; but his own course had become declared.

He found Peggy at home and waiting for him.

"Where have you been, Bill?" she asked, as soon as they were alone.

He told her.

"She knows about— it?" Peggy whispered, her eyes big and her lips pressed tight after they spoke.

"Yes; she knows all about it."

"All?" Peggy persisted. "You told her that he did— both?"

"She knew that," Granard repeated. "All I had to tell her was that he'd left Florida."

"Bill, what's she going to do?"

Granard gazed at this girl, so different from Milly, but one who also held a man's life in her hands.

"We're going to do it, Peggy," he replied to her.

She started. "We? You and I?... What do you mean?"

"I mean, she's left it to me; and I've brought it to you, Peggy."

He saw that her breath left her; and though, in a similar emergency, he had seized Milly's hands, he made no move toward Peggy; but the sudden beating within his own breast almost stifled him.

"Why did you bring it from her— to me?"

He put his hands out to her, and she clasped them, but did not cling to them as Milly had. She was much, much less of a child than Milly, and she stirred him incomparably more. He slipped his hands from her clasp and caught her wrists, and slipped his fingers to make a band about her forearms.

"How soft you are, Peggy," he said, "for all your tan and tennis and your swimming!" (And he thought: "You're soft as Milly, and as adorable; but Milly has not a touch of your steel.") "But there's something under your softness," he said aloud.

"What do you mean?"

"Strength," he said. "Don't think I'll ask you to speak, Peggy— to accuse him. And I'll see that no one else forces you to. I've taken that on myself. What I'll do will be my own, and not in the least your responsibility."

"How can you keep it," she rejoined to him, "from being mine too?"

"I will."

"I don't want you to! What you do, I do."

"You feel that!" he cried, very gently; and not gently at all, but almost violently, he drew her to him.

"Kiss me," she said, held by his hands. "Don't you want to?"

So he released her to take her close against him in his arms.

"I would like to hold you forever," he said. "But you know I have to go; and you know what I have to do.... You don't know exactly,— and don't ask me now what it is,— for I'm going to do it. Then— let me come back to you."

xi

WHEN GRANARD left, he did not tell Peggy whither he was bound; but she knew very well that he had gone to Havana. She understood, too, the cause of his haste. At any moment some one of the official people in New York investigating the murder of Sally Doane, or in Georgia, the killing of Ralph Strather, might stumble upon some item or object to point to Theron Drendale; they would trace him and instantly order his arrest, even in Cuba.

Bill Granard meant to anticipate this action by some action of his own in regard to Ronny. What action? What did Bill mean to do?

The day in Palm Beach continued pleasant; the sun shone on the blue sea, and the white, smooth sands; but the afternoon had become dull and drab to Peggy; and the men about her, trivial and stupid. They dealt with such tiresome matters.

What serious business was in Bill Granard's mind— what choice must be so deliberating— as the airplane in which he flew was bearing him to Havana?

Havana!

After a while Peggy overheard the word, and she listened; but the casual, idle talk ran on with no reference to Granard or to the Drendales. It merely was that a pair of these trivial, restless playfellows felt like a little jaunt away from Florida.

"Nassau?" Kim Tetherington offered.

"Not Nassau," his wife Lila objected.

"Havana," Peggy heard herself putting in.

"You're with us, Peggy?" asked Kim.

"When— and how, Kim?"

"Fly! From Miami, tomorrow morning."

"Suits me," said Peggy. "It's a date."

xii

WHEN PEGGY went out with the Tetheringtons on the first evening in Havana, she was uncomfortably alert and apprehensive. She had heard nothing from Granard, and she had no way of knowing that he was in the city— or even in Cuba; or that Ronny Drendale was.

Peggy was registered, of course, at her hotel, which was one of the few whose "arrivals" were noticed in the Cuban papers; accordingly, anyone who watched the newspapers, as Bill Granard always did, must soon learn that Miss Peggy Cartwain and the Tetheringtons were here.

She did not go out much on the next day; and she was alone in her suite, which adjoined the Tetheringtons' when Granard called. He was colder and more stern than she had ever seen him, when he closed the door behind him and faced her.

"Bill, what's happened?"

He shook his head. "How do you happen to be here?" he demanded, in return.

"You're not glad to see me!"

"No," he told her bluntly. "Not now."

"Why? Oh, Bill, what's happened— between us?"

"They're here," he told her.

"Theron, you mean? And his mother?"

Granard nodded. "They— and the others. At least one of them."

"Who do you mean?"

"Jimmy Trimp and his friend. But Jimmy, I think, went somewhere today. Leonard didn't leave. Of course he's the dangerous one."

Peggy came closer to him. "Dangerous to you, Bill?"

He snapped at her: "Not to me!"

She recoiled from him. "I'll ask you nothing more."

He stepped forward quickly and caught her hands. "Forgive me, Peggy; but I shouldn't have come to see you; and you shouldn't have come down here."

"No," she said, keeping her just-given word to ask him no more. "No; but I did come. And I'm glad I did, Bill." For his plight had become plainer to her.

It was: he had pushed himself to the point of taking final action against Ronny Drendale, and the time for it had almost come; and he hated what he had to do. His repulsion betrayed itself so clearly that when he gazed at her, it almost seemed that he had spoken it. What had he driven himself to do?

Again she forbade herself the agony of asking. She said: "Nobody else knows yet— do they— about Ronny?"

"Not yet," Granard's lips proceeded in clipped, short syllables. "But when will he break out again?" he went on; and Peggy was aware he was arguing with himself more than with her. "When a man has killed, nothing worse can happen to him than to be discovered; so when he's frightened, he'll kill again. He did, we know.... There'll be somebody else soon."

"Yes," Peggy said to aid him. "Of course. He has to be taken in charge— some way."

"He'll not be taken in charge," Granard said, and his lips pressed shut. "But we won't think of that tonight, when I come for you."

"HAVE YOU heard the Mexicans?" Granard asked Peggy, when he returned to her in the evening. "They've just come to Havana; and they're the hit of the season."

"I'd like to hear them," Peggy said; and he gave directions to his driver.

The place where the Mexicans were playing that night proved to be a huge resplendent restaurant with terraces and balconies.

"They've just moved here," Granard observed. "They had to have a bigger floor. All Havana wants to hear them."

Manifestly, it was true. The place was packed. As soon as a table was forsaken by one couple, it was seized by another. Men in white, and women half bare in décolleté, moved in and out and about ceaselessly, while the Mexicans thrummed and sang their haunting half-savage melodies. They made the very air vibrate with a brutal, passionate pulse which suddenly would interrupt its violence and become caressing and tender.

"Like them?" Granard inquired, as Peggy and he sat down.

"I never heard music so— exciting," she said.

"Demoralizing, you mean?" Granard suggested.

Peggy nodded.

"That's the hope of most music, isn't it?" Granard said; and he ordered for them both. But neither of them had much appetite.

This dinner was meant to be an interlude— Peggy realized— in the business which Granard had undertaken. She felt that he was trying to put it out of his mind, but could not. And after they had been at their table for less than an hour, she became aware that the presence of someone on the floor beyond her disturbed him.

Peggy made no comment and asked no question, but she located the person— a compact, wide-awake man, evidently an American, whose companion was a Spanish girl wearing décolleté that was especially exposing. They had not been there a little while ago, Peggy was sure; for she would have noticed the woman. The man was of far more ordinary type; yet it was at the man, more than at the woman, that Granard kept glancing.

A man— a young man, who had not troubled to remove his hat, yet who bore himself with the confidence of a gentleman— picked his way between the tables. He wore a white suit with coat cut like a dinner jacket, and with black tie.

He peered about, as he advanced none too steadily. One hand, his left, touched the backs of the chairs or brushed, sometimes, the shoulders of the seated people he passed, who jerked about and gazed up at him. He gave them no attention; he was searching for someone; and as he searched, he held his right hand in his bulging side pocket.

His hat, pulled down, shaded his features; but now he was near enough to be unmistakable.

"Ronny!" Peggy breathed aghast.

Now he saw the American with the Spanish girl, and he ceased to saunter. He rushed forward, his hand out of his pocket and pointing a revolver.

"Ronny! It's Ronny!" Peggy cried. "Bill, stop him!... Stop him!"

But the man beside her did not move.

The man with the Spanish girl moved, but too late. The minute before, he had been too absorbed in her. Now, as he rose reaching into a pocket, she jumped up and away from between them.

Ronny fired twice, three times. Four— five!

No.... Some of the puff of smoke spat from the other man's pistol. He was shooting too, as he fell. Ronny fell. The roar of the shots ceased. Men shouted; women screamed; but there was no more shooting. Ronny and the other man lay on the floor.

Granard got Peggy out, as quickly and as inconspicuously as possible. Drendale was dead; there was nothing that anyone could do for him. Granard found acquaintances, not the Tetheringtons, who escorted Peggy to her hotel. It was two hours before he rejoined her.

Peggy had not gone to bed; she merely had rested, sleepless, awaiting him. And she was alone; for she sent away the friends who had brought her home; and the Tetheringtons had not returned from their evening's engagement.

Peggy's nerves alternately whipped her up to jerking excitability and dropped her into intervals of dull semi-insensibility, far short of sleep, which were the consequences of shock. In these, her feelings confused to sting her to wakefulness again. Ronny was dead— shot down quickly, cleanly, in so far as any killing can be "clean," in a duel which he had started. Now there never would be the torture of a trial, the delayed waiting for the execution in a death-cell; the blindfold, his head shaved in the proper spot for the electrode; the awful moments while his limbs would be clamped to the "chair." ...At last, the awful, tearing course of the fatal current.

Much better; oh, much better that Ronny Drendale now was dead. The other man was dying; he scarcely could survive. Peggy understood that his going would be, in another way, only a good thing.

Her mind could encompass this but her emotions still struggled with it. The restaurant floor in Cuba became confused with that night club in New York a few short weeks ago, where, as here, Bill Granard had been her escort; and one man had moved upon another with a pistol.

There Bill had leaped forward and with his quick coolness thwarted the killing; here he had made no move; and he had known, as soon as Ronny appeared, what must follow. She had hated him, on that night in New York, for his playing with that near-death; she did not hate him tonight, for that death which he might have prevented and had not.

He was at her door; she rose and admitted him and closed the door again. He did not touch her; he stood away from her as though he felt that she did not want him near. She gazed at him, and suddenly seized him.

"I told you in Florida," she said, "that what you did, I did! So I did that tonight, Bill.... We did it! I only want to know exactly what it was you— we had to do."

"He made it very easy for me, Peggy," Granard told her. "Not Ronny; I mean the man at the table— who will be dead by morning. He went by the name of Leonard; he was a friend of Jimmy Trimp— worse than Jimmy, an extortioner using any method, including threats to kill. He put the 'heat' on Ronny and his mother, so hot that he stripped her of ready cash; he stripped her, as you know, even of her jewels. Then, on top of that, he tried a double-cross on those people who had paid him so heavily. He tried to sell out to me."

"Sell out?" Peggy repeated, puzzled. "To you?"

Granard nodded. Still he was holding his arms from her. "You see, he knew the game was about up. Not only had he got about everything he could get from the Drendales, but he knew that a break must be near. He didn't know how much I knew, but he was sure I knew something, and that I had something on him. So he tried to turn a trick to make himself safe and pick up a little more coin too. He offered to sell what he knew to me." Granard halted for a moment.

"That made what I had to do far easier than I feared it might be. All I had to do was to locate Drendale, and phone him one short message."

"What, Bill?"

"I can tell you almost exactly what I said. I identified myself; and he knew it was I. Then I said: 'There's a man named Leonard who says he knows you. He says he has a story about you worth $50,000 to any newspaper in New York. Is it true?'

"I needn't tell you what he said. It was almost nothing. We know what he did.... I thought he would do it. I wanted him to do it; but I thought he'd get around to it— today, possibly. Not last night.... But Leonard thought he'd hear the Mexicans last night. And Ronny didn't wait.... I guess God arranged it better than I. Leonard got him; but he got Leonard too.... Tonight they're calling it a fight over a girl. It seems the girl with Leonard knew Ronny, too. The Cubans need no more than that. It may all pass here as a killing because of a woman. There's nothing to tie it to Sally Doane of New York, and to Ralph Strather, who was shot in Georgia.... We'll never mention that again."

"Not as long as we live," Peggy said.

"Together," he added.

"Together," she said; and in his arms, the fright and confusion fled from her. She rested against him, simply and frankly, and calm again.

xii

WHEN GRANARD returned to Palm Beach, he called on Izzy and found that the lawyer was cutting short his stay. Izzy was about to depart for New York, and in none too good a humor.

Granard and Izzy gazed at each other with their most eloquent thoughts declared, but most cautiously unspoken.

"As a newspaper man you're even a bum business man," Izzy unburdened himself at last. "What a story you cheated yourself out of!"

"However, you admit I had some story," Granard retorted.

"Not one per cent of what you had in your hands!" Izzy rebuked him.

"What's no per cent of a hundred thousand dollars, Izzy?"

"What hundred thousand dollars?" Izzy demanded sourly.

"The defense-fee I beat you out of, Izzy," Granard said cheerfully. "Forgive my dry eyes.... What I came to say was, thanks again for the tip that took me down here."

"Thanks for what? Who's got anything out of it?"

"Well, at least it looks like a minister is going to get a wedding fee," Granard told him cheerfully. . . .

xiv

ON HIS WAY OUT, he spoke to the same girl who, in New York, watched after appointments for Izzy.

"Excuse me for once calling you a cat," she said.

"And Izzy a monkey?"

"Whatever he may be," she said carefully, "you're no cat out of the copybook."

"Why? Didn't I pull the chestnuts out of the fire?" Granard challenged.

"I'll say you did. But, oh, boy, how you pushed them back again! And now who gets anything out of them?"

"I just mentioned to Izzy," Granard returned, "a minister."

______________

5: The Sky Woman

Charles B. Stilson

1880-1932

Argosy Allstory Weekly 25 Sep 1920

1: Fire

I AM twenty-four years old, and— I may as well say it at the start— quite good to look at; that is, I have black hair, brown eyes, even white teeth, and a clear complexion, and they match up passably well. Also I am sure that I know how to wear my clothes to the best advantage, and am neither overgrown nor too tiny. I don't know why I mention these things, for they haven't much to do with what is to follow, though they are quite important to me.

It isn't necessary to tell that I know little about writing. Old Miss Dyver at Wellesley, it is true, used to compliment me upon my descriptive ability when I had her in English. But in the same breath she would waggle her flopsy pomp and deplore my lack of imagination. I believe that it was her opinion that it was a sin to possess so much and not the little more requisite to make a gifted writer— I mean imagination.

Miss Dyver was right. I can tell only what I have seen and felt. Nor am I the least bit scientific. I've had a course in domestic science— you needn't sniff at that— but of the things which terminate in "ology" I know next to nothing, and thank Heaven for it!

Yet here am I, Ruth Chasper, as I have introduced myself in three paragraphs, plunging recklessly to tell of what, viewed merely from its scientific side, is without doubt the most wonderful thing which has happened to the world since thinking, sometimes reasoning, women and men were set upon it to wonder why.

"Yee-mah! Yee-mah! Alla ferma na somma!"

The words will ring in my ears forever until I die! What do they mean? Who uttered them? What was she, and whence, and why? Will science in five thousand years more of groping and striving be able to answer? What cosmic secret might the interpretation of that wild, sweet cry lay bare? Or was it but a dying woman's wail of despair?

"Yee-mah! Yee-mah! Alla ferma na somma!"

No it could not have been despair. The creature was too utterly splendid and daring to have given way to it. She would not have yielded to despair, even when she realized that she had failed, and death was before her. It was not despair. It was an undelivered message— a broken link between two worlds.

So much I allow to my lame imagination. Now I will describe what has happened, though I cannot explain it.

Rickey Moyer is my distant cousin, fourth or fifth. Rickey's father, D. B. Moyer, as a coal baron, turned a fearful lot of carbon into currency in the Pennsylvania Alleghanies, and then died and left Rickey alone to spend it.

Coal-grubbing never appealed to Rickey. He finished a course at Amherst, sold out the mines, and traveled. He seemed to have a consuming desire to know the world he was living in, and I guess that he has a speaking acquaintance with most of it. He should have; for he started out when he was twenty-one years old; and spent ten years globe-galloping.

Quite suddenly he came home again, two years ago, built him a bungalow in the forest on Black Bear Mountain above the old Moyer homestead in Center County, and settled down.

With him— and this is where I come in— he brought Count Giuseppe Natali, of Florence. They had met somewhere in Borneo. Both were cosmopolites, both fearless. They had been through dangers together in the Dyak country, and had formed a friendship which stuck.

I met the count for the first time last summer at Palm Beach. Not to go into tiresome details, we soon became engaged. Count Natali is a thoroughly delightful fellow, a gentleman to his slender fingertips, and no fortune-hunter. Else he would not have picked me; for I've none to mention, unless Aunt Caroline— but that has nothing to do with it.

In January of this year Count Natali sailed to Italy to look after business connected with his ancestral estate. I understand that it is immense, and boasts, among other attractions, an ancient feudal castle which makes one think of that creepy old romance, "The Mysteries of Udolpho." On his return in early April, Rickey kidnaped him away from me in New York and took him off to the Pennsylvania wilds.

Soon afterward came an invitation to me to come out for a fortnight, bringing my chum, Carrie Andrews, with Aunt Caroline for chaperon. Carrie was of my class at college. We were both staying with Aunt Caroline at Bayonne.

All three of us thought that it would be a fine little outing— a sort of rest before the strenuosities of the summer season; so I at once wired Rickey that he was on. Naturally I wasn't sorrowful at the prospect of seeing Count Natali again so soon. I had felt that I had rather a bone to pick with Rickey for sequestrating my intended as he had.

Rickey's haunt on Black Bear is no end of a quiet roost; and yet there are plenty of possibilities to while away a couple of weeks, if one cares for them. There is excellent trout-fishing in Forge Run, if one doesn't mind wading in hip-boots and meeting an occasional rattlesnake. And there are a number of pleasant motor trips one can take, if one doesn't mind the rough roads and the hills.

I don't mind these things. I was born in Pennsylvania. So was Aunt Caroline, who isn't a bit fussy about such matters. As for Carrie: she is one of those big, slow-moving, non-excitable blond creatures, whom nothing ever seems to disturb. She who would encounter an earthquake or a boa-constrictor with the same casual interest she would bestow upon a new dance. Very like Rickey himself, Carrie is.

LATE in the afternoon of April 17 we were deposited from the up-train at Viaduct, and saw the wooded spine of old Black Bear looming above us across the valley to the left of the tracks.

Viaduct is little more than a signal-tower, a tank, a row of laborers' shanty-shacks, and ten houses— personally I don't believe there are ten; but I am a Pennsylvanian, and I give Viaduct the benefit of a doubt.

Count Natali met us with Rickey's roadster; but Rickey was not with him. Aunt Caroline and Carrie were comfortably discreet while the count greeted me— much more so than a thin-faced woman telegraph-operator, whom I saw watching us with avid interest from the height of her tower. Poor thing! How her eyes would have popped had she known that it was an honest-to-goodness Italian count who was kissing me, or perhaps she did know. Anyhow, she watched, and the proceeding seemed to have her approval.

My first reflection was that Count Natali both looked and felt much better without his mustache. The coating of tan which the spring sun was overlaying on his olive cheeks gave to his thin features the aspect of an Indian chieftain or a Bedouin sheik.

"A-hem!" said Aunt Caroline, after she and Carrie had swept the skyline of Black Bear for what she deemed a proper interval. "A-hem! And where is Richard?"

"Your nephew asked me to make his amends, Mme. Allison," replied Count Natali. "He was unavoidably denied the pleasure of meeting you this evening. We have had a trifle of excitement."

"Fire!" remarked Aunt Caroline, wrinkling her nose and sniffing. "I hope it destroyed nothing valuable."

"Not the bungalow!" I cried dismayedly. I, too, had noticed an acrid, wood-smoky odor about the count's clothes.

"No," he answered our two queries; "only a few trees. I believe that it is now entirely under control. The railroad authorities sent a force of workmen up the mountain to help us. I believe that is their custom— to protect their property."

"Umph! I suppose a spark from one of their engines started it, as usual," commented Aunt Caroline.

"Not so; nothing so prosaic." Count Natali shook his handsome head. "It was a very unusual fire; in fact, quite an extraordinary occurrence."

He turned to lead the way to the car.

This began to smack of a mystery. I could see that the count was covertly excited, and I began to feel the thrill of an adventure.

A second later we were in the car, and discussion of the fire for the time was ended. The count manages a car prettily. He whirled us up the zigzag road to the summit of Black Bear.

Rickey and the count had been roughing it; but in deference to our coming Rickey had imported servants up from the big house below, including Mrs. Sanders, a cook whom Aunt Caroline had tried vainly to bribe from his service; so we found everything that three famished and train-weary wights could desire.

2: The Mystery-Stone

NO RICKEY was waiting for us at the bungalow. He did not come in until we were taking our places at table. When he did put in an appearance he was in such a scandalous condition that I positively was ashamed of him. His tawny hair was all topsyturvy and dark with dust, and his khakis and puttees were smeared with soot and mud, not to mention a black streak across the bridge of his short nose; and numerous holes which flying embers had scorched through his shirt and trousers.

He did not contrast at all favorably with Count Natali, who is always perfection in his get-up. Though, in spite of the dirt and disarray, Rickey still contrived to look cool and efficient.

"Hello, Aunt Caroline and folkses all," was his welcome. He slipped into a chair, and as soon as decency would permit began to eat like a hungry and hurried man.

Have I said that Rickey is a big fellow? No? He is— big and blond and ruddy, with small blue eyes above high cheek-bones— not piggish eyes, but friendly and twinkly, and not a little shrewd, seeing that he inherited them from the coal baron.

"Glad you came, Ruth," he said to me presently. "Joe"— so he always referred to Count Giuseppe— "has been pining. I had to send for you or the blue devils would have got him sure. He's been as disconsolate as a bushman who's lost his fetish."

Naturally I had nothing to say to this. Aunt Caroline charged to the rescue. She had been studying Rickey sharply.

"Please don't talk nonsense, Richard," she cut in. "Tell us about the fire. You look as though you had been rolled in it."

"Oh, yes, the fire," responded Rickey, who had been talking off the top of his mind and thinking hard about something else deeper down.

He glanced at Count Natali, and I think that the count shook his head.

"Well?" from Aunt Caroline.

"Well," echoed Rickey, "we had one, aunty. It was some fire, too, I'll inform the universe, while it lasted, and now it's out."

A prodigious' bite of Mrs. Sanders' home-made biscuit interrupted communication. I could hear Aunt Caroline's toe tapping.

Count Natali bridged the gap with questions about our trip. But Aunt Caroline, like an elephant, refused to take the bridge.

"What started it?" she pursued, wading in.

"That's what twoscore men have been laboring all day to discover, aunty," said Rickey tantalizingly. Just then I think that he became aware of Aunt Caroline's foot; for he muttered a hasty word to his biscuit; and at the same time hitched in his chair.

"We thought it was a falling star," he went on, freeing his utterance. "We've been grubbing an amateur coal-mine in the mountain on the strength of finding it and seeing what it's made of."

"I'm sure that is nothing to be so secretive about," declared Aunt Caroline.

"And did you find the star at the bottom of your mine?" asked Carrie.

"Yes," Rickey answered; "only it isn't a star." He turned his voice on Count Natali. "That section boss is interested, Joe," he said. "He has sent for an armful of dynamite. He wants to blast it."

"You surely will not allow that?" Anxiety, if not consternation, was in the count's tones.

"Not all in a chunk, anyway."

Aunt Caroline set down her teacup with firmness.

"Richard, will you have the goodness to inform us just what it is that you have found in the hole, which you will or will not blast, and why?" she demanded.

"A meteorite, aunty," replied Rickey, reduced to terms. "At least, by all the rules of the game, it should be a meteorite. It's a large one. The heat engendered by the friction of its hurried transit through our mundane atmosphere was what started the fire and led to its discovery."

"But why not blast it?" I asked, coming to Aunt Caroline's aid, as she had to mine. "Is it dangerous? Is it still too hot?"

"Why blast it at all?" queried Carrie.

Rickey appeared somewhat embarrassed, which in itself was unnatural.

"Joe and I may be a pair of blithering idiots," he returned; "but we are agreed that this star or meteorite or mystery— mystery, whether star or meteorite— is a very extraordinary proposition. It has— well, it has an uncanny sort of a hand-made appearance."

Aunt Caroline drained her third cup of tea and set it down with a decision that threatened the china.

"Richard," she said, "your explanations are as clear as a Moshannon fog. The only portion of them which is understandable is your hint at your mental condition. How far from here is this phenomenon? I propose to see it before I close my eyes."

It was evident that this declaration relieved Rickey. He brightened up.

"Not more than a mile, aunty," he answered. "We can go the best part of the way in the car, and there will be a fine moon to see by. After you folks have looked the thing over will be time enough to diagnose my mental symptoms. It's either what it ought to be, and Joe and I are jack-donkeyed, or else it's one of the marvels of the ages."

"How intensely interesting you make it sound, Mr. Moyer," volunteered Carrie; and that ended the table conversation so far as concerned the meteorite.

I couldn't help being impressed by Rickey's manner. The mere fact that he was excited— and excitement fairly oozed from his pores— was impressive to one who knew him. But what was he driving at? How on earth could a meteorite be hand-made? What were we about to see up yonder on Black Bear by the light of the moon? If I had possessed a little more imagination, I am sure that I should have shivered.

SOON AFTER our meal Rickey led the way to his touring-car, and the five of us piled in. We three women sat in the tonneau, which was already occupied by Frisky, Rickey's Skye terrier. Frisk, too, had been digging in the burned ground, to judge by appearances, and in his exuberance at seeing so many old acquaintances he insisted upon making a mess of our skirts.

Before we started Rickey fetched out from the bungalow an armful of blankets, which he hung over the robe-rail. As the night was quite warm, I wondered what he wanted of them.

We rolled off northwestward along the crest of Black Bear ridge behind the bungalow clearing, following a narrow, rutty old lumber trail which I remembered from having explored it as a child in search of arbutus, honeysuckle, and tea-berries.

After twenty minutes' driving, which the difficulties of the road made very slow, we reached the edge of the burned area. A grand moon had risen, and cast a peculiar light on the carpet of ashes which the fire had left, and against which the jagged stumps of broken trees and the scorched, distorted bodies of those still standing were limned in sharply defined silhouettes.

At intervals a light breeze set this arboreal cemetery to creaking and groaning lugubriously, and fanned our faces with an acrid warmth that was not of the night. Somewhere in the dusky distance a bird was clamoring for the immediate castigation of poor Will. Nearer at hand an owl hooted dolefully— doubtless mourning over having been burned out of her house and home in a hollow log.

"Isn't this delightfully spooky?" whispered Carrie, who would hobnob with a ghost with animation were the opportunity offered, and consider herself in luck. Aunt Caroline sniffed. Frisky yapped at the owl. I kept still and stared. I may be deficient in imagination, but I really did shiver a little. The picture was compelling.

Rickey halted the car.

He jumped out and shouldered his blankets.

We followed him across the soft, crisp flooring of ashes.

Occasionally we passed smoking heaps where the breeze would stir the embers so that little spurts of flame leaped up and danced like elves of mischief over the destruction they had done. These were too far isolated from the main forest, Rickey said, to be accounted dangerous. Besides, watch was being kept.

In the center of this desolation we found the cause of it, Rickey's mystery-stone.

Where it had fallen, in the slope of a little dip, or valley, was an ash-strewn pit, some twelve feet across, resembling those shell-craters which one sees in the war movies. Through the lower rim of it workmen with picks and spades had dug a deep trenchlike passage to the stone itself and then had undermined it so that it had toppled from its first position and lay along the trench.

At the bottom of the dip the ashes had been cleared away, and a brisk wood fire was burning, around which a number of men sat upon logs. These were part of the section gang which the railroad had sent up to help Rickey fight the fire. A strong aroma of coffee was grateful to our noses after their long struggle with smoke and soot.

A stockily built man of middle age detached himself from the group at the fire as we came over the edge of the dip. He approached Rickey, an Irish brogue issuing from his broad and exceedingly grimy countenance.

"The dinnymite will be here directly, Misther Moyer," he said, removing his hat. "Shall we be afther crackin' her tonight, sor?"

His voice was eager. His men around the fire strained forward to catch the reply.

"Not tonight, Conoway; we'll do the job by daylight," responded Rickey. "The old railroad can spare a few of you for another day, can't it?"

"Yis— I suppose," assented Mr. Conoway, evidently disappointed.

"You told your man to fetch drills?" pursued Rickey.

"Oh, yis, sor. Ye're sthill daycided to bust her open wid pops, sor?"

"Yes. If there should happen to be anything inside worth looking at, we want to injure it as little as possible. Fetch up a torch or two, will you, Conoway? I want to exhibit our find to the ladies."

We stepped around to the mouth of the passage and looked at the mystery. And I am afraid were not, at first sight, particularly impressed. At least, I was not, save by its size.

It was a monster of a stone, all of fifteen feet long, and at its middle, where its girth was greatest, as thick through as the height of a tall man. I didn't wonder at the great hole it had torn in the earth when it struck, or the depth to which it had penetrated. The bottom of the socket from which it had been tipped was nearly on a level with the floor of the dip. The impact, I thought, must have jarred a considerable portion of the mountain.

AGAINST THE newly turned earth of the excavation it contrasted darkly. Its surface must recently have been molten. I touched it with my fingers, and it still was warm. Small stones, gravel, and clods of scorched earth were encrusted in it like gipsy settings. The upper end of it as it lay, which had struck first was splayed out and blunted.

Three of Mr. Conoway's men fetched pine-knot torches and flashed their light into the passage and the pit. I found the glamour of the thing grow upon me. Even a weak imagination was stirred to ponderings.

It lay in the trough of the trench with the wavering torchlight flickering over it, a dull-brown, somber, sullen, inert mass of stone. Yet it was not of our world. It was material evidence of other worlds beyond our ken. To me astronomy and kindred sciences had appealed as largely guess work. Here was evidence that the stars were more than mere watchlights set to brighten our dark ways. Whence had it come, this unearthly visitant? Next to our awe of time is our awe of distance. How many millions of miles had it fallen? The thought dizzied me.

"Isn't it fortunate that it did not strike upon rock instead of earth?" said Carrie, pointing to its jammed and misshapen tip.

"Would have been one grand smash, and nothing left but flinders," remarked Rickey. "I shouldn't have cared to have been riding in it at the time."

"Nonsense!" ejaculated Aunt Caroline, prodding at it with her toes. "What is there about it to give you such ideas? Why do you suppose that something may be inside of it?"

Count Natali took a torch from a laborer's hand.

"But see, madame," he urged, stepping into the trench to the head of the stone. "And do you come hither, too, carissima"— this to me— "and Mlle. Andrews, and see."

I followed until I could peer over his stooping shoulder. Aunt Caroline and Carrie squeezed in on the other side. We stared where he pointed.

"I see nothing, except that it has been broken," said Aunt Caroline, readjusting her slipping spectacles.

"Yes, madame; a fragment has been chipped away by a hammer-blow. Now watch closely."

He moved one of his slender fingers along the fresh scar, tracing a zigzag pattern. Looking closely, we could then see a darker line in the substance of the rock.

"It looks like an irregular seam— a suture," remarked Carrie, who won honors in physiology.

"It may be only a vein in the rock," suggested Aunt Caroline; but her skepticism was shaky.

"Too regular, aunty," countered Rickey. "It's a joint, and a devilish clever one, and it's closed with some kind of cement that is harder than adamant. What do you say, Conoway?"

"The same as I did at first, sor," the Irishman answered. "There's something inside of that there that somewan put there for to stay, sor. Unless the bodies up yon are gunnin' for us down here, an' their projacktul didn't go off." Conoway pointed toward the stars.

"No, I don't think it's a heavenly 'dud,'" laughed Rickey, and added soberly, "but just the same someone up there may have fired it."

"I am going home and going to bed," announced Aunt Caroline, backing out of the trench.

"Joe will drive you girls back," said Rickey.

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

"Sleep by it." Rickey tumbled his blankets into the trench. "Some of these chaps here have it in their heads that this stone is a kind of wandering treasure chest full of diamonds and gold, and that they've only to crack it to see 'em come pouring out. I'm going to guard against anything premature."

"All right," Aunt Caroline assented. "Don't you dare to open that thing, Richard, until I am here in the morning. I shall get up at half-past eight."

"Right-o, aunty. If anyone tries to dynamite it before you get on the job he'll have to blow me to glory along with it."

"In which case you might find out where it came from and why," said Carrie. On the way back to the bungalow she asked, "What did Mr. Conoway mean by 'pops,' I wonder?"

"It is that they will drill the stone full of small holes, mademoiselle," explained Count Natali, "and explode the dynamite in light charges, chipping away the stone a fraction at a time."

3: What the Stone Contained

LESS PREPOSSESSING, but more mystery-laden, was the big stone by the light of next morning's sun. We arrived at the scene of operations shortly after nine o'clock, Aunt Caroline having made the concession of rising earlier than she had promised. The preparations for blasting were in full swing.

Three power-drills had been lugged up the mountainside in the night, and six swarthy workmen were busy along the trench, attacking the surface of the stone with an uproar which must have resembled a continuous volley of machine guns. A dozen others were waiting to spell them. The balance of the fire-fighting force, much against their inclinations, had been herded down the mountain by Mr. Conoway to less interesting employment.

I noticed that all of the laborers, with the exception of the Irishman, treated Count Natali with an obsequious deference, rather strange to an American, until one reflected that most of them probably were Italians, and the others from lands where counts count for more than they do here.

Viewed by daylight, the irregular line in the substance of the stone which had been disclosed by the hammer-blow, and which Carrie had dubbed a suture, was even more noticeable than it had been under the torches.

Count Natali found us a position near the rim of the little amphitheater, from where we could watch the proceedings safely, and where we could talk undisturbed by the clattering, popping drills, which made conversation in their immediate vicinity an impossibility.

Presently came Rickey, dirtier and more elated than ever, to announce:

"We'll be blasting in another half hour. We've been at her since sun-up."

Aunt Caroline, who had once more inspected the odd, jointlike appearance of the stone, was disposed to argue.

"Isn't it quite possible, Richard, that it is something let fall from an airplane?" she asked. "These aviators are becoming as careless as motorists."

From the corners of her eyes she glanced in the direction of Count Natali.

"Considering that it must weigh all of twenty tons, I'm afraid that your suggestion is hardly tenable, aunty," replied Rickey, his eyes twinkling. "Aviators don't carry such pebbles around for ballast."

"Some time ago I read in the newspapers that attempts were to be made to signal to Mars at about this time. Mightn't it be that this is some sort of a Jules Verne projectile, which has been fired from earth, and fallen back?"

This was from Carrie. Aunt Caroline gave her an approving look.

Rickey smiled and went down among the workmen. What a big, capable fellow he was! Mr. Conoway, who cared nothing for counts, was, in his Irish way, as deferential to Rickey as were the others to the nobleman.

SOON AFTER the expiration of the half hour the clamor of the drills ceased. They had pecked a neat double row of holes along the upper side of the stone. One by one the holes were charged with dynamite, and the explosive set off from a hand battery. They cracked like big firecrackers. At each explosion a shower of fragments flew up from the surface of the stone and fell around the lower part of the dip.

When the first row of holes had been blown out, Count Natali went down to inspect the work. From where we sat we could see that the stone was beginning to present a gnawed and ill-used appearance.

"Nothing at all," was the count's report as he came back.

An explosion of greater violence than any of the others followed.

After the crash there sounded a hissing like that of escaping steam. The laborers below ran toward the trench shouting.

Rickey thrust his arm recklessly into the opening. Then he called for a drill-rod, which Mr. Conoway handed to him, and I saw its slender length disappear in the stone, and heard the clink of it as he groped around in the inside.

"Does he expect to find a rabbit?" Aunt Caroline murmured.

"It is that there is a cavity, and another stone is within," reported Count Natali. "It is very strange. It has the appearance of a sarcophagus." His fingers trembled as he stroked the place where his mustache had been. "I believe that it is a find."

"A mummy! That's not so bad!" exclaimed Aunt Caroline triumphantly. She had caught at the word sarcophagus. "I knew someone must have dropped the thing. They must have been hurrying it to some museum. Probably it will be advertised."

"How interesting if it is the mummy of a Martian," put in Carrie, not without malice, and drew a quick "Nonsense!" from aunt.

A number of blasts followed in rapid succession. The great stone seemed to leap and crumble in its bed. I shrieked; for several objects like coiled serpents flew into the air whirling, and one of them nearly fell on my foot.

Count Natali stooped down and picked it up.

It was a powerful metal spring!

Only a glance we bestowed upon it, and then stared down the hillside.

Where had been the long brown mass of stone was a heap of debris and earth fallen from the trench. Partly buried in the pile was a cylinder, more slender and shapely than its husk had been. Its surface was polished, and it reflected the light of the sun in a greenish sheen.

We arose and went down to it.

It was like a great coffin hewn for a giant. Whether it was of stone or metal we could not tell. In one spot a fragment had been chipped away by the blasts, and the fracture was scintillant with tiny particles which refracted the light vividly. At intervals the entire surface was pitted with sockets, for the springs which had maintained it centered in the interior vacuum of its shell. There had been many springs, nearly two hundred.

Mr. Conoway's workmen gathered about the trench, shouting, chattering and gesticulating. They were inclined to crowd us, until at a stern word from Count Natali they drew to one side.

I laid a hand upon the cylinder and shivered. It was chill as ice with an unearthly cold.

Aunt Caroline stared down at it and shuddered from other motives.

"What a godlike way to be buried," soliloquized Carrie. "To be hurled out through uncounted millions of miles of space and rest at last upon an unknown world!"

Aunt Caroline's "Nonsense!" was notably weak.

"Why do you folkses all take it so for granted that there's a dead one in here?" asked Rickey, clapping a hand on the cylinder and drawing it hastily away.

"Rickey!" I cried. "You don't mean to suggest that there may be something alive in there!"

"Well, and why not? Those chaps who were clever enough to shoot it across should know some way to preserve life for the few months necessary for the transit. I shall not be surprised to find the traveler in good condition and famously ready for his breakfast."

Months! Yes, Rickey was right about that. I hadn't reflected that it might take nearly a year for an object to fall from Mars to the earth, if this thing was from Mars.

"When is the opening scheduled to be?" Carrie inquired. "I am anxious to meet the gentleman; and he can't be very comfortable in that box."

"I should think that he, or it— if anything living was sealed in there— would be frozen," I said, thinking of the intense cold I had felt.

Count Natali in turn stooped and laid a hand on the sarcophagus.

"But that was the purpose of the vacuum space, carissima mia," he explained, oblivious of the stares which this endearment drew from his countrymen; "to provide an intervening coldness, so that what was within might not be destroyed by the heat which fused the surface of the stone. It is like a monster thermos bottle."

Aunt Caroline glanced from one to another of us in bewilderment.

4: The Crystal Casket

OUR DARK-SKINNED laborers were waiting with unconcealed impatience to attack the job. Not for them were fanciful speculations as to where the strange object might have come from. To them it was a treasure trove, in which they possibly might share. At an order from Mr. Conoway they swarmed into the trench, and loose earth and stones began to fly. Rickey seized an extra spade, and his two great bronzed arms did double the work of the best of them.

Count Natali fetched the blankets down the slope and fixed another seat for us.

Before the trench was more than partially cleared we could see that a clearly marked line of junction extended length-wise around the sarcophagus. Cover had been joined to body with great exactness, and only the thinnest of red lines indicated the presence of a cement. At intervals along the sides of the sarcophagus some manner of sockets, larger than those in which the spring had been fitted, had been sunk on the juncture line, and these too were filled with the reddish substance.

Rickey dug at one of them with the nail-file in his penknife.

"Hello; this stuff isn't so hard," he said. "Fetch some chisels, somebody, and we'll clear these places out."

Buried in the cement of each socket was a bent metal bar, or L-shaped handle, similar to those upon kitchen water-taps. Some of them were turned upwards and others down, but all were at right angles to the cement-filled line.

As the sarcophagus lay somewhat askew in the trench, crowbars were applied until it rested squarely upon its bottom. Then Rickey tightened a wrench upon one of the sunken handles and held it while Mr. Conoway struck it a smart tap with a hammer. It turned, slowly at first, and then more easily, until it stopped on a line with the cemented joint of the sarcophagus.

One after another all the handles were turned. Still the joint was firm. Under Rickey's direction an octette of workers set the blades of chisels and the points of their crowbars at intervals, along the line, and as many more men with hammers or pieces of stone struck upon them simultaneously.

A shout went up as the stubborn lid was seen to be yielding and rising. At just the right instant Rickey thrust a crowbar into the widening interstice, and pried with all his broad-shouldered might.

Lubricated by the soft cement, the huge lid moved almost without noise, balanced, swayed, toppled, and subsided with a thunk on the earth of the trench.

We three sprang up and rubbed elbows with the crowding men. But this, as was remarked by Mr. Conoway, was a particularly well-packed parcel. Nothing of its contents was to be seen save a mass of grayish, woolly-appearing stuff, so tightly wadded and compressed that it retained the imprint of the inside of the lid as though it had been modeling clay.

Only Mr. Conoway's bellows of restraint prevented the laborers from stampeding and making short work of this, to such pitch had risen their eagerness to lay bare the treasure.

"This is your package, boss," he said to Rickey.

Rickey nodded, stuck his hands into the stuff and pulled out no great amount.

"Gee, it's rammed in tight enough!" he grunted, and attacked it again.

Curiosity moved Count Natali to take a wisp of the wadding, step back a few paces, and touch a lighted match to it. It refused to burn, or so much as scorch.

"Huh! The beggars know asbestos," commented Rickey, who had watched the operation. "Let your gang tackle this stuff, Conoway, if they're so blamed anxious."

"Aye, sor."

But they had understood, and did not wait for the Irishman's order. A score of muscular brown hands, reaching from both sides of the sarcophagus, seized the asbestos packing and tore it out. Among them was one pair of slender woman's hands, wrinkled and tremulous. Aunt Caroline, her habitual dignity for the moment in abeyance, was laboring to vindicate her theory, and took her pound of asbestos with the rest of them. The stuff came out in wads and layers. There seemed to be no end of it. Dust flew from, it and choked us.

Count Natali pressed my arm.

"How excited we all are; is it not so, carissima?" he said.

His soft clasp hardened to a grip of iron, and I gasped with the pain of it.

"Por Dio!" he whispered, and again, "Por Dio!"

Then for many seconds all our group was silent, and a quarter of a mile down the slope of Black Bear I heard plainly the splash and tinkle of Forge Run flinging itself endlessly over a ten-foot fall.

For a great layer of the asbestos had come away in the workers' hands, and disclosed the contents of the sarcophagus.

As a newly-fallen icicle might lie embedded in a bank of rain-soiled snow, a crystal casket lay glittering against the bed of dull-gray asbestos which surrounded it, and within the casket's gleaming panels lay neither mummy nor man, but a woman with sun-gold hair.

Many authors have written that we of womankind are prone to see our sisters through cats' eyes and to judge them with prejudice and jealousy. That may be true; I won't argue it. But I, another woman, shall think always of the being who lay in that scintillant crystal casket as the most beautiful thing that ever came to earth. So poignant was the beauty of her that mere memory of it hurts.

No language which has yet been written can make one see the perfections of her— perfections of every line and contour of face and figure— and I am not going to make myself ridiculous by attempting to put the burden upon my English.

But she was a blonde of a blondness which made poor Carrie's type look dingy and scrubby by contrast. She lay easily upon a long cushion affair of soft, white material, which had been crinkled and padded around her until it fitted her as the satin of a jewel-case fits the brooch of pearls for which it was made.

It was difficult to believe that such a radiant thing could die; though I suppose that all of us who were staring into that crystal casket had no other thought than that she must be dead. The casket itself and all its trappings suggested death. But its inmate, by her easy posture, the bloom of her cheeks and the carmine of her lips, suggested slumber only.

Her costume is hardly worth mentioning. It was— well, what a fastidious woman might have chosen for a nap, and scant. Her hair flowed loose. She wore no jewels of any kind, not so much as a single finger-ring. But had she come to us bedizened with gems and arrayed like Balkis, she could never have impressed us as she did lying there in simple white in the white purity of her glittering crystal casket.

We stared, and were as still as she.

ODDLY ENOUGH, it was Mr. Conoway who first broke our startled silence.

"Raymarkably well prayserved, isn't she, sor?" he said to Rickey, and removed his hat.

Count Natali's grip of my arm— the flesh bore blue fingermarks for days— relaxed, and with something very like an oath he caught up one of the blankets and threw it across the sarcophagus, hiding the casket from profaning eyes.

"Thank you, Joe," acknowledged Rickey, shaking himself as though coming out of a dream. He had not heard Mr. Conoway's first banality. The Irishman committed a second.

"Beloike wan of us had betther be afther notifyin' the coroner, sor," he remarked solemnly, and put on his hat again.

"I will attend to it, Conoway," answered Rickey, "depend upon it. Now, if I may impose upon you a bit more, I'll have your gang here give us a lift with that casket, and we'll take it over to the bungalow. We can sling it in the blankets over a couple of poles."

All this while not a word from Aunt Caroline of Carrie. I stole a peep at them. Aunt was weeping softly into her handkerchief. Carrie was lost in thought.

Mr. Conoway's laborers made a difficulty about complying with Rickey's request. When it turned out that there was no treasure in the sarcophagus, they, after their first surprise, experienced a rapid loss of interest, replaced by a superstitious fear of its contents. They refused to touch the crystal case, until Count Natali, exerting an influence superior to Mr. Conoway's threats, virtually compelled them to do it.

The count drove us slowly back to the bungalow. Behind us, Rickey followed, directing ten of the laborers, who, walking two and two, carried the casket in a blanket sling.

"Poor thing! Poor thing!" said Aunt Caroline, recovering speech. "I shall see her face to the day of my death. Don't talk to me about her, please. I'm very much upset, really."

We ate a subdued dinner, while the casket, swathed in blankets, lay upon the floor in Rickey's hunting-room, which looks north. Out of deference to Aunt Caroline's state of mind, we forbore reference to it during the meal.

Various as I suppose our views concerning it were, it exercised a fascination upon us all, and we were soon gathered around it again.

"I hope you will have her decently buried as soon as possible, Richard," said aunt, as, after another long look at the unworldly beauty of the occupant of the crystal case, she turned away, shaking her head sadly.

"Buried!" he echoed. "Not until I am sure that she is really dead."

Aunt's jaw fell.

"Richard!" she ejaculated, "you're not— you're not going to—"

"I'm going to take the means necessary to be certain," he replied firmly. He knelt down and began to inspect the casket.

Count Natali made a pretense of assisting him— a pretense, I say; for it was patent that he could not keep his eyes from the woman.

Aunt Caroline seated herself on a divan and gazed fixedly out the window, her toes keeping up a ceaseless tattoo on the floor.

Moved by I do not know what impulse, Carrie went to Rickey's baby-grand in the corner, and began to strum mournfully in a slow minor key. I continued to stand by the head of the casket.

"Air tight, and perhaps soundproof," said Rickey at the end of ten minutes. "Here's some kind of a lever, which seems to connect through to a sort of tank arrangement inside, and there's apparently another lever inside here, near her shoulder. Shall I chance it, Joe?" He laid a hand on the outer lever.

The count nodded abstractedly, though I am sure that he had not sensed the question.

Rickey pressed the lever. His sleeve was turned back, and I saw the cords of his forearm bulge under the skin. The lever yielded noiselessly for an inch or more.

"There," he said, "now let's see what happens."

Nothing apparently, not immediately. We waited for I suppose five minutes, though it seemed fifteen; Rickey squatted on his haunches, Count Natali kneeling, and I standing.

I cried out sharply. I was first to see it— the flutter of a pulse in the neck.

Before I could point out my discovery to the others, the woman's bosom heaved softly, and at once a tide of rich color swept into her cheeks.

She was alive!

5: The Visitor From The Sky

CARRIE AND AUNT had come at my cry. We stared down at this miracle in silence, and with swirling senses. Then Rickey swore softly to himself, and I think we were all grateful to him, even aunt.

"She is not dead, but sleeping," murmured Aunt Caroline.

"I'm going to waken her," said Rickey.

With the handle of his pocket-knife he struck upon the side of the casket, near the woman's head. The crystal rang like a bell under the blow. Aunt started violently.

"Richard! Stop that instantly!" she commanded. Really it did seem a fearful thing to do, but Rickey struck three times.

Mrs. Sanders, who could not have been far from the door, thrust her gray head through and asked if anything was wanted.

"You may bring tea, Sanders," replied Aunt Caroline weakly. Mrs. Sanders cast a horrified glance at the casket and withdrew.

The crystal had not ceased to vibrate under Rickey's last blow when the woman within stirred; a change of expression passed across her features, and she opened her eyes. They were black as night, when I had thought that they would have been blue.

For only an instant her face retained the bewilderment of the newly awakened; then the brain took command, and she looked up into Count Natali's face and smiled. I heard him catch his breath with a gasp, and he bent nearer the casket. She seemed to see only him of all of us, and as if in response to his involuntary movement, her hands crept up until they came in contact with the crystal lid of her prison.

The feel of it touched the spring of memory. She flashed a glance at the rest of us, and her wonderful eyes widened. Groping at her shoulder with one hand, she pressed the lever which Rickey had discovered there. It released hidden springs, or else there was a pressure of gas within the narrow chamber. The lid rose swiftly, discovering that it was hinged at one side, and fell over on the heap of blankets.

A puff of cool, choking atmosphere struck me in the face. I inhaled some of it, and it dizzied me. I reeled back and took hold of a chair for support.

The strange woman arose from her cushioned rest, and extending a hand to Count Natali for his aid, stepped out upon the floor.

One glimpse of her face I had before the catastrophe.

Asleep, she had been of supernal beauty; awake, her black eyes flashing, and her cheeks aglow, her face presented such a combination of intellect and passion as I have never seen or expect to see upon any other mortal countenance, fleshly or painted. Queenly is too weak an adjective to describe it, but it is the only one I can think of.

For an instant I saw her so, smiling as Count Natali bowed low before her. Then came a change, a terrible change. She had taken a step forward. Her mouth was open for speech, when I saw her glorious eyes go wide. She swayed, one hand clutching at her bosom, and the ripe color faded in her cheeks.

Whatever weakness had come upon her, I thought at the moment she had overcome. She moved on toward the north door with a regal carriage, still holding Natali's hand, but she did not speak, and her face was like death.

At the doorway she paused and looked down the sunlighted slopes of Black Bear and up at the cloudless sky. A supreme triumph conquered the shadow of disaster in her face. Half turning, she let fall Count Natali's fingers, raised her white arms above her head, and cried in a voice like a silver bell:

"Yee-mah! Yee-mah! Alla ferma na somma!"

It was her swan song. Before the echoes of the marvelous voice had ceased to thrill us, she had collapsed, choking, into the Italian's arms.

We ran toward them and helped him to carry her to the divan, but all we could do was useless. In three minutes she was dead.

When that fact was sure we stood and stared stupidly. Natali hung over her, his face like that of a carven statue, the statue of a red Indian or a Bedouin sheik. From the instant when she had smiled into his eyes, for him, the rest of us had ceased to exist.

Our spell of sorrow and horror was broken by Mrs. Sanders, who bustled in with an armful of tea-things, sized up the situation, and fainted in a terrific clatter.

I recall hearing Carrie say, "I wish I could do that; I do really," and then my nerves would stand no more. Instead of turning to and helping them resuscitate Mrs. Sanders, I escaped to my room, and for more than an hour did battle with a round of hysterics.

When I was once more presentable, I found that Aunt Caroline had retired with a headache— I suspect that it was another name for what had ailed me— and Carrie had gone out for a walk in the woods.

Rickey and Count Natali were in the hunting room, my cousin sitting dejectedly upon the divan, and the count standing at the north doorway and looking down the mountainside. The crystal casket had again received its burden, and the blankets were over it.

"Well, I suppose there is only one thing to be done, Joe," I heard Rickey say as I came down the stairs, "and that is to do as the Irishman said, and call in the coroner. Then we will bury her."

"No; I beg of you to let me dispose of those arrangements," interposed the count earnestly, without turning from his stand. "I know that you will not gainsay me, my friend. I will go down at once to the station. I have messages to dispatch." He stepped out without seeing me, and a couple of minutes later we heard him leaving in one of Rickey's cars.

Rickey caught sight of me and jumped up. I suppose that I must have looked woebegone, for he shook his head over me, and then managed to grin.

"I say, Ruth, old girl, let's you and I go out and walk it off," he proposed.

At the edge of the clearing we met Carrie coming in. Her eye-lids were swollen.

RICKEY explained to me what he thought had happened. It was our air which had killed the strange visitor. The atmosphere of earth must be of a different quality from that at Mars.

"But I don't see how we could have helped it," he said. "She attempted a splendid thing, and failed. I feel like crying like a baby every time I think of the sheer pluck of her."

I did, too. It was as if a goddess had died, as Carrie said afterward.

I saw the sky woman only once more. It was in the night, that same night. I could sleep only in nervous cat-naps, and when I did I dreamed such fantasies that it was a relief to wake from them. Finally I gave it up, and put on a dressing-gown and sat at the window. There was a white moon and a silence, and I thought and thought.

At first my musings were disjointed and silly, evidenced, by the persistent running through my mind of two lines of a rather vulgar old college ditty:

Sing ho for the great Semiramis!

Her like we shall ne'er see again—

which came to me, as such things sometimes will insist in our human brains upon intruding themselves among the sacrosanct and the sublime.

Truth to tell, contemplation of the events of the day gave me a touch of vertigo. The stupendous hardihood and daring of the sky woman overawed me. She could not have known that she would find human beings to release her, nor had she means to release herself; yet she had taken the thousandth chance, and had herself flung out through the space toward our world, gambling her life with magnificent recklessness.

Had she missed her mark, she might have fallen through infinity and eternity; perhaps been sucked into the vortex of some blazing sun, to perish like a moth in a candle-flame. All these things she had weighed, and still her splendid spirit had been undaunted.

Surely this was the supreme test of mortal courage, confidence and fortitude; or it was fatalism to its nth power. To die is less than she had offered. She had made the cast, and failed; and before the sheer splendor of her failure the most glorious human achievements that I could think of were dimmed. Columbus launching himself westward across unknown waters in his leaky caravels, was a puny comparison.

And no glory had offered, not as we rate glory; she could not have returned to tell her people that she had succeeded.

An impulse grew strong upon me to go down to the hunting-room. I fought it, for I was afraid; but it conquered, and I stole down the stairs to take another look at the wondrous stranger. How glad I have always been that I did so!

The blankets had been thrown back from the crystal case, and the moonlight shone in through a window and gleamed and glittered frostily upon its translucent fabric and upon the beauty, now pallid and awful, of its occupant.

I paused upon the rug without the doorway; for the sky woman was not alone.

At the head of the casket sat, or rather crouched, Count Natali. His face was toward me, but he did not see me; his eyes were upon the dead. One by one, great, slow tears were trickling down his cheeks.

As I stood there, almost afraid to breathe, Rickey stepped in through the outer door. He too had been moved to night-wandering from his bed it seemed, for he was in his bathrobe. He saw Count Natali, and went to him and laid a hand upon his shoulder.

"Come, Joe, old man, best go to bed," he said.

"I cannot, my friend," Natali answered. "I must watch. Something has come to me that is tearing my heart to shreds. How shall I say it? I—" His voice broke, and he pointed to the casket and covered his face.

"I think that I can understand, Joe," said Rickey very gently. "I am sorry."

I crept back upstairs and to bed. I too understood. I suppose that I ought to have felt jealous and horrid, but I didn't. I just felt very small and insignificant and lost.

Poor sky woman! Living or dead, I would not have fought you. Anyway, I couldn't have competed with a princess of the blood royal of Mars— and she must have been all of that.

In the morning Rickey took me for another walk in the woods.

"Joe has asked me to tell you something, little one," he began, facing me squarely, but speaking in a I'd-rather-be-hung-than-do-it manner.

"Then you needn't," I interrupted, "for I know what it is. I was at the door of the hunting-room last night, and I couldn't help overhearing part of it. And you needn't be compassionate, Rickey Moyer, for somehow I can't seem to care as perhaps I should— and I'm glad—"

Maybe I leaned just the least bit toward him, he looked so big and strong and leanable. Anyway, his hand crept under my chin. I don't know what he saw in my tilted face; but next instant I was crying against his breast-pocket, and he was holding me comfortingly tight in his great arms and telling me that he had cared for me since we were small, "only somehow Joe seemed to have beat me to it."

So, you see, I have found compensation for what the sky woman cost me. Rickey and I are to be married soon.

And the sky woman? Count Natali had her embalmed in some marvelous Italian fashion and took her back to Italy with him. I often have a vision of him sitting in a moonlighted hall of his old Udolpho castle with his dead but imperishable bride, while the slow tears glisten upon his cheeks and fall upon her crystal casket.

___________________

6: Murgatroyd's Wife

Halliwell Sutcliffe

1870-1932

Ballarat Star (Vic) 19 March 1921

Halliwell Sutcliffe was born in the West Riding of Yorkshire, and was a popular author of mostly historical fiction, but is now largely forgotten. The next three stories are, successively, crime, romance and humour.

THE LONELY TAVERN known knows as Withems stood stark on the moorland road that led from Halifax to Marshcotes, and the sun was near setting when a short clean-shaven man stepped into the parlor, and threw down a bundle that he carried, and called for drink.

When this was served him the stranger laughed.

"Will fourpence pay my reckoning?" he asked.

"Ay, just fourpence."

"That's lucky, for it's all I've got."

"Spending your last on gin? Well, it's good .gin, and you might do worse."

The stranger got to his feet, and lifted his mug.

"I'll give you a proper Yorkshire toast," he said— "one I used to hear my father give, before a matter o' poachin' sent, him overseas. They've forgotten it. in these parts, I find, now I'm home again."

"Give me a toast I dunnot know, lad, and there's another measure o' gin for me and thee."

"Make it two," said the stranger; "for I've a job of work to, do to-night, and the inside o' me needs warming."

"Then I'll make it two, and thee get on with thy feast."

The stranger toyed with his mug as if it were a lass he loved. Then he gave the toast—

"Oft thou makes my friends my foes,

Oft thou makes me pawn, my clothes,

Oft thou makes me colour my nose,

Up thou pops and down thou goes."

The host's big sides shook with laughter, and he owned that his bet was lost, and he was the richer for the losing.

"Give it again, stranger," be said. "There's something in the way you say it, and the way you gulp your gin, that tickles, my fancy like."

"Could you give me a bite of bread and cheese? I've had no food since yesterday. Fill the inwards of me, landlord, if you want to hear the toast again."

The landlord, an easy-going man, was content enough, and drew his guest on to "swop tales" with him until the summer's dusk began  to draw about the moor. Between one hearty laugh and another soon to follow— for each had a storehouse of good stories— a gig went rattling by on the high-road.

"John Murgatroyd's gig," said the host, without turning his head to glance out of doors.

"Now, how should you know that?"

"I know 'em all as they come past on market days, by the sound of their nags' hoofs along the road. That was Murgatroyd's skewbald mare went by; she steps neatly, like a hen that's feared of treading her chickens down."

The stranger needed money and must have it, by any means that served; and the suggestion of farmers returning from a market day stirred his fancy.

"Who may John Murgatroyd be?" he asked carelessly.

"The snuggest man hereabouts since he married his second wife." Very fond of his liquor, John was, and still is. The difference is that in. the first wife's time—a poor shred of a weakling, she— he carried his gain, first to my tavern, and left the spending o' the rest to her. Now he drives home and brings a few odd shillings here. A sad change in a man, say I."

"Carries a full purse home?"

"Sixty pounds or so on good days. A very warm man, John Murgatroyd— building a fortune up, he is, and losing mine for me now' his wife is too set against my pleasant trade-in-life.  A very managing woman, she."

"He'll be hereabout soon, will he?"

"Ay, he lives no more than a mile away, at the next farm at the roadside as you go to Marshcotes. You seem curious about him."

"My father must have talked of him. He was fond of going back to old Yorkshire times and tales, and John Murgatroyd's name seemed known to me soon as you mentioned it. Did you ever hear the tale of Dick Dummock and his load of hay?"

It was new to the landlord, and so, between jest and story, the stranger dallied on until at last the heavy door opened, letting in a breath of warm moorland air and a big hearty man whose face was woebegone.

"Had a fairish good market to-day, Mr Murgatroyd?" asked the landlord.

"Mrs Murgatroyd has. As for me, David— what can a man do on three and sixpence?"

"It's little enough— and a market day and all. Scarce enough to set a body going."

Murgatroyd was so grave about this business of thirst and the need to slake it that the stranger laughed, for his humour was keen at all times, whether his own luck was out or in.

"What are you laughing at, man?" asked the newcomer sharply.

"At the simple sort of thought that came to my mind. If you'd stopped as your gig went by just now and put a pound or two into David's hand you might have kept your market-day as a good yeoman should."

"It never entered my head," said Murgatroyd, slapping his big thigh.

"It often entered mine," put in David; "but I was never one to give advice before it was asked for. Come; stranger, fill up and give the toast; and see Mr Murgatroyd shake his sides, same as I did."

The little, spare-built man went through it, drained his glass with, the flick and gusto that put a finish to it, then got up.

"Thank you kindly for the cheese and gin," he said. "I'd best be jogging now, for I've a job of work to do, as I told you."

Murgatroyd's new-found jollity left him on the sudden.

"Thanks to, you too, my lad, for that rare advice of yours. It was good of its kind, but my wife is a managing sort of body, and, sure as haytime she'd be buying goods in Halifax on Wednesday, and learn to a marvel what l earned on Monday last. A woman, what measures the .width of my throat with three and sixpence is a. woman to be reckoned with."-

The stranger, as he went out into the roadway, agreed with Murgatroyd. Money he must have; and it would not do for him to knock at the farmstead door, just as he was, and ask admittance for a tired man.  A woman who had had found wit to put bars across Murgatroyd s wide throat would not lightly open a house door that guarded money.

In this well-primed mood of his he saw clearly what sort of woman Murgatroyd's wife was. She would be good at house-cleaning, thrifty at the churn, but in the cupboard where she kept her skeletons there would be found a dreary greed of money. Of money he had none himself, and must fined it soon— not for its own sake, but for what it would give him, of ease to jog along the highroads of this life.

He looked about him and the red aftermath of sunset showed him the paddock behind the inn with its clothes hanging in the warm, light breeze.  The landlord's wife should have taken them down half an hour since, but she had-been called indoors to the children; and the stranger; after glancing about to -make sure he was not watched, unpegged a blue print gown,  a petticoat and a big sunbonnet, tucked them under his arm, and made off with a weasel's speed and stealthiness.

He did hot halt until he reached the spinney by the roadside into which he crept with his borrowed clothes.  Then he paused for a time before putting on the petticoat. His fingers were nimble enough at usual times, but be found some difficulty now in doing what seemed a simple enough matter. The print gown was no easier in the handling, and even the sun-bonnet offered difficulties of its own when he tried it on at the edge of the coppice-pool that served as a mirror.  With his unfailing humour went a nice sense of proportion and for a while, as he fitted the bonnet this way and that, he knew that he was wearing it like a man or a buffoon, and not as a woman would. He was content at last, and laughed at himself and all things, as the moon rose over Kitty. Pasture, and he took the high road once again.

"Life's a game," he said to himself, "and not a bad. game at that; but pray luck I'll not have to be cumbered with these skirts for long. It must be queer to be a woman."

MURGATROYD'S wife had just finished counting her husband's market gains for the second time, and had-put them in the oak "kist" that stood near the door, when there came a quiet knock outside. She opened the window and looked out, and saw a woman standing there— a bonnie, forlorn thing in a print gown and a blue sun-bonnet.

"We're locked up for the night,"  said Murgatroyd's wife. "What are you wanting?"

"Just a cup of tea, and a rest by the way."

"Haven't you folk o' your own, that you're alone in this wild country, and dark coming down?"

"If I had I shouldn't be here," whispered the other.

"Well, come you in then. It never does good, they say, to say no to a body who's foundered by. the way."

Murgatroyd's wife, when she had unbarred tho door and ushered her guest into the cosy lamp-lit parlor, showed much as the stranger had pictured her— trim and small, and almost over-clean of person, with eyes as hard as life itself. And, for her part; she took careful stock of him.

"A lass as bonnie as you should be safe at home," she said, setting the kettle on the fire:

"That's where I want to be; but I fell all faint and sick right at your door, and you're a friend in need if ever one was."

"A cup of tea will do you good, if I can scold and cosset the kettle into boiling. A cup o' .tea never failed any woman yet, when the pinch o' needing came. " .

When. at last the tea was brewed, and the stranger was sipping a second cup, he glanced round the room.

"You must be rich," he said, in a tired, low voice. "My father was always poor, and I like the look of riches."

"We've enough to live on, and a little bit over," said Murgatroyd's wife, preening herself.

"A neighbour-woman of yours shared a mile or two of the road with me just now, and told me your good man could make as. much as sixty pounds in a day."

"He can, may be."

"What does he. do with all that, pile of money?"

"You're very curious, my lass," said the other tartly.  "What he does with it is his concern and mine." For all her shrewdness the farm-wife had glanced by instinct, without knowing it, at the. oak chest near the door, and the stranger had learned all he needed as to the money's hiding place.

"Oh, my tongue has a trick of running away with me," he said meekly, "and I'm sure there was no offence meant. The thought of so much money bewilders folk used to so little."

"You've had a hardish life, then?"

"Just hard," said the stranger, drooping his head as if to hide the tears. "Sometimes father gets work, hut oftener he doesn't— and I must be goin' soon for he's waitin' for me along the road."

"Bide awhile. You've not rested yet, and a sup more tea will do you no harm."

"I'm content enough, and thank you; but father doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"Now, I don't want to say ought against your father—"

"He's all I have," pleaded the stranger.

"Don't be so touchy. All I say is that I've known a few of his sort in my time— men in work sometimes, but oftener out of it— and I'd take a pride myself in keeping .such cattle waiting on a road, with the wind coming straight from the east. Why, you're shivering," she broke off, with a pity that was half contempt.

The stranger, casting about for some quiet means of securing what lay in the chest yonder, had noted that the log basket at his side was empty, and that the fire was burning low; and so he shivered on.

"It was talk of the east wind sent a chill through me," he said. "I've had so much of it in my time."

"Well, it's lucky l fancy an evening fire, summer and winter. Put a log or two on— the box is just beside you. Oh, empty, is it? That's like my husband. Said he'd filled it, he did, before he went to .market."

With a tart, good-humoured nod to her guest, she took up the basket and went to the wood-stack, out-of doors.

The stranger lost no time. He had hoped for this, moment, planned for it, and did not mean to let it go for lack of grasping. The key was in the lock of the oak chest, just as Murgatroyd's wife had left it when the unexpected knock came to the door.

He opened the lid and even his cool spirit was flurried as his hands ran through odds and ends of curtains, tea-cosies, and what not. Then he felt something crinkle under his fingers, and knew, the feel of five pound notes.

When Murgatroyd's wife returned, her guest was still shivering by the fire, and she threw a couple of fir-logs on; and, when these were well alight, she filled the kettle again and set it on the flames.

"I wonder what it is about tea that is so good for us women," she said. "When your father meets you on the road he'll scarcely know his tired girl again."

"But he's waiting all this time," said the stranger restlessly. "You've been kind to-night, and given me something I'll always he thankful for."

"Don't be thanking me. Kindness is as kindness does. Sit ye there awhile, lass, while  mush another brew of tea."

He would not. Not long since he had been poor. How he was rich, and he remembered that Murgatroyd's wide throat, out yonder at the inn, had only a modest sum to stop a gap in it. He might be home at any time.

"Sit ye down," said the farm-wife.

"I must he going. Father will he waiting—"

"To be sure he will; but he'll not know you in your lassie's clothes. And there are notes in your breeches pockets that belong to me."

The stranger laughed. He was here alone with her, and his strength was bigger than hers if it came to warfare.

"How did you guess the way of it?" he asked, with a shameless laugh.

"You were shutting the lid down when I came back with my logs, and I glimpsed your boots and your legs under the dress you've borrowed or stolen somewhere. And to thank I wasted pity on such-like trash; one that daren't go robbing like a man, but must needs shelter himself in woman's clothes."

"There's no daring about at one way or another," said the stranger, nettled in spite of his easy-going mood. "I learned enough about you before coming here to know that you and let none but a woman come indoors with all that money in the house.

"Well I shouldn't, though I'm past guessing where you learned so much about me and what lay in the kist yonder."

The stranger was puzzled now. This farm-wife, face to face with a thief who had her in his power showed no fear, but spoke with a brisk, tart coolness that suggested mastery of the situation.

"It was you that told me about the kist," he said, anxious to be gone, but staying for a moment to score a point in this queer duel.

"Me? I begin to think you are a sort of madman, after all, though there'll be no second pity wasted on you, and so I tell you plainly."

"I asked a question or two about your man's earnings, and what he did with them; and your eyes went to the old chest. Just for a twinkling you forgot yourself, but I caught the twinkle— and so good-night to you."

If anything was needed to harden her purpose, it was the mans quiet smile at  her own shame, because unwittingly she had given the quick glance to the chest...

"Stand you there," she ordered, "and set the money down on the mantel-shelf, and then ask me whether I give you leave to go— or keep you here until my man comes home. He has a strongish arm, especially when he's mellowed after market day."

"He has small chance of mellowing," laughed the stranger. "I heard him complain just now that three-and-sixpence could do little for a man. Goodnight again."

"Stand you there, or you'll rue it— and give the money back."

She was so fearless, so downright, that he had only two courses open: one to thrust her into a chair, and bind her there— the other to bolt like a rabbit and get away into the open. He was a good-natured man, when opportunity allowed, and loth at any time to set rough hands about a woman; so he went quickly to the door.

The farm-wife had watched the kettle come to the boil. She snatched it from the logs, overtook the runaway as, he wrenched the door open, and drenched him, ankle-deep. Then she was sorry in some odd way; for he gave a beast-like howl of pain, and fell, and writhed for awhile on the parlor floor. Then, out of his defeat and an anguish hard to bear, he recaptured the hard-bitten humour of the roads that had given him mixed weather in this life....

"They told me Murgatroyd had a managing wife," he said.

"He has. And now I suppose it's time I helped you get your feet to rights again. A woman never has done with her day's work and so I always say to Murgatroyd."

_________________

7: Handsome Jack.

Halliwell Sutcliffe

Guyra Argus (NSW) 27 May 1909

PRIDDIPORT lies on the western coast. It has a tiny harbor, sheltered by a circling arm of masonry known as the quay, in which coaling brigs and the like find anchorage. Its street is a pathway mounting by stone steps between the cottages that hang— at some hazard, so it seems— on the face of the cliff; and all who come and go must find their way on foot. The sure-footed donkeys, carrying luggage to the inn on the sea-front, and gravel back again from the beach, can find their way up and down Priddiport's narrow street; but horses cannot. There's a strange comeliness about the harbor and the inn that fronts it.

Whichever way you look— to Hinds Mill on the one hand, or to Lundy Island on the other— the sea, and the spurs of land, and the salt, warm breath or the deep, are part of a corner of the world which lies out of the dusty, toilworn tracks.

Handsome Jack, fifty years or so ago, was the puzzle and the pride of the village. He stood six foot three, and could pull an oar or sail a boat with any man— when he chose to do so. The trouble was that he seldom chose to use his strength towards any righteous business. He preferred instead to be running illicit cargoes of spirits and tobacco, or to rove inland in search of game to be poached, or to sit on the beech at the top of Priddiport street and smoke his pipe while he watched the fishing smacks put out to sea. He never failed to pay rent for his cottage, and he took a pride in meeting all other debts when they were due; but he had never saved a penny in his life. When money had to be earned he worked, and then, with a jolly laugh, returned to his favorite pursuits.

Will Babbicombe, retired mastermariner, resented Handsome Jack's outlook upon life, for he knew that his only daughter, if not already promised to the lad, had set her heart that way.

'Get up from that bench, Jack, and do an honest day's work,' said Babbicombe, as he swung down the street one November morning and found Jack sitting with folded arms, his pipe set tranquilly between his teeth and his blue eyes looking over the bay with leisurely unconcern.

'And why, if I might ask?' retorted Handsome Jack, with the boyish smile that few of the Priddiport folk could resist.

'To earn an honest day's wage, of course,' snapped the other.

'Oh, I did that yesterday— two days' wage in one. I'm enjoying my ease, Mr Babbicombe.'

With a shrug of his big shoulders the mariner went down to the quay, and Jack, from his seat high up in the facee of the village cliff, watched him presently unship his vessel from its moorings. It was pleasant to see another at work while he idled; but soon he got to his feet, stretched himself with the easy grace that marked all his movements, and sauntered down the village.

Priddiport was built after its own haphazard fashion, and the irregular steps curved, and curved again, until they passed under an archway. The roof of the arch was an upstairs room of Babbicombe's house, and Handsome Jack knocked lightly at the Pdoor that opened on the street.

Grace opened the door to him, and he put an arm about her as he stepped into the living room.

'Your father's out in the bay,' he a said, 'so I thought I'd slip down and snatch a kiss.'

She stepped back, putting up both hands to ward him off. 'No, Jack, not There's an end to all that Father's been talking to me, and I see at last that he's in the right.'

'How is he in the right?' asked Jack, daunted by this unexpected repulse. 'He says you earn and spend, and earn and spend, and nothing afterwards. That's little for a maiden to marry on, Jack. Oh, I know father's in the right— and right is dreary. Jack— and—'

Jack could have taken advantage of her weakness, but, would not He leaned against the mantel and looked at her.

'I earn and spend. Well, what else have I to do? Show me a way of thrift, and I'll take it, maybe.'

'I showed you a way long since,' she answered, lifting her blue eyes to his, 'When you asked me first to marry you, if you remember, Jack.'

'I should not he Iikely to forget. You wanted me to be a good boy all at once; and your father swore I'd never make a decent husband, of a thrifty father; and between you I fancy, you settled me in my idle habits, Grace.'

She had not thought of this view of her love for Handsome Jack. Looking at him now, she saw a quietness and a strength in him that had been lacking heretofore.

'If I married you, Jack—'

'I'm afraid to boast, Grace, but I think you'd find me pull willing hand at the oar.'

Neither of them knew how it came about, but presently they were sitting down to the mid-day dinner together. The girl felt a touch of shame, for she knew that her father did not mean to return before nightfall, and she was taking advantage of the knowledge; but presently the shame vanished. Jack was so light of heart, so fond of her, so full of the breath of Devon winds and Devon seas that it seemed there could be no wrong-doing in this escapade.

Like two children playing truant they ate their meal, and afterwards sat by the fire of drift-wood, all with a happy-go-lucky sense of freedom and adventure.

Will Babbicombe, returning from his sail a full hour before he was due, disturbed their gaiety. He stood in the doorway; looking from his daughter to Handsome Jack, and some moments: passed before he could master his rage . sufficiently to speak.

It was Jack himself who brought the storm to a head. He had shown signs of confusion when th,e ina'ster-mariner first entered, but found tots jauntiness again.

'You'll be glad to be done with your business so early, Mr Babbicombe,' he said smoothly, 'The; wind was all in your favor, I take it?'

TEJien Babbicombe unloosed his tongue. He had long experience of the sea behind him, and of its language. When he had finished, and looked round the room with clear eyes again, he saw Grace crying beside the fire and Handsome Jack standing face to face with wm.

'You should share a maiden's feelings,' said Jack, with the laziest drawl. 'Grace never heard such words from me; and; please God,  she never will.'

'Are you a fool, or what?' growled Babbicombe. 'I'm not used to be flouted in my own house.'

'I'm a bit of a fool, of course; we all are. But I've still to learn that honest love for an honest lass is aught to make such a fuss about.'

'Honest love, you call It?' The mariner's eyes were blue as his daughter's, but there was fire in them. 'Have you honest work, and steady work, to offer her?'

'Honest— yes. Steady— no. I'll not find steadiness till I marry her.'

'Then you'll be heedless, Jack, to the end— at least, in my lifetime. Good-day to you, and good riddance, too.'

'Good-day,' said Handsome Jack.

His hand was on the door, but he turned, for under his heedlessness there lay always some kindly thought for others. 'Grace had no share in this, mind you,' he added. 'It was all a bit of foolishness, and I had the planning of it, not Grace, My shoulders are fairly wide; lay all the blame on them.'

After he had gone, and after Grace had crept, shame-faced, to her own room, Babbicombe lit his pipe, and stirred the drift-wood fire to a blaze, and fell to thinking. Sore as he was, he could not find so much amiss with Jack, apart from his thriftless babits; the man was straight as a die in his dealings with his neighbors, well-liked by men and women both.

'It's awkward any way I look at It,' growled the mariner. 'Save my maiden from a rogue and a blackguard I could, and I would; but Jack is neither of the two. If the lad was less of a, fool— but there, God made him, I suppose.'

Three days went by. Grace moved about the house with a quietness and lack of spirit that trouble Babbicombe, Once or twice, in weaker moments, he was Inclined to let her have her way, for he was fonder of 'his maiden' than of anything in life. Then he would remember that the man must show a spell of hard work and hard saving before he took Grace to his cottage at the clifftop.

On the fourth morning, as soon as breakfast was over, he pulled on his sea-boots.

'Grace.' he said, 'Ive to sail over to Buskland Point. Give me your word you'll not have Handsome Jack indoors.'

'As if I would, father!'

'Ay, as if you would! Such an innocent maiden as you are!'

'Father, I've given my promise.'

'There, there!' he laughed, patting her cheek. 'You needn't fire up at me. I'll take your word for it.'

He set off in high good humor; and Grace, watching from the upper windcw.saw his sails blow slant to the wind, as he made for the open bay. He had not been gone an hour before a wind began to play about Priddiport; and Grace, as she went about her work, knew the meaning of the lilt and the moan that underlay the wind's note.

'Father will put back into harbor,' she thought 'He knows that note in the wind as well as all Priddiport folk do.'

But the mariner'did not put back. He heard the curious snarl at the tail of the wind-beats, but chose to disregard it. His business at Buckland Point was urgent, and he trusted to running out and home again before the storm gathered to a head.

As the hours passed, and the wind rose, to a half-gale, and still he did not come, Grace ran out bareheaded into the street. She found other anxious people there, and amongst them Handsome jack. Three of four of the Priddiport boats were out, and the gale was still rising, and at such times all the village was one in sympathy.

'Hope your father's not at sea, Grace,' said Jack. His face, for once, had no laughter in it.

'He sailed for Buckland Point this morning, and I thought he'd have been home long since, knowing the way o' the wind.'

'Men may know, the way of a wind, and not hearken to it,' grumbled a weather-beaten fisher-wife. 'They're made i' that mould, once they get a whim i' their head. My man is out to Bideford, and more fool be.'

Panic feeds better always on a crowd than upon the few. There were men here who had read the weather aright earlier in the day, and had refused to go foolhardily about their business. There were women who had lost sons or husbands in bygone storms. They felt the gale about their ears, and they saw the seas come cresting, white and epuray, over the hartfbr-wall.

'I lost my lad Peter In just such a storm,' said a woman, sobbing loudly'Five years ago It was, to the day—'

'Oh, hold your tongue!' broke in Handsome Jack. 'More lives are lost by looking backward than ever were by looking forward.'

Grace looked at him. She had not seen Jack in, this mood till now. Is the midst of her growing terror, she felt the warm grasp ot help, as it Jack the ne'er-do-well had reached out a strong hand to her.

They watched the face of the swollen sea, and they shivered in the biting gale, these Priddiport folk whose private quarrels were forgotten in the common dread, and presently they saw a sailing vessel making for the harbor.

'God help her,' said an old sailor, his pipe rammed upside down between his teeth, lest the wind should blow the live ash out. 'If she's a Priddiport craft there'll be sorrow—'

'Shut your mouth on your pipe.' Again the voice with the note of command in it was Handsome Jack's, and again Grace glanced at him with surprise. 'If you've no better comfort to give us than that put an eye to your spy-glass, William, and tell us the name o' the craft.'

William was old enough to be Handsome Jack's father; but he set the glass to his eye with an obedience that came from instinct.

'She's the Saucy Grace,' he said.

Handsome Jack stood straighter, and the crowd looked at him. They were quiet now, for they had found a leader. Grace, too, was straight and ready, as she came and touched Jack on the arm.

'That's father's boat,' she said.

Handsome Jack laughed down at her. His mood was that of the wind when it sings among the cordage of a driven ship.

'She's in the teeth of it,' he said, and his voice went ringing down the storm. 'She'll never win the harbor, lads— she's under-manned for such a gale as this. Oh! by the Lord, she's foundering!' he broke off, as the craft whipped low to the froth.

'Nay, she's righted herself,' put in a sailor. For a few seconds they watched the unequal struggle between sea and sailing vessel, and again Handsome Jack's voice rang out sharply, 'Who'll help me man my boat?' he cried. For there was no lifeboat at Priddiport in those days.

'No boat, could live in such a sea. As well launch a cockle-shell,' came a murmur from the crowd.

But Jack was already making for the edge of the beach, where the boat lay high and dry above the lip of the water. There was a moment's hesitation, a shrinking back of men who had been feared to face dancer; then William handed his spy-glass to a mate, and followed Jack without a word.

Grace turned sick for awhile. The venture was a forlorn hope of the wildest kind, and it seemed that she was to lose both father and lover on the one day. She ran forward to the beach, obeying her first impulse to hold htm back; but courage returned to her when she saw the boat already launched and the two men struggling to get their oars in place. She was a mariner's daughter, and she knew that, lose his life or not, Handsome Jack was intent upon God's work to-day.

She helped the men who were stay-behinds to steady the boat, until, on the top of a rolling swell that followed a lessening of the wind, Jack and his comrade got their oars to work. She watched them make their way, foot by foot; she snatched a glance at the, Saucy Grace, whose masts were whipping low to the water as the wind rose again. She felt no sickness now.

She watched the two men drive their cockle-shell with steady strokes. Both were strong of body, and both were strong of purpose; they could not have lived through the havoc of the sea If either boay or purpose had been weak.

Twice they were driven back; and twice, by help of Providence and their own seamanship, they headed out to sea again. Grace heard Jack's laugh.

'The third time does it, William! We're pledged to it.'

She watched, as the crowd was watching; and she saw, as the crowd saw, that her father's craft had yielded to the sea at last.

'Oh, pull hard, lads!' shouted the roar from the beach. 'The Saucy Grace has foundered.'

Handsome Jack heard the shout; and from the shore, in a lull of the wind they heard his laugh. 'Pull, William! Pull, d'ye hear? We're not going to be beaten.

Grace saw her father and the crew of two fighting with the waves. She saw the cockleshell move out towards them like a boat possessed. She heard Handsome Jack laugh jauntily as the wrecked men scrambled Into the boat. Then a muffled shout rose from those on snore, for the steepest wave of all came racing I down upon the boat. They could see nothing for the tossing spray. Grace stood apart from the others, her hands at her breast. It seemed that all was over. Then a wlia cheer vent up. The little boat, skilfully manoeuvred, had ridden even this last onset of the sea, when a heavier vessel would have foundered. There was another lull in the storm, a straining at the oars, and Jack's boat was safely beached.

Those who had stayed at home made much of those who had risked the sea, as the human way is; but Handsome Jack thrust the friendly folk aside, and looked for Grace, and saw her standing twenty yards away. At such times men do not think of niceties. In sight of the crowd, with the roar of the baffled sea in their ears, he took her in his arms and kissed her.

'I feared you'd be a widow before ever you were married, Grace,' he said. Then he lurched a little, recovered himself, and was compelled at last to lean against the spur of rock behind him.

'Oh, Jack, you're hurt— you're hurt,' cried Babbicombe's maid, forgetting the onlookers, as he had done, and putting warm hands into his.

'My wind's gone,' muttered Jack, with a queer catch in the throat that was meant for laughter. 'Hurt? How should I be?'

He was himself again before long, and looked up, and saw Will Babbicombe striding towards them, shaking the wet from his body like a huge, shaggy dog that had had enough of the water for one day...

'Jack,' he roared, while still five yards away, 'I saw you kiss my maiden in the sight of all Priddiport. I saw you!'

His face was stern, and his bushy eyebrows gave him an aspect of great wrath.

Jack stepped forward to meet him, bewildered by this onslaught from the man he had saved.

'I shall live to kiss her again, I nope,' he answered, with the dogged pluck that had carried him out into the storm and home again.

'She's my maiden, bear in mind,' said the mariner, with the fierceness that did not deceive his daughter.

'Nay, I begin to think she's mine,' said Handsome Jack, finding his old happy laugh. They faced each other, Babbicombe and Jack; and the wind blew shrill, and the sea licked up to their feet.

Then the mariner broke down. 'You're a big fool of a lad, Jack,' he said, putting a wet hand round the other's and grasping it. 'I always said you'd the makings of a man in you, and needed proving. Still, you've kissed my maid in open daylight, and— you ll have to marry her, fool Jack.'

Babbicombe's voice was used to its business of being heard above the wind, and all Priddiport was admitted to the comedy.

'Suppose I'm not willing, father,' said Grace, with quiet coquetry.

'Suppose you're not willing. I've a way for curing maidens of not being willing! Come up along, Jack, and we'll see what a drop o' smuggled rum will do to blanket all this sea-water out.'

The crowd cheered as they passed by, and then they laughed; and the storm swung by the little quay, and spent itself, as .other storms had done

_______________

8: Miss Phyllis Brown

Halliwell Sutcliffe

Leader (Melbourne) 22 June 1901

THE EDITOR sat in his easy chair, and growled as he read the last of his morning letters.

"Mr. Jordan Joliff wants an appointment, does he?" he muttered. "That means he thinks of foisting a series on me. No, I think not! I don't mind a casual story from him now and then, but he won't run to a series. Ugh! And here is a batch of poems— Ode to a Nesting Swan, When the Throstles Feed Their Young— what in thunder does the woman expect me to do with nesting swans and feeding throstles?— Oh, come in!" he broke off, as a brisk rat-tat sounded on his door.

"Oh, you, is it?— I'm busy."

The novelist, being an intimate friend, was not to be put off with so weak a tale. He came in, laid his hat and stick on a chair, seated himself on the edge of the desk, with one leg dangling, and generally behaved as if he had come to stay. The editor fiddled with his letters, and would not look at his intimate friend; but the Novelist's spirits seemed no way affected by these obvious hints.

"I was just passing on my way from my publishers, and thought I'd drop in," he said cheerfully. "Say, old chap, it's well to be an editor."

"Oh!" said the other.

"No worries, no hunting for ideas— just the fun of refusing us poor beggars by the dozen. It's as good as partridge-shooting any day— up get a brace of authors, bang go both your barrels— a puff of feathers, and two tiny corpses on the grass."

"Oh, you go to the deuce! Can't you see I'm busy? Can't you see—"

"I say, sonny, come up the river this afternoon. Kingston, eh, and a cosy dinner, and back by rail?"

The novelist was in his most irresponsible mood; he had done his spell of work— a hard one, too — for the time being, and he expected all the world to be at play. But the editor was not irresponsible; he was frankly busy.

"Go up the river?" he snorted. "Oh, yes, it's well to be an editor! A fluffy author can fit his work in when he likes, and then he can have the cheek to come and say 'go up the river' to a chap who's chained to his desk all afternoon. Look here, my son— git!"

The novelist shifted his position a little and lit a cigarette.

"You don't mind, old chap? I must smoke or I die. As I was saying, why don't you work at night? Much the best time— an hour of lamplight worth all the sun you could bottle in the tropics. Take my advice, and begin to work at night. You'll do ever so much better work, and it leaves you free for the river."

"I wish you'd never been born," snapped the editor, fumbling with his papers again.

"Mistake, sonny, but I'd no say in the matter. Jove! Good idea for an epigram, that— wait a minute till I get it down— no go, though. Some other idiot will have said the same. I say!"

"Well?" asked the editor, wearily.

"You don't know your trade."

"No, I suppose not," said the other, still more passively.

"You're too confoundedly stingy. Are authors mere hucksters, do you think? Are they workers for a pittance?"

"They're jolly nuisances at times. Look here, I'll give you half a sov. If you'll go and wet it round the corner. I'm up to the eyes in work, I tell you!"

"Then I'm saving you from labour. No, don't thank me! As I was saying, you don't understand your, trade. Why do you get such piffle for your mag.?"

"I don't get piffle; I get the best stuff there's to be got in London."

"Fudge! What you ought to do is to pay prices that would dazzle Croesus. Poor prices can't be expected to stir an author's delicate fancy; but give 'em mighty cheques, and you unfetter their Imaginations. See? Try it, and you'll find you get superb, yarns. Authors are ticklish, they need stimulating "

"They "They need kicking out," Interposed the editor. "Do you propose to go, old fellow, or shall I send for—"

"Don't bother. I'm as happy as n mudlark here. I want to convert you, too. Stimulate us and you get—"

The editor rose. He was a patient mail, and he disliked violence, so he merely put on his coat and hat and made for the door. "I have a man to see in Paternoster Row," he said briefly, "may be back in an hour and a half. Make yourself comfortable."

He had only meant to be away fifteen minutes, but the ruse had no more effect on his intimate friend than to make him get to his feet in leisurely style and seat himself in the editorial chair.

"All right, old chap, don't mind me. I have a letter or two to write— may use your paper, eh? Thanks. Sure you can't come up the river?"

But the editor was half way down the stairs by this, muttering unintelligible things to himself.

HE had scarcely left the office before a trim little lady, in a wonderful hat and tidy boots, came up to the Enquiry window.

"Is Mr. Stevens in?" she asked.

The custodian touched his hat with a politeness that was, for him, surprising. "I thought I saw him go out, ma'am, a moment since, but I'll just make sure," he said, moving towards the tube.

"If Mr. Stevens does happen to be in, don't say who it is," murmured the lady with a little laugh; "Say I'm Miss Phyllis Brown, and that I've come to see him about a short story."

The custodian smiled, and then he whistled up the tube, and then he smiled again.

The novelist meanwhile, was wasting the editorial notepaper upstairs; he had already recommenced his letter three times, when he heard the; whistle. It occurred to him that it. would be amusing to personate, the Editor; and, being a good mimic, he went and shouted down the tube in a voice that anyone might have mistaken for his friend's.

"Hallo!" he said.

"A lady, to, see you, sir," came the custodian's voice from below.

"Oh, what is her name?"

"Miss Phyllis Brown. She wants to. see you about an MS."

"Oh, what Is she like?. Pretty?"

"Yes, sir,". said the custodian, with conviction.

"Then ask her to step upstairs."

The novelist seated himself again in the empty revolving chair, and went on with his letter, and assumed, that impenetrable air of which he had so often been a victim.

"Jove!" he muttered. "I'll just put those little theories of mine into practice.. I'll play the editor gloriously once in my life if I die for it."

A timid knock sounded on the door.

"Come in," called the novelist in a sepulchral voice. Miss Brown did come in. She was the prettiest little lady that the novelist had seen since first he wrote a story, and she was looking at him from the doorway with a look of childish roguery. The novelist was quite sure now that it was good to be an editor.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" cried Miss Brown, growing suddenly confused as she saw who was seated at the desk. "I— I expected to find Mr. Stevens here."

"Yes, I am he," said the novelist, composedly. "Won't you take a seat, Miss Brown? You wished to see me about a story, I believe?"

The little lady recovered her equanimity. The change in her was so sudden indeed that the novelist might well have been surprised at it. But he was not surprised; he was following his feather headed idea of personating the editor as far as it would take him, and he was thinking at the moment what a very funny chap he was.

"Yes," said Miss Phyllis Brown, shyly, "I— I've come to see you about a short story."

"Ah," murmured the other, playing the heavy editor in splendid style. "What was the name of the story? We get so many, you know, my dear young lady— look, these .drawers are full of them."

And he rattled the handles of two or three drawers with fatherly and engaging candour.

"Yes, I know," said Miss Brown forlornly. "There doesn't seem much room for poor little me anyway, does there?"

The novelist was softened. He had never seen a prettier foot— the foot which, as he put it, peeped like a frightened bird from under cover of her skirt. It was undoubtedly good to be an editor.

"Oh, don't say that," he cried cheerily. "There's always room at the top, you know, and— eh— I remember that story of yours now. It was uncommonly good. Let me see— what was the title? I remember all about it except the title."

Miss Phyllis Brown looked very innocent and very trustful.

"What brutes people were," thought the novelist, "not to take all her stuff bang off the reel."

"It was called 'The Deceivers,' " she said timidly. "It was about an editor, you know, who was big"— she glanced admiringly at the novelist— "and strong, and splendid"— again her eyes sought his, with patent admiration— "and the editor fell in love with—"

"Yes, by Jove, he did," cried the novelist, with new found animation, "I remember the story perfectly."

THE EDITOR, meanwhile, had returned from his pilgrimage to Paternoster Row. The custodian looked hard at him, as he came in, find seemed perplexed.

"Have you seen Mr. Hughes come down?" snapped the editor. Mr Hughes was the novelist, and he was fully prepared to kick him out if he had not already left.

"I— I scarcely think so, sir," said the custodian, a light breaking In on him. "Hang him," said the editor, briefly. "Bring up the fire, buckets, Jones; Mr. Hughes has got to be ejected."

He was just going to mount the stair, when Jones touched him on the arm. "I beg pardon, sir, but Mr. Hughes, I fancy, is having one of his little jokes. I whistled up the tube just now, sir, and I thought you answered back, and I sent Miss Phyllis Brown up to your room."

The editor turned at bay. "You sent Miss Phyllis Brown? Who is she?"

"She gave that name, sir," said the other diplomatically. And the editor wondered why this discreet protector of his privacy grinned so palpably; the fellow must be thinking of Mr. Hughes, he thought, and of his poverty-stricken joke with the tube.

"And she's up there now with Mr Hughes, is she?"

"Yes, sir."

"You're a fool, Jones," said the editor— "well, if Hughes insists on dying young. it's no concern of mine," he went on, as he went up the stairs, and along the first floor landing.

"The infernal juggins, I'll bet a fiver he's pretending to be me, giving fancy prices to Miss Phyllis Brown. Hughes may write decent yarns, but he's got the brains of a cochin-china fowl."

The editor did not enter his room hastily, nor by the outer door. He thought he would listen quietly to this new extravagance of the novelist, and the second door to his room opened directly behind the chair in which Mr. Hughes was at the moment sitting. He gasped as he opened the door noiselessly, and stood watching the scene, unnoticed by Miss Phyllis Brown and by the facetious gentleman who occupied his desk.

"Yes," the novelist was saying, "I remember the story perfectly. The editor was big, and brawny, and splendid; and the heroine—" his eyes roved tenderly over the details of Miss Brown's appearance— "the heroine had wavy brown hair, and eyes like a turquoise sea, and a chin which shamed the Grecian sculptures. And the editor fell in love with the heroine. My dear young lady, how could he do anything else? I tell you, the story was magnificent."

The little lady seem quite overcome by the great man's praise.

"I— I'm so glad you like it," she faltered. "Then— then you are going to accept it?"

"I should think so. And, by the way, what price did we pay for your last story, Miss Brown?" The editor, standing grim and quiet in the doorway behind, smiled sardonically. "Yes, I thought he'd play about with prices," he murmured.

"Well, Mr. Hughes, you may be clever, and you may have the Cheek of six men rolled into one, but I very much wonder if this is as funny as you think it."

But Mr. Hughes, at this moment, was more than ever sure that editorial work was jam and skittles. He didn't know what would happen afterwards, but he meant to dazzle.

"What did we pay for your last story?" he repeated.

"I— I think it was five guineas," said Miss Brown naively. "Yes, I'm quite sure it was five, because I bought this hat with it, and the sweetest feather boa, and—"

The novelist simply exuded benevolence. "Well, my dear young lady," he said, "I've resolved to make a great change in the conduct of this paper; fiction is not adequately remunerated."

Miss Brown looked surprised, but only murmured that of course she quite agreed with him.

"I was saying to my sub-editor, Stevens, only this morning—"

"The brute!" muttered the man in the doorway. "He's not content with flinging the firm's money about, is he, but he must call me his sub. Hughes, I shall definitely wring your neck."

"As I was saying to Stevens," went on the novelist imperturbably, "good fiction must receive good emoluments; I propose to treble your price for that Editor story."

Again tho little lady seemed overcome.

"Oh, thank you so much!" she cried, leaning forward with clasped hands. Her gratitude was so tender that Mr. Hughes felt the story was cheap at the price.

"No, don't go," he said, as his visitor began to show signs, of restlessness. "I've a lot to talk to you about yet. Couldn't you— couldn't you do us a serial, Miss Brown? Between ourselves, we are very hard up for a good serial just now."

"Heaven forgive you!" murmured the man in the doorway. "We're full of them, you ass— can't escape 'em— Hallo, what's the juggins up to now?"

Another whistle had come up the tube, and Mr, Hughes, with unblushing front, went to the Instrument.

"Well," he called.

"A gentleman to see you, sir."

"Tell him to go to blazes. I'm busy. What's his name?"

"I must stop this," murmured the man in the doorway. "A joke's a joke, and Mr. Hughes is a little less clever than he thinks; but he'll wreck the magazine, for all that."

But still he held his peace.

"It's Admiral Wilcombe, sir," came the custodian's voice up the tube. "He wants to see you about the naval articles he's writing for you."

"Oh, does he," said Hughes, still mimicking the editor's voice, in a way that made the editor himself want to laugh. "Well, tell the admiral to wait for half an hour. I'm too busy to see him now."

"My aunt!" muttered tho man at the door, "he'll certainly shipwreck the concern."

The novelist returned to his chair, and smiled once more at Miss Phyllis Brown.

"Merely an admiral, my dear young lady," he observed. "We are deluged here with admirals and such small fry. I told him he must wait. Now, about this serial of yours, which is a much more important matter. Can you write us one?"

"Oh, yes, I think I could write you one," said Miss Brown brightly.

"Really? That is very kind of. you. Do you know, It's the fashion for authors to be grateful to an editor for offering them serial work, but I hold a higher view of the dignity of your profession. Now, my dear Miss Brown," he went on with a very confidential air, "you write me a long story on the lines of that Editor tale. Put in a heroine with wavy brown hair, and eyes like— like a turquoise sea, you know— and make the hero a fine, upstanding chap, and it'll do nicely.'

"I think I can do that," said Miss Brown timidly.

"Well, then,  we may consider that as settled. Now, my theory is,  as I told you, pay well and you get good work. Stevens, my sub, agrees with me. Would 500. guineas be too little to offer, do you think?"

"I think it would be worth six hundred," said Miss Brown, still more timidly.

"My dear Miss Brown, I never could haggle," said the other magnificently, "it shall be six hundred'-guineas. No, don't go yet— er— it's- rather a fad of mine, you know, to lunch my favourite contributors. We want more social amenities introduced into literature. Are you free at one to-day?"

Miss Brown looked perplexed.

"I should like to," she said; "It would be splendid, I think, to lunch with an editor."

How childish she was, thought the other.

"It would be splendid to lunch with Miss Phyllis Brown," he said, gallantly. "Now is there anything more you would like to ask me— oh, by Jove!"

The editor in his exuberance had swung so far round in his chair that he had been brought in a line with the real editor, whose face at the moment was one comprehensive grin.

That was why the pseudo-editor broke off so suddenly to exclaim "by Jove," just as he was, to use his own words, "travelling fine, with little Miss Brown."

Miss Brown herself, following the direction of his glance, also gave. a little cry, and started to her feet.

But Mr. Hughes had recovered his self-possession.

"Ah, that you, Stevens!" he said, airily, "I was just telling Miss Brown how well you liked her stuff. Come and be introduced."

Stevens did not move a muscle of. his face as lie came forward; and Miss Brown, though evidently suffering from- concealed emotion, responded prettily to his bow.

"I've just been to a meeting of the Board," said Stevens, quietly turning to the man who had usurped his chair. "I came to tell you that they think you're paying too big prices, without consulting them. They seemed confoundedly annoyed, I'm sorry to say, and they hinted pretty strongly that if you committed yourself to any more extravagance, you would have to stand it out of your own pocket."

Mr. Hughes was silent for a moment. He didn't know just what the other was playing at; but it suddenly occurred to him, for the first time, that he might have landed himself, or Stevens, or both of them, into a nice little hole. He began to wish Miss Phyllis Brown had not called this morning.

"Oh— er— did the Board say. that?" he asked, lamely.

Miss Brown looked more innocent than ever. "I'm so sorry to hear that," she said. "Would they— would they think six hundred guineas an extravagant price, do you think?"

"Six-hundred guineas!" echoed Stevens ,horrified. "Has the editor offered you six hundred guineas, Miss Brown?"

"Oh, yes," she answered sweetly. "Wasn't it sweet of him?"

Stevens looked at the man who had jested from his editorial chair. His face was still impassive, but it gave him genuine delight to see how Mr Hughes was squirming.

"Sorry for you," he  said, "but a promise is a promise, and as the Board won't think of paying it, somebody else will have to."

The novelist decided that the joke wasn't half as witty as it had seemed five minutes ago; in fact, he grew deadly tired of it on the sudden.

"l chuck up the sponge, old man," he said. "Miss Brown, it— it seems rather a low game, now that I come to think of it, but— but I'm not the editor, you know; this Johnnie here is the editor and— and it's all rot about the serial."

A rapid glance passed between Stevens and Miss Phyllis Brown, a glance, of amusement and good fellowship. And then Miss Brown lost all her girlish artlessness, and turned on the novelist with a decisiveness .which made him shiver.

"All rot, is it, sir?" she cried. "You may think to escape punishment by this. miserable ruse, but I shall commence proceedings at once!"

"l should if I were you," said the editor coolly. "It's quite true, Miss Brown, that he's not the editor, but that only makes your case the stronger. He has made a monetary contract with you under false  pretences; you'll get your money, and if he escapes imprisonment as well, he may think the law has dealt leniently with him."

The novelist was bewildered. He saw now that it was really a very low trick to have played on his friend; and Stevens' quietly truculent air brought visions of a convict's cell vividly before him. At the best, he thought that Miss Brown, with a face like hers, would, assure any jury that she had a right to the six hundred guineas.

"I— I think it's about time I was going," he said feebly.

"Perhaps you do," retorted Miss Brown; "but before you do so I must ask this gentleman here to secure your name and address. I may look artless, sir, but I've been born longer than you think, and while there is justice in the Kingdom I shall pursue my claim on you.".

Stevens answered her appeal at once.

"I can tell you. both his name and address," he laughed. "His name is Mr Percival Hughes, and he lives in the Albany. It is not the first time that he has come within reach of the law— and I sincerely hope it will not be the last."

Mr. Hughes was crushed. He waited for no more, but reached out blindly for his hat and stick, and left the room. His ideas were a little out of focus, and he was ready to credit Miss Brown with any vindictiveness. He stopped, however, with his foot on the top step but one; it was too monstrous; he must make one last effort to persuade Miss Brown that it was only a joke, after all.

He went down the passage hurriedly, and opened the door of the editor's room, which he had closed behind him after his undignified retreat. He stopped astounded on the threshold, for his late friend the editor was stooping above Miss Brown's chair, and was kissing her with the air of a man who had a right to. And then they both roared with laughter— the editor and the little lady in the chair— and Mr. Hughes wondered which side up the world was.

"You tree'd him splendidly, little woman!" cried the editor. "It'll be a very long time before Mr. Hughes plays skittles here again; But how on earth did he come to be calling you Miss Phyllis Brown!"

"Oh, I'd been shopping, you know; and I thought I'd drop in and ask you to take me to lunch somewhere; and instead of coming straight up I thought it would be fun to take you by surprise, and send my name up as a contributor."

"Lord, lord, how funny!" said the editor with a fresh roar of laughter. "And old Hughes took it all in, eh?"

"Yes. When I saw him in your chair, I was going to run away when he said he was you; and he looked so frightfully clever about it that I thought I'd see how far he would go."

The editor was just stooping over the chair for the second time, when a voice sounded from the doorway— a crushed and faltering voice, that tried hard to simulate the old light heartedness.

"I say, you know, don't mind me," said Mr. Hughes. "Do you always kiss contributors, Stevens? perhaps you'd rather I hadn't come back, eh, old fellow."

"Yes," said the editor tranquilly; "I always kiss a contributor— when she happens to be my wife."

Mr. Hughes again succumbed. He had hoped to lessen his defeat by catching the editor napping; and now he found that Miss Phyllis Brown was not only no contributor at all, but that the editor had every right to kiss her. But he felt uncommonly glad about the six hundred guineas, for all that.

"I think we had the better of that deal," said the editor by and bye. "My wife wants me to take her to lunch some where, Hughes. Won't you join us?"

"Yes, do," said Miss Phyllis Brown with her old artless air— "and then we can talk over the details of the serial."

A loud whistle sounded up the tube, and this time it was the editor who answered it. There was a brisk conversation, and then the editor turned to Hughes.

"Good gracious!" he cried, "It's the Admiral. We've kept him waiting all this time, and Jones says that he's purple in the face, out you go, both of you. It will take me the rest of the morning to smooth the old chap down."

And Mr. Hughes, as he went down the stairs with the editor's wife, met a white-haired, apoplectic old warrior coming up two steps at a time, and breathing slaughter from every purple pore.

"That's the Admiral," murmured Hughes. "Poor old Stevens!"

___________________

Master of the "tall tale".

9: Silver Plated

W L Alden

1837-1908

Strand Magazine, June 1892

THE Etruria was nearing New York, and the prospect of the inevitable interview with the Custom House officers had already cast a gloom over the passengers. For the most part they were silent, and their faces wore an anxious and solemn expression. The Rev. Mr. Waterman, of the Eighth Day Baptist Church, who had bought largely of ready-made clothing in London, even suggested that it might be well to hold a prayer-meeting in the saloon.

A group of half a dozen men were sitting in the lee of one of the deck- houses, smoking silently, when one of the num- ber, a young and sanguine person, suddenly exclaimed: "I don't believe any honest man ever has any trouble with the Custom House. It's the fellows who want to defraud the Government who make all the complaints."

"What you say may be patriotism, and it may be ignorance "

"What's the difference?" murmured a cynical interrupter.

"But," continued the speaker, "it isn't true. I never tried to defraud the Government, but for all that I've had more trouble with the Custom House than if I'd been an honest collector of the port, trying not to mix up politics with the business of the office."

"America expects every man to pay his duty, Colonel," replied the sanguine young man, with a vague reminiscence of Nelson. "Tell us about your trouble, and I rather think you'll have to admit that it was because you didn't want to pay duty on something."

The Colonel was the usual kind of American colonel, and was understood to be a sort of theatrical manager, a position which in the United States entitles a man to the relative rank of colonel in the militia, and commodore in the canal boat service. He had on several occasions shown a knowledge of music and of professional musicians which had won for him some respect among those of his fellow passengers who did not know the difference between a hurdy-gurdy and a hautboy, and were therefore fond of posing as musical critics. He was a shrewd, good-tempered colonel, and the bar-keeper said that he was the most elegant, high-toned gentleman he had ever crossed with.

"Electricity, gentlemen," resumed the Colonel, "is the biggest thing of the century, but it has its drawbacks. Did any of you ever happen to ride on that electric railroad in Berlin? Well, I have, and most anybody who goes to Berlin is liable to ride on it. It taught me, however, that a man ought to be pretty careful when he trusts himself in an electric car.

"It happened in this way. I was an agent in the general show business, and was collecting an opera company for a friend of mine who was going to open in Chicago. I had come across a first-class tenor— found him in a country church choir in Germany— and was bringing him home with me under a contract, when he and I took that ride on that Berlin electric road. He was a careless sort of chap, and he sat down in a corner of the car where the electricity had been leaking, and the seat was pretty wet."

"I never knew before," remarked the young man, "that electricity could make a seat wet."

"Probably not," retorted the Colonel. "I should judge that there might be a right smart lot of things that you mightn't know. Most of these gentlemen here, however, have probably heard that nowadays elec- tricity is put up for use in bottles and metallic cans. It stands to reason that anything capable of being put into a bottle is capable of leaking, and wetting whatever it leaks on. If there is anybody here who knows more, about bottles than I do, I'm ready to let him tell this story.

"As I was saying, my man sat down in a sort of pool of electric fluid, and sat there for about half an hour. He was wearing in the fob pocket of his trousers a cheap silver watch. I had given it to him so that he might get some exercise, and prevent himself from getting too fat. He never suspected my motive, but he tired himself all out winding it up for two hours every night. Now you may not believe it, but I give you my word that the electricity completely dissolved that watch case, and deposited the silver around the man's waist. He didn't find it out till night, and you never saw a man so scared as when he found that there was a band about four inches wide silver-plated all round his waist. The doctor told him that the only possible way of getting it off would be to dissolve it with acid, but that the acid would eat clean through to his spine and injure his voice. So my tenor had to let bad enough alone, and be satisfied with another ten-and-sixpenny gymnasium, that I gave him to mollify his feelings.

"We came over on the Arizona, and it got around during the passage that my man was silver-plated. There was a Custom-house spy on board, and so it happened that after the tenor had sworn that he had nothing dutiable with him, the inspector ordered him to strip and be personally examined. Of course when this was done, it was discovered that he was silver-plated, and he was held for duty under the general heading in the tariff of 'all other articles, silver-plated or in whole, and not elsewhere enumerated,' and taxed fifty per cent, ad valorem, and fined two hundred and fifty dollars for failing to declare that he was plated. He couldn't pay, and I wouldn't pay, and so he was locked up in a bonded warehouse, and I went to consult my lawyer.

"I laid all the facts before him, and told him I would pay him handsomely if he could get my man out of the Custom-house without paying either duty or fine. Now the lawyer knew the tariff from beginning to end, and if any man could help me I knew he could. He didn't promise anything at first, but he discussed the question by and large, and in all its bearings.

" 'I'm afraid,' said he, 'that there is no hope of getting your friend out without paying duty, but we may succeed in having him classified so as to make the duty very low. For instance, you say the man is a professional singer. Now we might have him classed as a musical instrument, and taxed forty-five per cent, ad valorem. By the bye, what did you agree to pay him?'

" 'I agreed to pay him,' says I, 'a hundred dollars per week.'

" 'That's bad,' says the lawyer. 'A hundred dollars a week is fifty-two hundred per year, which is about the interest at six per cent, on eighty-seven thousand dollars. You wouldn't like to pay forty-three or four thousand dollars duty on him.'

" 'I'd see him sent to Congress first!' says I.

" 'Very well,' says the lawyer. 'Then perhaps we could classify him as machinery, or parts thereof. But you wouldn't save much in that way. You'd have to pay forty per cent, ad valorem, and very likely the appraisers would say that you had under-valued the man, and would value him at double what your contract seems to say he is worth. They're bound to protect American machinery against the pauper labour of Europe every time.'

" 'How would it do to classify him as old family plate?' said I.

" 'Worse and worse,' said the lawyer. "He'd have to pay sixty per cent., and you'd have a good deal of difficulty in proving that he is old family plate. Of course it could be done, but it would probably cost you more than the whole amount of the duty. They're a perfectly honest set of men, the appraisers, and they naturally come high.'

" 'What will I do, then?' says I; 'let him die in the Custom-house and then sue for damages?'

" 'There might be something worth while done in that way,' says the lawyer, 'but it would be middling hard on the man. But I'll tell you what we can do. Didn't you say that the man was singing in a church choir when you hired him?'

" 'I did so,' says I.

" 'All right,' says the lawyer. 'We'll classify him as "an article used in the service of religion," and get him in free of any duty whatever. You go and get him an engagement in a church without an hour's delay, and then come to me. We'll beat the Custom-house this time, sure enough.'

"I got the man an engagement to sing for a week in a Methodist meeting-house, and before the week was out he was decided to be an article used in the service of religion, and was returned to me free of duty, and cursing the head off of every officer in the revenue service. The end of it was that my tenor claimed that I had broken my contract by setting him to sing in a church, and he sued me for damages, and got them too. So you see, my young friend, that a man may have trouble with the Custom-house who does not want to defraud the Government out of anything, not even the duty on that sealskin sack that I hear you have taken apart and packed in a spare pair of boots."

______________

10: The Wild Man of Borneo

W. L. Alden

Strand Magazine, July 1893

HOW I became acquainted with the door-keeper is of no consequence. He assisted me to pass away several weary hours that I once spent in Chicago. I know very well that they ought not to have been weary hours. I should have visited the pork-packing establishments, and gazed at and duly admired the fifteen and twenty-story buildings that Chicago will continue to pride herself upon until an earthquake comes and convinces the occupants of the upper stories that it would have been better for them if they had never been born. It happened, however, that I was snowbound, and waiting until the snow- ploughs should succeed in opening the way for the trans-continental trains. Being thus compelled to wait against my will, I was discontented, and took no delight in pork or tall buildings. It was in these circumstances that I met the door-keeper, and found him to be, in the words of the landlord of my hotel, "One of the nicest gentlemen and spryest fighters in all Chicago."

The door-keeper was the chief owner and manager of a Dime Museum. The American Dime Museum does not bear the most distant resemblance to the British Museum. It is simply an exhibition of monstrosities, genuine and artificial, and the public is admitted to view them on payment of a dime. These monstrosities, known in the "profession" as "freaks," seem to be produced in quantities to supply the demand. Every Dime Museum professes to have the tallest giant, the smallest dwarf, the fattest fat woman, and the most beautiful Circassian girl in existence. There are three or four Dime Museums in every city in the United States, not to speak of those that are on the road. How they all. manage to find the necessary stock of genuine "freaks" is a mystery which the outside public cannot solve.

My door-keeper was, as I have said, the proprietor of his museum, but he occupied the post of door-keeper for the reason that he could thus make sure of receiving the money paid for admission, and, being a powerfully-built man, could prevent the entrance of disorderly persons, and thus preserve the reputation of his museum as an "unequalled family resort," a claim made for it by the handbills. He loved to talk of his professional experiences and unfolding to me the private life of his "freaks" he opened up a new world. This is the story he told me concerning his "Wild Man of Borneo."

"Yes, sir! As I was saying, managing a company of 'freaks' ain't no picnic. They're the most quarrelsome lot that was ever got together outside of a meeting of politicians who want to bring about harmony in the party. A Fat Woman puts on more airs than any two Eyetalian primy-donners, and for bad temper there is nothing that can touch a Beautiful Circassian Girl. I have to spend about one-third of my time in keeping my people from throwing crockery and pulling hair. Except when they're falling in love, there ain't a day that some one of them don't come to me and swear that he or she'll leave if I don't discharge someone else.

"Last year I had a Wild Man of Borneo who was dead in love with the Tattooed Lady. It was Barnum that invented the tattooed business, and for a while it was the best line of business in the profession. Every museum was bound to have a Tattooed Girl, with a yarn about her having been captured by the Indians and tattooed when she was a little girl. My Circassian Girl jumped at the chance of changing her line, for Circassian Girls don't begin to draw as they did twenty years ago, and when I proposed to her to do the Tattooed Girl act, she set to work at once to draw patterns for the tattooing, and being a mighty smart girl she got up some of the best designs that I ever saw.

"My Wild Man of Borneo was a thin, cadaverous little chap, chock-full of sentiment and poetry and all that sort of nonsense. When he got on his paint, and danced his war-dance, and howled— in what folks thought was the Borneo language— and swallowed raw meat, you'd have thought that he was about as murdering a style of savage as could be found, though he really wouldn't have hurt a fly. We kept him in a cage labelled 'Dangerous' until his part in the performance came round, and then a keeper would take him out and lead him with a chain around his waist to the platform, where he went through with his dancing and raw meat eating. I paid him a good salary, and he was worth it. I wish I had him back again in his cage. The Wild Man I've got now is an Irishman, and he can't howl without a brogue bound that's to give him away some day.

"Now this Wild Man, the first one I mentioned, you understand, was the kind of chap that is always falling in love, and of course he fell in love with the Beautiful Circassian. He wanted to marry her, and seeing as she didn't draw very well, and was getting tired of the business, and knowing that he was getting a good salary, and was a leading man in his line, she agreed to marry him. I never liked the girl, for she was bad-tempered and selfish, and I knew she didn't care a straw for the Wild Man, but I told her and . him that if they'd wait six months I'd give them a bang-up wedding that shouldn't cost them a cent, and of course she insisted on waiting.

"When she went into the tattooed business, the Wild Man, being engaged to her, naturally insisted on doing the stencilling. I know you won't give it away, so I don't mind telling you that the tattooing is put on every Monday with a stencil plate and brush, and is generally washed off on Saturday night when it begins to get faded. It takes about two dozen different stencil plates to do a girl up in style, and give her a variety of patterns. These plates were always kept in the property-room, and when Monday morning came around the Wild Man would get them out and tattoo his lady-love as gently as if he was a great artist, painting a first-class, hand-made picture. He took about twice as long as was necessary for the job, and I will say that when be was done, he turned out the best Tattooed Girl that Chicago ever saw.

"Well, one day I hired a Chinese Sword Swallower. He was a Frenchman, though I didn't know it when I hired him. If I had, he would never have come into my show, for a Frenchman is the most troublesome 'freak' in the whole profession, not excepting even the Dwarf, and he's, generally speaking, a holy terror. Naturally, this Frenchman began to make love to the Tattooed Girl. I don't blame him for that, for, being a Frenchman, he had to act according to his nature; but he knew she was engaged to the Wild Man, and he had no business to meddle with an engaged girl, especially as there was the Fat Woman who hadn't anybody attached to her, and would have been thankful even for a Frenchman.

"Now this Sword Swallower was a rather handsome young fellow, with lots of swagger about him, and he gathered that Tattooed Girl in without the least trouble. She threw over the Wild Man and wouldn't have anything more to do with him. She wouldn't even let him tattoo her, and said that the Sword Swallower was twice the artist that he was in handling a stencil brush. The poor chap came to me and said that he had made up his mind to commit suicide or to leave the business. He said that Jemima, for that was the girl's name, seemed to hate him. 'Once she used to admire me in my great meat-eating act,' said the Wild Man. 'Now she says that it is perfectly disgusting to eat raw meat, and she can't endure my black paint. She tells me that it's a low line of business to be a Wild Man, and that she thinks that sword swallowing is perfectly lovely. I say it ain't nothing of the sort. A sword ain't half as digestible as raw beef, and I don't care who says it is.'

" 'You give her up, my boy,' I said. 'Don't waste your time over her. You're in the very front rank in your line, and that is something to be proud of.'

" 'I know it,' said he; 'but I can't stay in this show if that Sword Swallower stays. My contract will be up next month, and you might as well let me off now. If you don't, there is nothing for me except the cold and silent grave.'

" 'You drop that nonsense!' said I. 'The grave's no sort of place for a man of talent like you. Leave this business to me, and I promise you that inside of a week Jemima will give that Frenchman his walking ticket, and you'll have the field to yourself again.'

"He was a trusting little beggar, and had no end of confidence in me. What I said brought up his spirits again, and that afternoon howled better than he had ever howled before, and two women fainted away when he jumped at them with his spear, as if he was going to run them through then and there.

"Now I happened to have a lot of stencil plates that I used to mark boxes with, and knowing that the Frenchman couldn't read or write, I felt pretty sure that I could put up a job on him that would settle his business with the Tattooed Girl. In the course of the day I took six of her stencil plates out of the drawer where they were kept and put six of mine on the top of the pile in their place, and waited for next Monday morning to come round.

"Naturally it came round, and naturally the Frenchman was on hand at eleven o'clock to stencil the girl, so as to be ready for the afternoon exhibition. He never noticed any difference between the plates he had been using and the ones I had furnished, for besides not being able to read, he was so taken up with making love to the girl, that he never had no time to notice anything else. It was the same way with her. She supposed that the stencilling was going on all right, and she never so much as looked at the plates, know- ing that the Frenchman always used them in regular order, beginning with the top of the pile.

"He always began with her back, and when he had used up six of the stencil plates, he had her shoulders and forehead stencilled, and then went to work on her neck. The plates he used for this part of his work were the regular ones, and as the girl couldn't see her forehead or her back, she supposed they were all right. Which they wasn't, as you will presently understand.

"After the tattooing was over, and the Frenchman had gone to dinner, I took the girl into my office and. kept her there till the performance began, so that nobody should be able to see her. While the show was going on she had to sit in a chair on a raised platform, where everybody could see her, and when her turn came the chair was slowly twisted round, while the lecturer told the yarn about her having been captured by Indians, and explained her diagrams. She couldn't help noticing that people stared at her more than usual when they came in, and she supposed that the stencilling must have been done extra particular well.

"What they were staring at, however, was her forehead, which was stencilled 'J. H. M., being my initials, and they naturally wondered how the Indians came to tattoo a girl with English letters. But it was when the lecturer began to explain her, and turned her chair round so as to show her back, that the fun began. Across the back of her neck was 'Keep Dry,' in big letters; a little farther down was 'Very Fragile' and 'Handle With Care.' One arm was marked 'Strictly Private,' and the other 'This Side Up,' and, as good luck would have it, the Frenchman had not got a single plate upside down.

"Well, when the people saw it they first laughed themselves sick, and then got mad. They said they had been swindled, and that the girl had never been near no Indians. One fellow said that seeing as she wasn't a leopard she couldn't change her own spots, and that, consequently, I had changed them for her, and was a thief and an impostor. And how they chaffed that poor girl! I really felt sofry for her, though I knew she deserved it all. As for the lecturer, he left as soon as the first egg hit him on the head, and the girl would have left too, if she had been able to get out of the crowd.

"I let the row run along a little in hopes that the Frenchman would get mixed up in it, but he was no such man, and he bolted the minute it began. So seeing as there was danger that the crowd would wreck the establishment, I went in with three policemen and my four teamsters, and we cleared out the people without much trouble. I told them that there had been a mistake, and that the Tattooed Girl being sick couldn't show that day, and my secretary, not wishing to disappoint the people, had got a substitute without consulting me. What with offering them free tickets for the next day, and licking half-a-dozen or so of the most cheeky, I settled the affair up, and the next day the show was as peaceful as ever.

"What became of the Wild Man! Oh! I 'most forgot to tell you. When the Tattooed Girl found out what the row had been about she swore that the Frenchman had done it on purpose, and that she would never see him again, barring such time as might be necessary to tear his eyes out. He heard of this and had sense enough to keep on his side of the house, and she never had a chance to get at his eyes. After the month was up he left me, and that was the last I ever saw of him. The field being clear, the Wild Man makes up to the girl again, and she takes him back, making it a condition, however, that he should give up the Wild Man business and go into some other. So he set to work and learned the sword swallowing act, though a Sword Swallower doesn't command more than half the average wages of a first-class Wild Man. He's doing sword swallowing in my museum now, and don't like it very much. He told me the other day that he hankered for his old life. 'Thishyer swallowing business is too conventional for me,' he said. 'There ain't no room for the display of histrionic talent like there was in that raw meat act. But she won't have it, and I must do what pleases her.'

"They calculate to be married in about two months, and then I'll lose them both, for of course they'll quarrel, so that I shall have to get rid of the pair of them. Well, it was what might have been expected after letting a Frenchman into the show. If it wasn't that she is a mighty handsome woman, and has got the best stencilling in the profession, I'd bribe her to leave on the sly, and I'd get her lover to go back to the Wild Man business. It's the only line fit for a man of his talent, and he's just throwing himself away, as you might say, now that he is only a Chinese Sword Swallower."

______________

11: After the Comet

W. L. Alden

The Aldine, 1 July 1872

YOU HAVE asked me to tell you the story of the Plantamour Comet. It is now sixty years since the name of M. Plantamour first became known by his famous prediction that the earth was to be destroyed by a wandering comet. Of the result of that predic- tion you, of course, know the main facts. They have passed into history, and given rise to a special department of literature with which the book shelves of every library are loaded. My narrative may thus seem trite and unnecessary. It is nevertheless interesting to listen to the story of the veteran who fought at Gettysburg or Five Forks, even though the most thorough and minute histories of those battles are easily accessible. I fully comprehend that you have requested me to rehearse the familiar tale of the comet, because I am one of the few actual witnesses of the great calamity who still survive. If I am garrulous and dull, you will consider it, if you please, but the manner of an old man who is at once proud of the honor of addressing you, and fearful that he may weary your patience with the reiteration of facts already familiar.

When M. Plantamour first announced that a comet was on its way to destroy the earth, his prophesy was received with universal incredulity. Indeed, had it not been for the fact that the topic was one which pleased the fancy of the "light-article" writers of the press, little attention would have been paid to it. The age prided itself upon its knowledge of science, and there was such a general belief in the safety of all things connected with mathematics, that the public declined to consider seriously the proposition that an astronomical body, moving in an orbit capable of accurate calculation, could so far forget its duty as to depart from that path in which it had previously traveled. Moreover, comets had ceased to be a marvel and a bugbear. Scientific men had asserted that all comets were composed of infinitely attenu- ated gases, and that should one come in collision with the earth no perceptible result would follow. In point of fact, an airy contempt for comets had become the mark of a truly scientific mind, and all persons who desired a reputation for astronomical knowledge affected to sneer at them as the harmless, though demonstrative Trains of the celestial firmament. While, therefore, the humorous and satirical writers ridiculed Plantamour and his comet, and thus brought the fact of that philosopher's prophesy to the knowledge of nearly everybody, an occasional scientific man thought it his duty to demolish on paper both the prophesy and its author. No such comet did or could exist was the ground taken by the scientific writers, and no possible comet could work any injury to the earth, even were the two to come in contact. Moreover, several well-known astronomers denied that M. Plantamour had any existence, and asserted that the entire story was the invention of a reckless newspaper Bohemian. Up to the 1st of June, 1872, the foregoing statement is a fair description of the result produced by the prediction of the learned Swiss. No one felt any uneasiness on the subject of the coming comet, and few believed that the story had any foundation in truth.

Early in June, however, one of those respectable old gentlemen, who write important letters, signed "A Constant Reader," "A Father of a Family," etc., to the daily papers, saw in an obscure report of the Smithsonian Institute, a mention of the result of a spectrosccpic examination of the comet of the year 1661, which, the report alleged, was again visible. The old gentleman who was, perhaps, secretly nervous in regard to the Plantamour prophesy, instantly wrote a letter to the Herald calling attention to this report, and asking if the comet therein mentioned was the one referred to by Plantamour. The Herald at once took the matter up editorially, and discussed it in an article of over a column in length, profusely strewn with references to Romulus and Remus, the siege of Troy, the eligibility of Grant for re-election, and other kindred matters. The result was that Professor Harkness of the Smithsonian Institute felt called upon to make some explanation. The great comet of 1661 was certainly visible through the telescope, he admitted, and would probably pass quite near the earth. He was, however, confident that it would not come within the sphere of the earth's attraction, and that no danger whatever was to be expected from it. He was unable to say whether or not it possessed a solid nucleus, but he was of the opinion, from a close study of its spectroscope, that it was wholly composed of flaming olefiant gas. Professor Harkness's letter to the above effect was published on the 6th of June.

From this date a real excitement in regard to the comet became manifest. The public having learned that a comet actually was approaching the earth, and that although it might be composed of nothing more weighty than gas, it was nevertheless a celestial fire-ship that might prove a most undesirable neighbor, immediately began to repent of its disbelief in M. Plantamour. Still the press, with the exception of the Herald, which, having a good sensation, naturally made the most of it, persisted in its refusal to believe in Plantamour's existence, and treated the appearance of the comet of 1661, as a mere coincidence. The Tribune showed most conclusively that British free-traders were at the bottom of this attempt to disturb the public mind, and unsettle the business of Wall Street. The Times saw in the publication of the Plantamour prophesy another evidence of the recklessness of the disaffected Republicans who opposed Grant's re-election, and the World, while disbelieving the story, preached from it a solemn lesson on the perils into which the country had been brought by the advocates of a protective tariff. The question of M. Plantamour's existence being thus forced into notice it could not remain long unsettled, and within a fortnight after the appearance of Professor Hark- ness's letter, a communication was sent to the London Times by Professor Huxley, who stated that he had personally known Professor Plantamour for many years, and that he was a man of eminent scientific attainments. The distinguished French astronomer, Le Verrier, also wrote to the Paris Siecle, speaking in the highest terms of his old friend Plantamour;— though both Huxley and Le Verrier placed no faith in the prediction of the coming collision. The public, however, had now learned enough to change its opinion with characteristic rapidity. Plantamour was really a living astronomer, and a fiery comet was in telescopic sight. These two facts were sufficient. A belief in the approaching collision became universal, except among those who had publicly derided the prophesy, and for the sake of consistency were compelled to uphold their original views. Nevertheless there was no very active alarm on the subject. People were anxious to believe that the comet would really do no damage, and that at the worst the only effect of a collision would be, to somewhat increase the temperature of August. This was the state of feeling up to nearly the middle of June, when a new discovery was made. Professor Harkness announced that he had ascertained from the spectroscope that the comet had a nucleus. It is true that other observers contradicted him, and a fierce scientific quarrel was the result. The Professor's view, however, proved to be the true one, for the comet soon became sufficiently visible to demon- strate that no stars could be seen through its nucleus. It being thus settled that it was to some extent a solid body, it only remained to test the accuracy of Plantamour's calculations, as to its orbit. So profound had become the public interest in the matter, that the importance of at once allaying the excitement by a mathematical demonstration of the impossibility of a collision was apparent. The Signal Service Bureau, therefore, appointed a commission of savants to make a report upon the true path of the comet.

This commission was appointed on the 16th of June, and their report was presented on the 20th. Unfortunately it settled nothing. The commissioners, who were eight in number, were divided. Four held that the comet had clearly been turned from its former orbit by the attraction of some distant planetary body— probably the moons of Jupiter, and that it would therefore pass much nearer the earth than it formerly had done. They, however, asserted that it could not come nearer than about fifty million of miles. The remaining four commissioners, on the contrary, decided that M. Plantamour's calculations were entirely accurate, and that the comet would strike the earth in the following August. They nevertheless argued that no serious danger was to be anticipated, and that the collision would not produce any result more important than that caused by the fall of a rather large meteoric stone. The substance of the comet would be condensed, they held, by the pressure of our atmosphere, and would very possibly prove to be no more than a few feet in diameter.

Of course this only increased the alarm, and the comet became the universal theme of conversation.

On the 28th of June it became visible to the naked eye, and from that time onward the streets were thronged at night with gazers at the alarming pheno- menon. The press devoted a large space daily to "Comments on the Comet," and cases of insanity produced by fear of the coming catastrophe became frequent. The illustrated papers made a harvest by the publication of frightful pictures of previous comets, and the number of men who erected battered telescopes on the sidewalk after dark, and reaped a harvest by showing telescopic views of the comet, increased week by week.

By the 8th of July the comet presented a terrific spectacle— such was the velocity with which it neared the earth. Its head was then near the star "Alpha Lyra," and its tail, which was fan-shaped, expanding at the end, covered an arc of eighty-five degrees. Its light outshone that of the moon, and the lighting of the street lamps was unnecessary. Business was not perceptibly affected, and the theatres were more crowded than ever before. It was also noticed, on the other hand, that the churches were unusually full, and though no especial meetings were yet held, except by one or two obscure sects with second adventist views, there was a perceptible increase in public interest in religion The comic writers still joked upon the matter, and the papers that had orig- inally disbelieved the prophesy were still incredulous. The Times and Tribune, however, began to admit that a collision might be possible, were some unknown comet to appear, but stoutly denied that there was any danger from the comet then visible. As for the World it demonstrated to its own satisfaction that the comet instead of approaching was actually receding, and in the fervor of its arguments recalled the splendid casuistry with which, during the Franco-German war, it won French victories daily until Paris fell. In Europe, the excitement was greater than here;— in all the Catholic countries, fast days and penitential processions were openly ordered by the church to avert the impending calamity. In England, there was a great uneasiness manifested among the working classes, and the Methodists, who held field meetings all over the country, made converts by the thousand.

It is unnecessary to dwell upon the steady increase of the excitement here during the month of July. By the 1st of August all hope that we should escape a collision had been abandoned— except by the World, which never omitted its daily proof that the comet was receding. The only question which now divided scientific men was the hour when the collision would take place. This became a matter of the utmost importance. Were it to occur during the day, the comet would strike somewhere on the opposite hemisphere, and it was then hoped that the people of the western world might escape all injury. Most of the scientific men asserted that the blow would fall at six A. M., on the loth of August, and that the immediate point of contact would be the plains of Siberia. An unfortunate astronomer who took the opposite view, and claimed that the comet would strike near Washington, was denounced as a traitor by the Tribune, and narrowly escaped mobbing. There was yet no apparent falling off in the number of customers at the shops, and brokers' offices, or in the throngs which filled the theatres. It was known, however, that few large purchases of goods were made by retail merchants, and that business in real estate was almost at a standstill. The Catholics wore now holding daily services in their churches, and many of the Protestant sects were following their example. There was in fact a strong revival of religion in progress everywhere, but at the same time the thieves and burglars were unusually active. The police had relaxed their strictness, and many of the patrolmen neglected their beats to attend religious services, thus giving the dangerous classes an opportunity of which they at once took advantage.

On the 9th of August, for the first time, there was a general neglect of business. The steamer for Liverpool carried but two passengers, and the railway trains were thinly patronized. During the day the churches were all open, and the stores were for the most part closed. Wall Street alone kept up its interest in worldly things, and bought and sold as though no comet had ever made its appearance. Singularly enough a very large number of marriages wore celebrated on this day, though during the previous three weeks there had been fewer marriages than at any time during the last twenty years. The comet was now a stupendous sight. Its nucleus was nearly as brilliant as the sun, and its tail swept below the horizon, while the part which was visible was fully one hundred and twenty degrees in length. The press on the morning of the 9th admitted the collision to be inevitable, with, as usual, the exception of the World, which still asserted that the comet was receding, and that the astronomers who asserted the contrary were ignorant persons who had not read the World Almanac. During the night of the 9th hardly any one in the whole city, and probably few persons in this country or in Europe, dreamed of going to bed. The streets were crowded, and while some aflfected to keep up their spirits, the majority acted as though death was inevitable. The women were, for the most part, cooler than the men, many of the latter being beside themselves with terror. Here and there street preachers organized prayer-meetings, and the sound of hymns, sung by thousands of voices, echoed with a wild despairing sound through the night. Men were observed as a rule to seek the companionship of their families, and forming little groups on the doorsteps clasped their wives and children silently. Now and then a troop of drunk- ards paraded the streets, howling parodies of pious hymns. The theatres were open, but they were nearly deserted, and the burglars and pickpockets plied their trade unmolested. Thus the night wore on, until the comet passed below the horizon, and the paler light of dawn began to manifest itself. Many wearied men and women had dropped asleep, and thousands of young children were sweetly sleeping in the arms of their anxious parents. Suddenly the City Hall clock struck six, and a murmur from the lips of the watchers announced that the crisis of their fate was at hand. The clock, however, was wrong, and not until five minutes afterwards did Trinity and its sister clocks strike the fatal hour. For a moment the most oppressive silence weighed upon the city. Then the shriek of a hysterical woman, who could no longer bear the strain to which she had been sub- jected, or the wild prayer of an excited fanatic, broke the silence. Suddenly, at precisely four minutes after six, a slight, a hardly perceptible jarring of the ground was felt, as though a heavy piece of artillery had passed along the street. The comet had struck us and we were still unhurt.

The tumult that ensued was indescribable. The vast crowds at once separated. People broke into unmeaning laughter, and frantically clasped hands with perfect strangers. A boy detected in stealing a handkerchief was seized upon and clubbed with joyous enthusiasm by a policeman who a moment before had been upon his knees. A general rush into the hotels and eating houses for breakfast took place, and in half an hour the city had resumed its accus- tomed appearance.

The morning papers appeared three hours later than usual, the presses having been kept waiting until after the collision. They contained no news from Europe, later than midnight, and consequently we were left to imagine the possible result of the shock on the other hemisphere. About nine o'clock the water about the docks began to fall, and as the ebb rapidly continued it was evident that the sea was receding. A tremendous current toward the Narrows and the sea swept with it hundreds of small craft, and In half an hour New York Bay, the harbor which had made this city the commercial centre of the new world, had vanished. In its place there stretched a vast mud flat dotted with stranded vessels, and forgotten wrecks. The East River totally disappeared, leaving only a few pools of water in the midst of its channel, while the North River wandered sluggishly through the dreary waste of mud where was once the outer bay, and reached the sea some three miles beyond Sandy Hook. The vessels at the docks lay toppled over and against one another, hopelessly stranded, and fit for nothing but to be broken up. New York was no longer a maritime city, but had suddenly become almost as much an inland town as Philadelphia or Poughkeepsie. It was at first feared that this subsidence of the sea was only preliminary to its return in irresistible force, to sweep away the last vestige of the city. A new excitement thus sprung up, and there was a frenzied rush for the railways on the part of panic-stricken people who sought to fly to the mountains beyond the reach of the coming flood. The day wore on, however, and the sea showed no symptoms of returning— the sceptre of maritime New York had passed away forever.

An hour after the sea began to fall a strong west wind sprang up, which soon increased to a hurricane, and blew with tremendous force until about three o'clock in the afternoon, when it gradually died away to be succeeded by another hurricane of almost equal violence from the east. Meanwhile from every part of the coast, from Canada to Mexico, and from Portland to San Francisco, came the same telegraphic story of the withdrawal of the sea. It was now plain that some terrible catastrophe had followed the collision, and the news from Europe was looked for with painful anxiety.

The Atlantic cable, however, remained dumb. Toward evening a dense mist came up from the east which spread rapidly inland, and at night completely obscured the heavens. In the morning there was no change, except that the wind had died away. The fog continued, and no vessels dared attempt to navigate the new channel to the sea under such disadvantages. No word came over the cable, and the operator at Heart's Content announced that both cables were evidently broken. Various conjectures were made as to the nature of the injury inflicted by the comet, and the opinion of a leading scientific man that the comet had fallen into the Atlantic and by its intense heat evaporated an enormous quantity of water, was generally accepted as at least eminently probable.

The fog continued for three weeks, and was fol- lowed by uninterrupted rains for a week longer. During that time the White Star line sent out their small steamer the Corsica,— the larger steamers having no chance of clearing the shallows in the river near Sandy Hook. The Corsica cleared for Liverpool in ballast and with no passengers except three enterprising reporters, who were determined to ascertain the nature of the great calamity. No arrivals from Europe had taken place at any Atlantic port since the collision, except a single steamer, which reached here on the morning of the loth of August, just before the sea began to recede. The return of the Corsica was looked for with intense anxiety, especially on the part of those who had friends abroad. It was thought she could make the voyage out and back in sixteen days, but we were to hear from her before that time had expired. On the tenth day after her departure, the news was telegraphed that she had arrived at San Francisco.

At first this announcement was received with utter incredulity, but despatches from the captain and the reporters soon placed the fact beyond doubt. She had steered the usual course for Liverpool after leaving New York, but the fog, which prevailed during her entire voyage, rendered it impossible for the officers to obtain an observation to determine her latitude accurately. Land was sighted on the tenth day, and as it was believed to be the highlands of the west coast of Ireland, the ship was headed to the southward in order to round Cape Clear. The mouth of the Sacramento River was soon reached, and the captain being utterly at a loss to know his whereabouts entered the river, and soon found himself at San Francisco.

The result of this voyage established the terrible certainty that the great continent of the Old World had vanished, and that unless some portion of Southern Asia and Africa had escaped, America was the only habitable part of the globe that had survived. It was also evident that the disappearance of the land of the eastern hemisphere was not merely the result of an overflow of the sea, but inasmuch as the Corsica had made the voyage from New York to San Francisco, thus nearly circumnavigating the globe in ten days, nearly one half of the planet must have been totally destroyed.

We were not to be long kept in ignorance of the fate of the vanished world. On the 6th of September, for the first time since the collision, the fog and rain had sufficiently abated to permit the heavens to become visible. On the night of the 6th, a new phenomenon was presented to the millions of America. The moon was nearly full, and shone with her accustomed brightness, but two new moons, one twice the apparent size of the old moon, and another nearly as large, appeared in company with her. Subsequently three smaller satellites were discovered, but they were so small as to easily escape notice. We now knew that Plantamour's comet had done its work, and that the earth had been broken into fragments.

The scientific men immediately set themselves to work to calculate the distances of the new satellites and to compute their orbits. It was found that they were less than half the distance of the moon, and that they revolved about the earth in fourteen and fifteen days respectively. It was calculated from their comparative nearness to the earth, that, with the largest telescopes yet constructed, objects of twenty feet in length could be plainly discerned. Unfortunately the large English telescopes were no longer available, but with the Detroit and the Harvard instruments it was soon ascertained that the larger satellite included part of Southern Europe, while the smaller one was the former continent of Africa. No traces of Eastern Europe or Asia could be found, while England had either vanished, or had become one of the three small and nearly invisible satellites. The blow of the comet had fallen, as was predicted, somewhere in Siberia, or China, and the teeming millions of the latter had undoubtedly perished.

With the instruments at our command, the city of Paris and other large towns situated between the Mediterranean and the Baltic could be easily perceived. The Spanish peninsula, and Italy, south of Rome, had disappeared, although the dome of St. Peter's still shone like a brilliant diamond point of light. A part of Poland was visible, but Russia and Turkey were blotted out. On the other satellite, the great lakes of Central Africa could be defined, but little of interest was visible. Of course no human beings could be distinguished, but it was hoped that life on the new satellites, "Europa"and "Africa," still survived.

Mr. Alvan Clark, of Boston, immediately began the construction of a huge lens for a new telescope, of three feet greater focal distance than any lens yet cast. This task was triumphantly finished before the winter was over, and the first observation through the new telescope showed us that "Europa" and "Africa " were as densely populated as ever, and that the great catastrophe that had separated them forever from us, had not apparently effected their pursuits or their habits. The French were still occupied with drilling and marshaling troops, and the Germans were cultivating their fields and thronging their beer gardens, as in former days. The diamond regions of Africa were crowded with busy miners, and the wildernesses of Central Africa were as luxuriant and solitary as ever. In the disruption of the globe, the fragments that were drawn into space had carried their own atmosphere and a part of the neighboring oceans with them. They had now settled into their new orbits, and there was no reason to believe that their inhabitants would suffer any serious inconvenience from the accident, beyond that of being shut out from intercourse with the earth.

When it was understood that objects of twenty feet in diameter could be perceived on either satellite, the question of opening communication with them became a simple one. Congress immediately proceeded to construct on the prairie west of Omaha, in letters of forty feet in length, the sentence "All's Well." The letters were formed of ridges of earth, ten feet high, and carefully covered with smooth sheets of tin to reflect the light. Three weeks after the sentence was finished the same words became visible on the plains of Holland. A fortnight afterwards we could distinctly read the words " Make your letters ten feet long." This polite suggestion saved us an immense amount of labor, until Mr. Ruggles invented his "movable lunar telegraphic type;" which made communication easy, rapid, and inexpensive. The nature of this invention, which was remarkably simple, being explained to the people of Europa, they at once adopted it, since which time communication with that satellite has beeen regular and frequent. Up to the present time, no answer has been obtained from Africa, although it is hoped that communication will sooner or later be opened with that benighted region.

I have now given you a trustworthy, though I fear a rather dull and prosaic account of the great catastrophe. You will, of course, find fuller and better accounts in the encyclopaedias, and in the newspaper files of the day. My story, however, has the advantage of being the experience of one who lived through the exciting scenes of the collision, and who is one of the few men of that generation who still survive. I do not encumber the narrative with a history of the effect upon the industry and trade of this continent caused by the violent separation of the Old World. The country has now fully recovered from the disaster, and is perhaps in a better condition than ever before. Two things are certain ; we have no longer to dread that perpetually impending war with England which formerly disturbed us, neither does the question of Chinese cheap labor complicate our politics. Great Britain and China have both ceased to exist, and the few thousand Chinamen in California are the sole remnant of that once innumerable people.

____________

12: A Jury of Her Peers

Susan Glaspell

1882-1948

Every Week, 5 March 1917

WHEN MARTHA HALE opened the storm-door and got a cut of the north wind, she ran back for her big woolen scarf. As she hurriedly wound that round her head her eye made a scandalized sweep of her kitchen. It was no ordinary thing that called her away— it was probably farther from ordinary than anything that had ever happened in Dickson County. But what her eye took in was that her kitchen was in no shape for leaving: her bread all ready for mixing, half the flour sifted and half unsifted.

She hated to see things half done; but she had been at that when the team from town stopped to get Mr. Hale, and then the sheriff came running in to say his wife wished Mrs. Hale would come too— adding, with a grin, that he guessed she was getting scarey and wanted another woman along. So she had dropped everything right where it was.

"Martha!" now came her husbands impatient voice. "Don't keep folks waiting out here in the cold."

She again opened the storm-door, and this time joined the three men and the one woman waiting for her in the big two-seated buggy.

After she had the robes tucked around her she took another look at the woman who sat beside her on the back seat. She had met Mrs. Peters the year before at the county fair, and the thing she remembered about her was that she didn't seem like a sheriff's wife. She was small and thin and didn't have a strong voice. Mrs. Gorman, sheriff's wife before Gorman went out and Peters came in, had a voice that somehow seemed to be backing up the law with every word. But if Mrs. Peters didn't look like a sheriff's wife, Peters made it up in looking like a sheriff. He was to a dot the kind of man who could get himself elected sheriff— a heavy man with a big voice, who was particularly genial with the law-abiding, as if to make it plain that he knew the difference between criminals and non-criminals. And right there it came into Mrs. Hales mind, with a stab, that this man who was so pleasant and lively with all of them was going to the Wrights' now as a sheriff.

"The country's not very pleasant this time of year," Mrs. Peters at last ventured, as if she felt they ought to be talking as well as the men.

Mrs. Hale scarcely finished her reply, for they had gone up a little hill and could see the Wright place now, and seeing it did not make her feel like talking. It looked very lonesome this cold March morning. It had always been a lonesome-looking place. It was down in a hollow, and the poplar trees around it were lonesome-looking trees. The men were looking at it and talking about what had happened. The county attorney was bending to one side of the buggy, and kept looking steadily at the place as they drew up to it.

"I'm glad you came with me," Mrs. Peters said nervously, as the two women were about to follow the men in through the kitchen door.

Even after she had her foot on the door-step, her hand on the knob, Martha Hale had a moment of feeling she could not cross that threshold. And the reason it seemed she couldn't cross it now was simply because she hadn't crossed it before. Time and time again it had been in her mind, "I ought to go over and see Minnie Foster"— she still thought of her as Minnie Foster, though for twenty years she had been Mrs. Wright. And then there was always something to do and Minnie Foster would go from her mind. But now she could come.

The men went over to the stove. The women stood close together by the door. Young Henderson, the county attorney, turned around and said,

"Come up to the fire, ladies."

Mrs. Peters took a step forward, then stopped. "I'm not — cold,"  she said.

And so the two women stood by the door, at first not even so much as looking around the kitchen.

The men talked for a minute about what a good thing it was the sheriff had sent his deputy out that morning to make a fire for them, and then Sheriff Peters stepped back from the stove, unbuttoned his outer coat, and leaned his hands on the kitchen table in a way that seemed to mark the beginning of official business. "Now, Mr. Hale," he said in a sort of semi-official voice, "before we move things about, you tell Mr. Henderson just what it was you saw when you came here yesterday morning."

The county attorney was looking around the kitchen.

"By the way," he said, "has anything been moved?" He turned to the sheriff. "Are things just as you left them yesterday?"

Peters looked from cupboard to sink; from that to a small worn rocker a little to one side of the kitchen table.

"It's just the same."

"Somebody should have been left here yesterday," said the county attorney.

"Oh— yesterday," returned the sheriff, with a little gesture as of yesterday having been more than he could bear to think of. "When I had to send Frank to Morris Center for that man who went crazy— let me tell you, I had my hands full yesterday: I knew you could get back from Omaha by to-day, George, and as long as I went over everything here myself—"

"Well, Mr. Hale," said the county attorney, in a way of letting what was past and gone go, "tell just what happened when you came here yesterday morning."

Mrs. Hale, still leaning against the door, had that sinking feeling of the mother whose child is about to speak a piece. Lewis often wandered along and got things mixed up in a story. She hoped he would tell this straight and plain, and not say unnecessary things that would just make things harder for Minnie Foster. He didn't begin at once, and she noticed that he looked queer— as if standing in that kitchen and having to tell what he had seen there yesterday made him almost sick.

"Yes, Mr. Hale?" the county attorney reminded.

"Harry and I had started to town with a load of potatoes," Mrs. Hale's husband began.

Harry was Mrs. Hale's oldest boy. He wasn't with them now, for the very good reason that those potatoes never got to town yesterday and he was taking them this morning, so he hadn't been home when the sheriff stopped to say he wanted Mr. Hale to come over to the Wright place and tell the county attorney his story there, where he could point it all out.

With all Mrs. Hale's other emotions came the fear now that maybe Harry wasn't dressed warm enough — they hadn't any of them realized how that north wind did bite.

"We come along this road," Hale was going on, with a motion of his hand to the road over which they had just come, "and as we got in sight of the house I says to Harry, 'I'm goin' to see if I can't get John Wright to take a telephone.' You see," he explained to Henderson, "unless I can get somebody to go in with me they won't come out this branch road except for a price I can't pay. I'd spoke to Wright about it once before; but he put me off, saying folks talked too much anyway, and all he asked was peace and quiet — guess you know about how much he talked himself.

But I thought maybe if I went to the house and talked about it before his wife, and said all the women-folks liked the telephones, and that in this lonesome stretch of road it would be a good thing— well, I said to Harry that that was what I was going to say— though I said at the same time that I didn't know as what his wife wanted made much difference to John—"

Now, there he was!— saying things he didn't need to say. Mrs. Hale tried to catch her husband's eye, but fortunately the county attorney interrupted with:

"Let's talk about that a little later, Mr. Hale. I do want to talk about that, but I'm anxious now to get along to just what happened when you got here."

When he began this time, it was very deliberately and carefully:

"I didn't see or hear anything. I knocked at the door. And still it was all quiet inside. I knew they must be up— it was past eight o'clock. So I knocked again, louder, and I thought I heard somebody say, 'Come in.' I wasn't sure— I'm not sure yet. But I opened the door— this door,"

jerking a hand toward the door by which the two women stood, "and there, in that rocker"— pointing to it— "sat Mrs. Wright."

Every one in the kitchen looked at the rocker. It came into Mrs. Hale's mind that that rocker didn't look in the least like Minnie Foster— the Minnie Foster of twenty years before. It was a dingy red, with wooden rungs up the back, and the middle rung was gone, and the chair sagged to one side.

"How did she— look?" the county attorney was inquiring.

"Well," said Hale, "she looked— queer."

"How do you mean— queer?"

As he asked it he took out a note-book and pencil. Mrs. Hale did not like the sight of that pencil. She kept her eye fixed on her husband, as if to keep him from saying unnecessary things that would go into that note-book and make trouble.

Hale did speak guardedly, as if the pencil had affected him too.

"Well, as if she didn't know what she was going to do next. And kind of— done up."

"How did she seem to feel about your coming?"

"Why, I don't think she minded— one way or other. She didn't pay much attention. I said, 'Ho' do, Mrs. Wright? It's cold, ain't it?' And she said, 'Is it?'— and went on pleatin' at her apron.

"Well, I was surprised. She didn't ask me to come up to the stove, or to sit down, but just set there, not even lookin' at me. And so I said: 'I want to see John.'

"And then she— laughed. I guess you would call it a laugh.

"I thought of Harry and the team outside, so I said, a little sharp, 'Can I see John?' 'No,' says she— kind of dull like. 'Ain't he home?' says I.

Then she looked at me. 'Yes,' says she, 'he's home.' 'Then why can't I see him?' I asked her, out of patience with her now. "Cause he's dead,' says she, just as quiet and dull— and fell to pleatin' her apron. 'Dead?' says I, like you do when you can't take in what you've heard.

"She just nodded her head, not getting a bit excited, but rockin' back and forth.

" 'Why— where is he?' says I, not knowing what to say.

"She just pointed upstairs— like this"— pointing to the room above.

"I got up, with the idea of going up there myself. By this time I—  didn't know what to do. I walked from there to here; then I says: 'Why, what did he die of?'

'"He died of a rope round his neck,' says she; and just went on pleatin' at her apron."

Hale stopped speaking, and stood staring at the rocker, as if he were still seeing the woman who had sat there the morning before. Nobody spoke; it was as if every one were seeing the woman who had sat there the morning before.

"And what did you do then?" The county attorney at last broke the silence.

"I went out and called Harry. I thought I might— need help. I got Harry in, and we went upstairs." His voice fell almost to a whisper.

"There he was— lying over the—"

"I think I'd rather have you go into that upstairs," the county attorney interrupted, "where you can point it all out. Just go on now with the rest of the story."

"Well, my first thought was to get that rope off. It looked—"

He stopped, his face twitching.

"But Harry, he went up to him, and he said, 'No, he's dead all right, and we'd better not touch anything.' So we went downstairs.

"She was still sitting that same way. 'Has anybody been notified?' I asked. 'No,' says she, unconcerned.

"'Who did this, Mrs. Wright?' said Harry. He said it businesslike, and she stopped pleatin' at her apron. 'I don't know,' she says. 'You don't knowV says Harry. 'Weren't you sleepin' in the bed with him?' 'Yes,' says she, 'but I was on the inside.' 'Somebody slipped a rope round his neck and strangled him, and you didn't wake up?' says Harry. 'I didn't wake up,' she said after him.

"We may have looked as if we didn't see how that could be, for after a minute she said, 'I sleep sound.'

"Harry was going to ask her more questions, but I said maybe that weren't our business; maybe we ought to let her tell her story first to the coroner or the sheriff. So Harry went fast as he could over to High Road— the Rivers' place, where there's a telephone."

"And what did she do when she knew you had gone for the coroner?"

The attorney got his pencil in his hand all ready for writing.

"She moved from that chair to this one over here"— Hale pointed to a small chair in the corner— "and just sat there with her hands held together and looking down. I got a feeling that I ought to make some conversation, so I said I had come in to see if John wanted to put in a telephone; and at that she started to laugh, and then she stopped and looked at me— scared."

At sound of a moving pencil the man who was telling the story looked up.

"I dunno— maybe it wasn't scared," he hastened; "I wouldn't like to say it was. Soon Harry got back, and then Dr. Lloyd came, and you, Mr.

Peters, and so I guess that's all I know that you don't."

He said that last with relief, and moved a little, as if relaxing. Every one moved a little. The county attorney walked toward the stair door.

"I guess we'll go upstairs first— then out to the barn and around there."

He paused and looked around the kitchen.

"You're convinced there was nothing important here?" he asked the sheriff. "Nothing that would— point to any motive?"

The sheriff too looked all around, as if to re-convince himself.

"Nothing here but kitchen things," he said, with a little laugh for the insignificance of kitchen things.

The county attorney was looking at the cupboard — a peculiar, un-gainly structure, half closet and half cupboard, the upper part of it being built in the wall, and the lower part just the old-fashioned kitchen cupboard. As if its queerness attracted him, he got a chair and opened the upper part and looked in. After a moment he drew his hand away sticky.

"Here's a nice mess," he said resentfully.

The two women had drawn nearer, and now the sheriff's wife spoke.

"Oh— her fruit," she said, looking to Mrs. Hale for sympathetic understanding. She turned back to the county attorney and explained:

"She worried about that when it turned so cold last night. She said the fire would go out and her jars might burst."

Mrs. Peters' husband broke into a laugh.

"Well, can you beat the woman! Held for murder, and worrying about her preserves!"

The young attorney set his lips.

"I guess before we're through with her she may have something more serious than preserves to worry about."

"Oh, well," said Mrs. Hale's husband, with good-natured superiority,  "women are used to worrying over trifles."

The two women moved a little closer together. Neither of them spoke. The county attorney seemed suddenly to remember his manners— and think of his future.

"And yet," said he, with the gallantry of a young politician, "for all their worries, what would we do without the ladies?"

The women did not speak, did not unbend. He went to the sink and began washing his hands. He turned to wipe them on the roller towel— whirled it for a cleaner place.

"Dirty towels! Not much of a housekeeper, would you say, ladies?"

He kicked his foot against some dirty pans under the sink.

"There's a great deal of work to be done on a farm," said Mrs. Hale stiffly.

"To be sure. And yet"— with a little bow to her— "I know there are some Dickson County farm-houses that do not have such roller towels."

He gave it a pull to expose its full length again.

"Those towels get dirty awful quick. Men's hands aren't always as clean as they might be."

"Ah, loyal to your sex, I see," he laughed. He stopped and gave her a keen look. "But you and Mrs. Wright were neighbors. I suppose you were friends, too."

Martha Hale shook her head.

"I've seen little enough of her of late years. I've not been in this house— it's more than a year."

"And why was that? You didn't like her?"

"I liked her well enough," she replied with spirit. "Farmers' wives have their hands full, Mr. Henderson. And then—" She looked around the kitchen.

"Yes?" he encouraged.

"It never seemed a very cheerful place," said she, more to herself than to him.

"No," he agreed; "I don't think any one would call it cheerful. I shouldn't say she had the home-making instinct."

"Well, I don't know as Wright had, either," she muttered.

"You mean they didn't get on very well?" he was quick to ask.

"No; I don't mean anything," she answered, with decision. As she turned a little away from him, she added: "But I don't think a place would be any the cheerfuler for John Wright's bein' in it."

"I'd like to talk to you about that a little later, Mrs. Hale," he said.

"I'm anxious to get the lay of things upstairs now."

He moved toward the stair door, followed by the two men.

"I suppose anything Mrs. Peters does'll be all right?" the sheriff inquired. "She was to take in some clothes for her, you know— and a few little things. We left in such a hurry yesterday."

The county attorney looked at the two women whom they were  leaving alone there among the kitchen things.

"Yes— Mrs. Peters," he said, his glance resting on the woman who was not Mrs. Peters, the big farmer woman who stood behind the sheriff's wife. "Of course Mrs. Peters is one of us," he said, in a manner of entrusting responsibility. "And keep your eye out, Mrs. Peters, for anything that might be of use. No telling; you women might come upon a clue to the motive — and that's the thing we need."

Mr. Hale rubbed his face after the fashion of a show man getting ready for a pleasantry.

"But would the women know a clue if they did come upon it?" he said; and, having delivered himself of this, he followed the others through the stair door.

The women stood motionless and silent, listening to the footsteps, first upon the stairs, then in the room above them.

Then, as if releasing herself from something strange, Mrs. Hale began to arrange the dirty pans under the sink, which the county attorney's disdainful push of the foot had deranged.

"I'd hate to have men comin' into my kitchen," she said testily— "snoopin' round and criticizin'."

"Of course it's no more than their duty," said the sheriff's wife, in her manner of timid acquiescence.

"Duty's all right," replied Mrs. Hale bluffly; "but I guess that deputy sheriff that come out to make the fire might have got a little of this on."

She gave the roller towel a pull. "Wish I'd thought of that sooner! Seems mean to talk about her for not having things slicked up, when she had to come away in such a hurry."

She looked around the kitchen. Certainly it was not "slicked up." Her eye was held by a bucket of sugar on a low shelf. The cover was off the wooden bucket, and beside it was a paper bag— half full.

Mrs. Hale moved toward it.

"She was putting this in there," she said to herself— slowly.

She thought of the flour in her kitchen at home— half sifted, half not sifted. She had been interrupted, and had left things half done.

What had interrupted Minnie Foster? Why had that work been left half done? She made a move as if to finish it,— unfinished things always bothered her,— and then she glanced around and saw that Mrs. Peters was watching her— and she didn't want Mrs. Peters to get that feeling she had got of work begun and then— for some reason— not finished.

"It's a shame about her fruit," she said, and walked toward the cupboard that the county attorney had opened, and got on the chair, murmuring: "I wonder if it's all gone."

It was a sorry enough looking sight, but "Here's one that's all right," she said at last. She held it toward the light. "This is cherries, too." She looked again. "I declare I believe that's the only one."

With a sigh, she got down from the chair, went to the sink, and wiped off the bottle.

"She'll feel awful bad, after all her hard work in the hot weather. I remember the afternoon I put up my cherries last summer."

She set the bottle on the table, and, with another sigh, started to sit down in the rocker. But she did not sit down. Something kept her from sitting down in that chair. She straightened— stepped back, and, half turned away, stood looking at it; seeing the woman who had sat there "pleatin' at her apron."

The thin voice of the sheriff's wife broke in upon her: "I must be getting those things from the front room closet." She opened the door into the other room, started in, stepped back. "You coming with me, Mrs. Hale?" she asked nervously. "You— you could help me get them."

They were soon back— the stark coldness of that shut-up room was not a thing to linger in.

"My!" said Mrs. Peters, dropping the things on the table and hurrying to the stove.

Mrs. Hale stood examining the clothes the woman who was being detained in town had said she wanted.

"Wright was close!" she exclaimed, holding up a shabby black shirt that bore the marks of much making over. "I think maybe that's why she kept so much to herself. I s'pose she felt she couldn't do her part; and then, you don't enjoy things when you feel shabby. She used to wear pretty clothes and be lively— when she was Minnie Foster, one of the town girls, singing in the choir. But that— oh, that was twenty years ago."

With a carefulness in which there was something tender, she folded the shabby clothes and piled them at one corner of the table. She looked up at Mrs. Peters, and there was something in the other woman's look that irritated her.

"She don't care," she said to herself. "Much difference it makes to her whether Minnie Foster had pretty clothes when she was a girl."

Then she looked again, and she wasn't so sure; in fact, she hadn't at any time been perfectly sure about Mrs. Peters. She had that shrinking manner, and yet her eyes looked as if they could see a long way into things.

"This all you was to take in?" asked Mrs. Hale.

"No," said the sheriff's wife; "she said she wanted an apron. Funny thing to want," she ventured in her nervous little way, "for there's not much to get you dirty in jail, goodness knows. But I suppose just to make her feel more natural. If you're used to wearing an apron—. She said they were in the bottom drawer of this cupboard. Yes— here they are. And then her little shawl that always hung on the stair door."

She took the small gray shawl from behind the door leading upstairs, and stood a minute looking at it.

Suddenly Mrs. Hale took a quick step toward the other woman.

"Mrs. Peters!"

"Yes, Mrs. Hale?"

"Do you think she— did it?"

A frightened look blurred the other thing in Mrs. Peters' eyes.

"Oh, I don't know," she said, in a voice that seemed to shrink away from the subject.

"Well, I don't think she did," affirmed Mrs. Hale stoutly. "Asking for an apron, and her little shawl. Worryin' about her fruit."

"Mr. Peters says—" Footsteps were heard in the room above; she stopped, looked up, then went on in a lowered voice: "Mr. Peters says— it looks bad for her. Mr. Henderson is awful sarcastic in a speech, and he's going to make fun of her saying she didn't— wake up."

For a moment Mrs. Hale had no answer. Then, "Well, I guess John Wright didn't wake up— when they was slippin' that rope under his neck," she muttered.

"No, it's strange," breathed Mrs. Peters. "They think it was such a— funny way to kill a man."

She began to laugh; at sound of the laugh, abruptly stopped.

"That's just what Mr. Hale said," said Mrs. Hale, in a resolutely natural voice. "There was a gun in the house. He says that's what he can't understand."

"Mr. Henderson said, coming out, that what was needed for the case was a motive. Something to show anger— or sudden feeling."

"Well, I don't see any signs of anger around here," said Mrs. Hale. "I don't—"

She stopped. It was as if her mind tripped on something. Her eye was caught by a dish-towel in the middle of the kitchen table. Slowly she moved toward the table. One half of it was wiped clean, the other half messy. Her eyes made a slow, almost unwilling turn to the bucket of sugar and the half empty bag beside it. Things begun— and not finished.

After a moment she stepped back, and said, in that manner of releasing herself:

"Wonder how they're finding things upstairs? I hope she had it a little more red up up there. You know,"— she paused, and feeling gathered,— "it seems kind of sneaking: locking her up in town and coming out here to get her own house to turn against her!"

"But, Mrs. Hale," said the sheriff's wife, "the law is the law."

"I s'pose 'tis," answered Mrs. Hale shortly.

She turned to the stove, saying something about that fire not being much to brag of. She worked with it a minute, and when she straightened up she said aggressively:

"The law is the law— and a bad stove is a bad stove. How'd you like to cook on this?"— pointing with the poker to the broken lining. She opened the oven door and started to express her opinion of the oven; but she was swept into her own thoughts, thinking of what it would mean, year after year, to have that stove to wrestle with. The thought of Minnie Foster trying to bake in that oven— and the thought of her never going over to see Minnie Foster—.

She was startled by hearing Mrs. Peters say: "A person gets discouraged — and loses heart."

The sheriff's wife had looked from the stove to the sink— to the pail of water which had been carried in from outside. The two women stood there silent, above them the footsteps of the men who were looking for evidence against the woman who had worked in that kitchen. That look of seeing into things, of seeing through a thing to something else, was in the eyes of the sheriff's wife now. When Mrs. Hale next spoke to her, it was gently:

"Better loosen up your things, Mrs. Peters. We'll not feel them when we go out."

Mrs. Peters went to the back of the room to hang up the fur tippet she was wearing. A moment later she exclaimed, "Why, she was piecing a quilt," and held up a large sewing basket piled high with quilt pieces.

Mrs. Hale spread some of the blocks out on the table.

"It's log-cabin pattern," she said, putting several of them together.

"Pretty, isn't it?"

They were so engaged with the quilt that they did not hear the footsteps on the stairs. Just as the stair door opened Mrs. Hale was saying:

"Do you suppose she was going to quilt it or just knot it?"

The sheriff threw up his hands.

"They wonder whether she was going to quilt it or just knot it!"

There was a laugh for the ways of women, a warming of hands over the stove, and then the county attorney said briskly:

"Well, let's go right out to the barn and get that cleared up."

"I don't see as there's anything so strange," Mrs. Hale said resentfully, after the outside door had closed on the three men— "our taking up our time with little things while we're waiting for them to get the evidence. I don't see as it's anything to laugh about."

"Of course they've got awful important things on their minds," said the sheriff's wife apologetically.

They returned to an inspection of the block for the quilt. Mrs. Hale was looking at the fine, even sewing, and preoccupied with thoughts of the woman who had done that sewing, when she heard the sheriff's wife say, in a queer tone:

"Why, look at this one"

She turned to take the block held out to her.

"The sewing," said Mrs. Peters, in a troubled way. "All the rest of them have been so nice and even— but— this one. Why, it looks as if she didn't know what she was about!"

Their eyes met— something flashed to life, passed between them; then, as if with an effort, they seemed to pull away from each other. A moment Mrs. Hale sat there, her hands folded over that sewing which was so unlike all the rest of the sewing. Then she had pulled a knot and drawn the threads.

"Oh, what are you doing, Mrs. Hale?" asked the sheriff's wife, startled.

"Just pulling out a stitch or two that's not sewed very good," said Mrs.

Hale mildly.

"I don't think we ought to touch things," Mrs. Peters said, a little helplessly.

"I'll just finish up this end," answered Mrs. Hale, still in that mild, matter-of-fact fashion.

She threaded a needle and started to replace bad sewing with good.

For a little while she sewed in silence. Then, in that thin, timid voice, she heard:

"Mrs. Hale!"

"Yes, Mrs. Peters?"

"What do you suppose she was so— nervous about?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Mrs. Hale, as if dismissing a thing not important enough to spend much time on. "I don't know as she was—

nervous. I sew awful queer sometimes when I'm just tired."

She cut a thread, and out of the corner of her eye looked up at Mrs. Peters. The small, lean face of the sheriff's wife seemed to have tightened up. Her eyes had that look of peering into something. But next moment she moved, and said in her thin, indecisive way:

"Well, I must get those clothes wrapped. They may be through sooner than we think. I wonder where I could find a piece of paper— and string."

"In that cupboard, maybe," suggested Mrs. Hale, after a glance around.

One piece of the crazy sewing remained unripped. Mrs. Peters' back turned, Martha Hale now scrutinized that piece, compared it with the dainty, accurate sewing of the other blocks. The difference was startling.

Holding this block made her feel queer, as if the distracted thoughts of the woman who had perhaps turned to it to try and quiet herself were communicating themselves to her.

Mrs. Peters' voice roused her.

"Here's a bird-cage," she said. "Did she have a bird, Mrs. Hale?"

"Why, I don't know whether she did or not." She turned to look at the cage Mrs. Peters was holding up. "I've not been here in so long." She sighed. "There was a man round last year selling canaries cheap— but I don't know as she took one. Maybe she did. She used to sing real pretty herself."

Mrs. Peters looked around the kitchen.

"Seems kind of funny to think of a bird here." She half laughed— an attempt to put up a barrier. "But she must have had one— or why would she have a cage? I wonder what happened to it."

"I suppose maybe the cat got it," suggested Mrs. Hale, resuming her sewing.

"No; she didn't have a cat. She's got that feeling some people have about cats— being afraid of them. When they brought her to our house yesterday, my cat got in the room, and she was real upset and asked me to take it out."

"My sister Bessie was like that," laughed Mrs. Hale.

The sheriff's wife did not reply. The silence made Mrs. Hale turn round. Mrs. Peters was examining the bird-cage.

"Look at this door," she said slowly. "It's broke. One hinge has been pulled apart."

Mrs. Hale came nearer.

"Looks as if some one must have been— rough with it."

Again their eyes met— startled, questioning, apprehensive. For a moment neither spoke nor stirred. Then Mrs. Hale, turning away, said brusquely:

"If they're going to find any evidence, I wish they'd be about it. I don't like this place."

"But I'm awful glad you came with me, Mrs. Hale." Mrs. Peters put the bird-cage on the table and sat down. "It would be lonesome for me— sitting here alone."

"Yes, it would, wouldn't it?" agreed Mrs. Hale, a certain determined naturalness in her voice. She had picked up the sewing, but now it dropped in her lap, and she murmured in a different voice: "But I tell you what I do wish, Mrs. Peters. I wish I had come over sometimes when she was here. I wish— I had."

"But of course you were awful busy, Mrs. Hale. Your house— and your children."

"I could've come," retorted Mrs. Hale shortly. "I stayed away because it weren't cheerful— and that's why I ought to have come. I— "she looked around— "I've never liked this place. Maybe because it's down in a hollow and you don't see the road. I don't know what it is, but it's a lonesome place, and always was. I wish I had come over to see Minnie Foster sometimes. I can see now—" She did not put it into words.

"Well, you mustn't reproach yourself," counseled Mrs. Peters. "Somehow, we just don't see how it is with other folks till— something comes up."

"Not having children makes less work," mused Mrs. Hale, after a silence, "but it makes a quiet house— and Wright out to work all day— and no company when he did come in. Did you know John Wright, Mrs. Peters?"

"Not to know him. I've seen him in town. They say he was a good man."

"Yes— good," conceded John Wright's neighbor grimly. "He didn't drink, and kept his word as well as most, I guess, and paid his debts.

But he was a hard man, Mrs. Peters. Just to pass the time of day with him—" She stopped, shivered a little. "Like a raw wind that gets to the bone." Her eye fell upon the cage on the table before her, and she added, almost bitterly: "I should think she would've wanted a bird!"

Suddenly she leaned forward, looking intendy at the cage. "But what do you s'pose went wrong with it?"

"I don't know," returned Mrs. Peters; "unless it got sick and died."

But after she said it she reached over and swung the broken door.

Both women watched it as if somehow held by it.

"You didn't know— her?" Mrs. Hale asked, a gentler note in her voice.

"Not till they brought her yesterday," said the sheriff's wife.

"She— come to think of it, she was kind of like a bird herself. Real sweet and pretty, but kind of timid and— fluttery. How— she— did— change."

That held her for a long time. Finally, as if struck with a happy thought and relieved to get back to everyday things, she exclaimed:

"Tell you what, Mrs. Peters, why don't you take the quilt in with you? It might take up her mind."

"Why, I think that's a real nice idea, Mrs. Hale," agreed the sheriff's wife, as if she too were glad to come into the atmosphere of a simple kindness. "There couldn't possibly be any objection to that, could there?

Now, just what will I take? I wonder if her patches are in here— and her things."

They turned to the sewing basket.

''Here's some red," said Mrs. Hale, bringing out a roll of cloth.

Underneath that was a box. "Here, maybe her scissors are in here— and her things." She held it up. "What a pretty box! I'll warrant that was something she had a long time ago— when she was a girl."

She held it in her hand a moment; then, with a little sigh, opened it.

Instantly her hand went to her nose.

"Why—!"

Mrs. Peters drew nearer— then turned away.

"There's something wrapped up in this piece of silk," faltered Mrs. Hale.

"This isn't her scissors," said Mrs. Peters, in a shrinking voice.

Her hand not steady, Mrs. Hale raised the piece of silk. "Oh, Mrs.

Peters!" she cried. "It's—"

Mrs. Peters bent closer.

"It's the bird," she whispered.

"But, Mrs. Peters!" cried Mrs. Hale. " Look at it! Its neck— look at its neck! It's all— other side to."

She held the box away from her.

The sheriff's wife again bent closer.

"Somebody wrung its neck," said she, in a voice that was slow and deep.

And then again the eyes of the two women met— this time clung together in a look of dawning comprehension, of growing horror. Mrs.

Peters looked from the dead bird to the broken door of the cage. Again their eyes met. And just then there was a sound at the outside door.

Mrs. Hale slipped the box under the quilt pieces in the basket, and sank into the chair before it. Mrs. Peters stood holding to the table. The county attorney and the sheriff came in from outside.

"Well, ladies," said the county attorney, as one turning from serious things to little pleasantries, "have you decided whether she was going to quilt it or knot it?"

"We think," began the sheriff's wife in a flurried voice, "that she was going to— knot it."

He was too preoccupied to notice the change that came in her voice on that last.

"Well, thats very interesting, I'm sure," he said tolerantly. He caught sight of the bird-cage. "Has the bird flown?"

"We think the cat got it," said Mrs. Hale in a voice curiously even.

He was walking up and down, as if thinking something out.

"Is there a cat?" he asked absently.

Mrs. Hale shot a look up at the sheriff's wife.

"Well, not now," said Mrs. Peters. "They're superstitious, you know; they leave."

She sank into her chair.

The county attorney did not heed her. "No sign at all of any one having come in from the outside," he said to Peters, in the manner of continuing an interrupted conversation. "Their own rope. Now let's go upstairs again and go over it, piece by piece. It would have to have been some one who knew just the—"

The stair door closed behind them and their voices were lost.

The two women sat motionless, not looking at each other, but as if peering into something and at the same time holding back. When they spoke now it was as if they were afraid of what they were saying, but as if they could not help saying it.

"She liked the bird," said Martha Hale, low and slowly. "She was going to bury it in that pretty box."

"When I was a girl," said Mrs. Peters, under her breath, "my kitten— there was a boy who took a hatchet, and before my eyes— before I could get there—" She covered her face an instant. "If they hadn't held me back I would have"— she caught herself, looked upstairs where footsteps were heard, and finished weakly— "hurt him."

Then they sat without speaking or moving.

"I wonder how it would seem," Mrs. Hale at last began, as if feeling her way over strange ground— "never to have had any children around?" Her eyes made a slow sweep of the kitchen, as if seeing what that kitchen had meant through all the years. "No, Wright wouldn't like the bird," she said after that— "a thing that sang. She used to sing. He killed that too." Her voice tightened.

Mrs. Peters moved uneasily.

"Of course we don't know who killed the bird."

"I knew John Wright," was Mrs. Hale's answer.

"It was an awful thing was done in this house that night, Mrs. Hale," said the sheriff's wife. "Killing a man while he slept— slipping a thing round his neck that choked the life out of him."

Mrs. Hale's hand went out to the bird-cage.

"His neck. Choked the life out of him."

"We don't know who killed him," whispered Mrs. Peters wildly. "We don't know"

Mrs. Hale had not moved. "If there had been years and years of— nothing, then a bird to sing to you, it would be awful— still— after the bird was still."

It was as if something within her not herself had spoken, and it found in Mrs. Peters something she did not know as herself.

"I know what stillness is," she said, in a queer, monotonous voice.

"When we homesteaded in Dakota, and my first baby died— after he was two years old— and me with no other then—"

Mrs. Hale stirred.

"How soon do you suppose they'll be through looking for the evidence?"

"I know what stillness is," repeated Mrs. Peters, in just that same way.

Then she too pulled back. "The law has got to punish crime, Mrs. Hale,"

she said in her tight little way.

"I wish you'd seen Minnie Foster," was the answer, "when she wore a white dress with blue ribbons, and stood up there in the choir and sang."

The picture of that girl, the fact that she had lived neighbor to that girl for twenty years, and had let her die for lack of life, was suddenly more than she could bear.

"Oh, I wish I'd come over here once in a while!" she cried. "That was a crime! That was a crime! Who's going to punish that?"

"We mustn't take on," said Mrs. Peters, with a frightened look toward the stairs.

"I might 'a' known she needed help! I tell you, it's queer, Mrs. Peters.

We live close together, and we live far apart. We all go through the same things— it's all just a different kind of the same thing! If it weren't— why do you and I understand? Why do we know— what we know this minute?"

She dashed her hand across her eyes. Then, seeing the jar of fruit on the table, she reached for it and choked out:

"If I was you I wouldn't tell her her fruit was gone! Tell her it ain't Tell her it's all right— all of it. Here— take this in to prove it to her! She— she may never know whether it was broke or not."

She turned away.

Mrs. Peters reached out for the bottle of fruit as if she were glad to take it— as if touching a familiar thing, having something to do, could keep her from something else. She got up, looked about for something to wrap the fruit in, took a petticoat from the pile of clothes she had brought from the front room, and nervously started winding that round the bottle.

"My!" she began, in a high, false voice, "it's a good thing the men couldn't hear us! Getting all stirred up over a little thing like a— dead canary." She hurried over that. "As if that could have anything to do with— with— My, wouldn't they laugh?"

Footsteps were heard on the stairs.

"Maybe they would," muttered Mrs. Hale— "maybe they wouldn't."

"No, Peters," said the county attorney incisively; "it's all perfectly clear, except the reason for doing it. But you know juries when it comes to women. If there was some definite thing— something to show.

Something to make a story about. A thing that would connect up with this clumsy way of doing it."

In a covert way Mrs. Hale looked at Mrs. Peters. Mrs. Peters was looking at her. Quickly they looked away from each other. The outer door opened and Mr. Hale came in.

"I've got the team round now," he said. "Pretty cold out there."

"I'm going to stay here awhile by myself," the county attorney suddenly announced. "You can send Frank out for me, can't you?" he asked the sheriff. "I want to go over everything. I'm not satisfied we can't do better."

Again, for one brief moment, the two women's eyes found one another.

The sheriff came up to the table.

"Did you want to see what Mrs. Peters was going to take in?"

The county attorney picked up the apron. He laughed.

"Oh, I guess they're not very dangerous things the ladies have picked out."

Mrs. Hale's hand was on the sewing basket in which the box was concealed. She felt that she ought to take her hand off the basket. She did not seem able to. He picked up one of the quilt blocks which she had piled on to cover the box. Her eyes felt like fire. She had a feeling that if he took up the basket she would snatch it from him.

But he did not take it up. With another little laugh, he turned away, saying:

"No; Mrs. Peters doesn't need supervising. For that matter, a sheriff's wife is married to the law. Ever think of it that way, Mrs. Peters?"

Mrs. Peters was standing beside the table. Mrs. Hale shot a look up at her; but she could not see her face. Mrs. Peters had turned away. When she spoke, her voice was muffled.

"Not— just that way," she said.

"Married to the law!" chuckled Mrs. Peters' husband. He moved toward the door into the front room, and said to the county attorney:

"I just want you to come in here a minute, George. We ought to take a look at these windows."

"Oh— windows," said the county attorney scoffingly.

"We'll be right out, Mr. Hale," said the sheriff to the farmer, who was still waiting by the door.

Hale went to look after the horses. The sheriff followed the county attorney into the other room. Again— for one final moment— the two women were alone in that kitchen.

Martha Hale sprang up, her hands tight together, looking at that other woman, with whom it rested. At first she could not see her eyes, for the sheriff's wife had not turned back since she turned away at that suggestion of being married to the law. But now Mrs. Hale made her turn back. Her eyes made her turn back. Slowly, unwillingly, Mrs. Peters turned her head until her eyes met the eyes of the other woman.

There was a moment when they held each other in a steady, burning look in which there was no evasion nor flinching. Then Martha Hale's eyes pointed the way to the basket in which was hidden the thing that would make certain the conviction of the other woman— that woman who was not there and yet who had been there with them all through that hour.

For a moment, Mrs. Peters did not move. And then she did it. With a rush forward, she threw back the quilt pieces, got the box, tried to put it in her handbag. It was too big. Desperately she opened it, started to take the bird out. But there she broke— she could not touch the bird. She stood there helpless, foolish.

There was the sound of a knob turning in the inner door. Martha Hale snatched the box from the sheriff's wife, and got it in the pocket of her big coat just as the sheriff and the county attorney came back into the kitchen.

"Well, Henry," said the county attorney facetiously, "at least we found out that she was not going to quilt it. She was going to— what is it you call it, ladies?"

Mrs. Hale's hand was against the pocket of her coat.

"We call it— knot it, Mr. Henderson."

__________________

13: Crooked Charity

Henry Leverage

1885-1931

Gangster Stories Dec 1929

WHEN BIG-SCAR GUFFILAN left a dummy in his cell and squeezed into the line of silent men who were making their way to the chapel for the Christmas entertainment, he figured upon an escape from a penitentiary that was pronounced unbeatable.

The dummy had been so lifelike that he chuckled to himself as the convicts twisted and squirmed their way through the cell block and upstairs to the chapel. Big-scar closed his eyes and tried to imagine just what a guard would see who would peer through the bars of cell 27.

Apparently a convict lay there, with legs crossed and a newspaper over his face, as if he had fallen asleep in the act of reading. The yegg had practised the part for over two months, The guards had grown tired of tapping the bars and waking him up. They were reasonably sure to count him "in" that night.

Big-scar had made further plans. Getting out of the cell was the first step in a ladder to freedom. The other steps of this ladder were a matter of luck and nerve. He had sworn to be out of the prison by Christmas.

The yegg sat through the prison Movietone entertainment like a man in a trance. He failed to applaud when the warden announced, before the final reel, that turkey would be served for the Christmas dinner.

The Movietone drew to a close. Big-scar began planning a second step in the escape. He waited as the long line of men started to file through a doorway. He paused at a platform upon which the warden and guests were standing. He edged to one side where there was a space behind the movie screen.

No one noticed him. He squeezed along a wall and then vanished behind the platform. The space there was sufficient for him to lie down with his head in his arms. He breathed slowly, as the feet of his fellow prisoners shuffled away in the distance.

Their number seemed endless. The warden and his guests stepped down. The lights were turned out, one by one. A door clanged at the foot of the steps. A gong sounded.

"I win round one," Big-scar grinned" to himself.

The stroke of the gong was followed by another. Then, after a grim wait, Big-scar heard the jingle of the "count" signal. The guards had counted the dummy in 27. The principal keeper had phoned for the sentries to come off the wall. The prison was in darkness.

The yegg crawled out, listened with head cocked sidewise, then rose and tiptoed to a barred window. Through this he saw the white sheen of the ice in a river. Beyond this ice was a far-off shore.

He reached down, pulled a hack-saw blade from his shoe, wrapped its end in a handkerchief and went to work on the central bar.

The tempered steel bit into the soft iron, like a knife cutting cheese. In ten minutes he felt the blade pass through. He waited then. No sound came to him of discovery.

The yegg climbed on the sill. He braced his feet against the window's edge, and pulled the sawed bar until it left an opening through which he could crawl. He stood upon the coping, breathed into his palms and gained a narrow ledge that ran around the building below the chapel windows. Along the ledge he worked, holding his hands close to the wall. He came to a drain pipe and lowered himself till he stood shivering within the shadow of the building.

The prison yard was deserted save for a lantern that bobbed up and down at the end furthest from Big-scar. He crouched as he crossed the open expanse. He shinned an iron fence, and crawled upon his stomach till he reached the ice. There he waited, glancing back. There was no sign or sound of discovery.

Big-scar frowned. Danger would come at midnight when the hall-keeper would flash a light into his cell. The newspaper and the dressed dummy would probably be discovered. The siren would blow. The constables would be notified. He resolved to place as many miles between himself and the prison as running would permit.

He hurried over the ice of the river till he had passed below the southern wall. Then he edged inshore, scrambled up the bank, and ran down a railroad track.

A crossing led him where he found himself between snow-covered hedges of estates that stretched back from the road in long vistas of contentment and rest.

Big-scar went on. It was Christmas Eve and all the world was at peace, except himself and the Law.

THE STARS: that spangled the, heavens were like powdered diamonds in a black velvet band. Snow and ice crunched and crinkled under foot.

Once he gained a cheerful thought. He was on his way to a city whose arms would reach and close him in their grip. He could hide with gangsters until the pursuit was over. Then he could come out and mooch to other cities.

The yegg liked the thought of being lost among a million people. He had little fear of being captured, providing he would stay away from his old haunts.

He plodded on through the snow with one thought in his mind: he must reach a racketeer's dive before the police were notified.

Costella and the whole Central-Office force could search until they grew tired. Costella and O'Morpha had made the pinch from which the yegg was escaping.

Both dicks were hard-boiled eggs. It was just like them to spoil a Christmas day.

He made progress through the silent estates of the rich. He held before him the glow in the sky that marked the city. It was like some aurora of wealth and security. It lured him on to greater effort.

Big-scar glared over his shoulder now and then. No sound or echo of the escape disturbed the attenuated air. He concluded the hall captain had flashed a light into cell 27 and then gone on satisfied.

The yegg's prison clothes were dark gray. They might be mistaken for a workman's garb. His cap worried him. It was round, with a small vizor that would give him away to anyone who had visited the prison.

Big-scar searched to right and left for a house in course of construction.

There would be another cap or hat in such a place. Painters or plasterers always left them. Also, he could pick up a paint-pot or a tool and walk into the city like a laborer. The police would hardly suspect or question him in such a. guise.

The road he followed widened into a square whereon was a gasoline station. The yegg paused before it and studied the windows. There was nothing inside the station except oil in cans.

He had taken a step away when there rose the low rumble of a far-off siren. It swelled, then died to an echo. It rose again. It filled the air with its menace. It spoke of gun-guards, white faces in the cells, a country-wide pursuit wherein it would be unsafe to move. It indicated a Christmas eve air of broadcasting his description.

Big-scar ran as he had never run before. He charged along a road as if all the furies in the world were after him. He covered a mile in fast time when he brought up standing and blowing before the arbor gate of a snug estate.

He held his burning sides as he crouched under a hedge.

"Somethin's comin'," he said through gritty teeth.

There sounded footsteps in the lane that led down from the country home. The steps came closer. Big-scar braced himself and waited for almost certain discovery. He felt that he would have to bean somebody.

Out through the snow-draped boxwood came the figure of Santa Claus. It was such a Santa Claus as the yegg had read about in prison tracts. White whiskers draped over great horn buttons. Merry eyes and a scarlet nose peered through these whiskers. The cap on Santa's head was cocked and debonair. In the pack on the back of the apparition was a pile of toys, hobby-horses, dolls, whips, with bells upon their ends.

The yegg clicked his frozen lashes as Santa Claus swung at the arbor, whistled a tipsy tune, and went up the road without glancing back. Big-scar scratched his head. His face grew dark as he heard the sound of the prison siren to the north and toward the river. Its notes were insistent.

it seemed to say:

"Prisoner has escaped! Prisoner has escaped! Fifty dollars reward!"

Swinging, the yegg watched the burly form of the man who had come out of the estate. He was evidently going somewhere with presents to hang upon a Christmas tree. Big-scar remembered the days when he had believed in Santa Claus. That was when he was about three years old.

He dashed after the figure in the road.

The footprints of the Santa Claus had not run in a straight line. They zig-zagged across the road in the manner of one who had imbibed too much.

The approaching yegg noted that the Santa Claus was about his size and general weight. He determined to possess himself of the Kris Kringle outfit, pack and all. It would be a disguise in a million. In it he could go anywhere and grin at the police.

BIG-SCAR slowed his steps as he tailed the staggering figure ahead. He glanced back now and then and listened. The siren was sending its warning blares out over the country. They bore no resemblance to holiday cheer.

The escaping yegg's chance came when the tipsy Santa Claus stopped by the side of the road, rested his pack upon a snow-covered stone, and sat down heavily. Big-scar drew the hack-saw blade from his pocket and advanced with all the noise he could make.

"Put up yur mitts!" he commanded.

The Kris Kringle whiskers quivered as two pudgy hands shot into the frosty air.

"Look out, or I'll shoot," menaced Big-scar, standing at a safe distance and brandishing the saw. "I'll shoot at th' first move. Y'u greaseball!"

"Spare me! Spare me!" came from Santa Claus.

"Take off that outfit yu!"

One hand came down, then jerked upward again as Big-scar stepped forward.

"Get 'em off! Take off them whiskers an' things! All off or I'll plug y'u

The man rose, swaying from side to side, and began to unpeel his coat. The trousers followed. The whiskers and cap and nose dropped to the snow.

"Beat it!" growled Big-scar. "Beat it while th' goin's good. I'm goin' tu fire in three seconds. One, tu— "

The yegg had a glimpse of a thoroughly frightened householder leaping over hedges, bushes, and fences in the manner of a jackrabbit.

He pocketed the saw as he heard a crash of glass where the man had stepped through a low greenhouse. He held his sides as he roared with glee. It was the first time he had laughed in years.

The figure that hurried down the snow-covered road five minutes later, was a different one from the convict who had climbed out of the great prison and escaped. Big-scar carried the Santa Claus pack. The wig he wore, allowed free vent for his mouth and eyes. It concealed the tell-tale scar on his right cheek.

A nose which was of papier-mache and colored like a ripe strawberry was almost the original hue of the yegg's nasal appendage before it had been whitened by prison life and lack of booze. He felt no cold, although the temperature was almost zero and falling. He reasoned that it was between twelve and one on Christmas morning.

Lights shone ahead.  Big-scar trudged along until a suburban town opened up before him with its close- nested homes mantled in security like hens at roost. He found the pavement hard and clear under foot. He passed citizens who waved at him and answered his cheery "Merry Christmas."

A motor-bus stood waiting, as if for him, at the junction of two streets. He entered it, fished deep within his inner prison-suit pocket, and brought forth a silver dime. He had other money secreted from prison guards. The yegg caught a glimpse of himself in a window. No one of the gun-guards who were combing the county would have suspected in him the object of their search. The paper nose, the white whiskers, the pack crammed with toys, were his passport to the gates of the city he was now entering. He seemed the personification of the day and the season.

The bus stopped under the shelter of a structure which would lead to the subway. Big-scar climbed out, followed by the sleepy passengers. He had not long to wait for an early morning train that would take him into the heart of the city.

He parted with a nickel at the turnstile and entered the rear car. His heart jumped. He recognized two Central-Office detectives who were sitting at the front end of the car. They eyed him, then felt to talking.

Big-scar breathed a sigh of relief. They had not recognized him in his guise. It was as if he possessed a mantle of invisibility. He leered at them.

The click of the car wheels on the rails became music to Big-scar. He longed to take off the gigantic red nose and breath more freely. He looked around to see if he could possibly roll a drunk for a bottle.

The yegg saw moving pictures of stations crowded with well garbed merry-makers, white walls that blazed with familiar advertisements, and displays of food posters that made his mouth water.

HE CROUCHED closer into his seat and glanced about the car. It was empty except for the two Central-Office men who were in the further end. One of these men had a turkey under his arm. Big-scar tightened his belt.

He lifted his Kris Kringle pack and examined its contents. There were toys enough in it to stock a nursery or to grace a large Christmas tree. At its bottom the yegg felt boxes of dates and candy and twisted paper things that would explode when they were drawn apart. He crammed them deeper within the pack, swung it upon his shoulder, and waited.

The Central-Office dicks rose at a station. They braced themselves as the train came to a grinding halt, then hurried out on the platform. They had not suspected him. He stood erect as the train gained speed. The next station would be the one he wanted to get off at. He stood in the vestibule with cool nerve. The train drew up, he stepped to the platform, and hurried up a stairway to the familiar street.

Down this he walked briskly, his eyes glinting. He was free! He was disguised to perfection. He felt like one of the wise men of the East bringing gifts to the Magi.

The yegg recognized the landmarks as he passed into another and meaner street. There was O'Connor's speak-easy. Its front door was closed. He could see the long shining bar with the frosted mirror behind, and underneath this a row of black bottles.

A bartender came from the rear. A light shone there. A crowd sat at the tables drinking beer and whiskey.

A pal or two might be celebrating there.

He hesitated as he passed the saloon. He was of a mind to try the side entrance, stalk in on the gang and surprise them. Possibly they were talking of his escape at that very moment. He mooched on. He feared a stool pigeon.

Suddenly near a hiding place where he wanted to secrete himself, he saw two lurking forms. He felt the grip of a nameless something at his heart. He steeled himself as he had often done in days gone by: The two forms were fly-mugs. He felt sure that they were waiting for him. He went boldly by them and recognized Costella and his side-partner O'Morpha. They had made the pinch at the bank. They knew of his escape.

"Can't be him," Costella said cautiously.

"I ain't so sure; he's about due."

"In that outfit? Why that's some mission stiff with a pack of toys. Take another gap at him, O'Morpha."

AN ALLEY behind the Huber Museum was a familiar get-away for the yegg. He had once or twice taken that route when dodging the coppers. He remembered a barred window, high up, through which an agile man might break into the Museum. Once before he had considered doing so. He had given up that plan, realizing that wax and plaster and paste jewels, worn by some of the effigies, were not negotiable with fences.

He reached the spot beneath the window. No one was in the alley. It was too early for anyone, save festive souls, to be stirring. The sun had not yet struck across the roofs or broken through the nipping mist.

The yegg sprang for the window's sill, secured a grip, drew himself on the ledge, braced a knee and yanked at the center bar of the window. It was of rusty iron; it gave where lead had been poured into the stone. Again he braced his knees, adjusted the Santa Claus pack, and bent the bar out of the way. Then he jerked at the sash, which came up, with a shower of dust and cobwebs. Big-scar peered inside the Museum. He saw a storeroom's walls, canvas frames, crates of excelsior and barrels of plaster-of-Paris.

A door lead from the storeroom to the Museum proper. This door was slightly ajar.

"A nifty hiding place!" the yegg said as he dropped to the floor and drew down the sash, after straightening the iron bar. "Here's where I smash those fly-mugs if they are still trailing me."

He realized that there was a watchman or two within the Museum; there also might be a charwoman at work, scrubbing floors. Big-scar's mind was made up; he wanted one more try at freedom.

He opened the door that led from the storeroom and crouched like an ape, ready to spring on someone. His shaggy brows worked up and down as he squinted uncertainly in his efforts to pierce the gloom of the Chamber of Horrors. His papier-mache nose came loose.

A uniformed guard stood, leaning against a display case almost in the center of the Museum. The sight of the gold-braided uniform roused the yege's anger like a sudden slap in the face. He ground his teeth and made ready for a leaping spring. Prison screws and coppers were the yegg's particular meat.

He covered the distance like a tiger. The blow he struck, the watchman would have slain a giant. Big-scar's fist went through a wire frame and plaster. The watchman was an image, designed to confuse visitors. This image crumpled to the floor and lay prone.

The yegg stared around and saw a hundred wax faces making mock of him. Marie Antoinette, Danton, Napoleon, Josephine, Jesse James, Jack the Ripper and Chapman were enjoying the occasion. Between two booths, filled with effigies, the yegg discerned himself— a Santa Claus with a pack of toys.

He set about his task of destroying the effigy. He crushed the figure's head, stamping at the powder beneath his prison-made shoes. The noise he made was slight. He pressed the exhibit into an unrecognizable mass. He examined the suit on the figure. The proprietor of the Museum, always a stickler for detail, had clothed the effigy in a woolen suit, big buttons, gaudy tie and flashing shirt. This outfit was a ringer for the one Big-scar wore. He sat down and listened for sounds while he donned a pair of real leather shoes,

There came a sudden sound at the front of the Museum that indicated guards were unlocking doors. A whistle shrilled through the building. Another sound came from the rear, near the store-room,

"CAUGHT!" thought Big-scar,

"I'm surrounded. Maybe they heard me. Maybe them coppers tipped me off to th' guards."

He got up and looked about him, He realized that it would be well to conceal the evidence of destruction. There was an imitation showcase alongside Santa Claus' form. Small toys filled the case, to lend realism to the exhibit.

The yegg began shoving the broken plaster beneath the showcase. His foot moved while he watched a giant door swing inward.

They were opening the Museum for the day, though it was still quite early. The proprietor of the place was known for his long hours and industrious habits,

The drowsy guards had not yet detected the fugitive's presence. Big-scar glared at them through his false whiskers.

A group of patrons, led by an old man with a guide book, entered the building. A girl screamed when she collided with a horror in the shape of a plaster-of-Paris pickpocket.

"I gotta pose fer Santa Claus," concluded the yegg. "I can't make a getaway without stirrin' up a lot of gumshoe guards."

He climbed a pedestal and sat down when the group, headed by the old man, strolled by. He heard the guide explain:

"This 'ere old Kris Kringle, or Santa Claus. He was brought here especially for the Holidays. He's almost alive."

"E is, is'e?" thought the yegg with inward glee when the group strolled toward Jack the Ripper's booth.

Workmen came out of the store-room. They started hammering at a new exhibit, at the back of the Museum.

Attendants approached at the head of more visitors.

"I wonder if I have to sit like this all day?" the yegg queried to himself. "Its an outrage— me dyin' fer somethin' to eat an' drink."

At ten o'clock a commotion started at the entrance. The yegg straightened himself and stared over the top of the showcase. The aisles were dotted with patrons. Among them he discerned the uniforms of a brace of cops. Behind the cops loomed familiar forms— those of Costella and O'Morpha.

The menaces from Headquarters were darting glances to left and right. Near them walked the Museum's proprietor.

"Somebody tipped 'em off," sighed the yegg. "They're goin' tu make a search of th' Museum."

The detectives paused at the crushed figure of the sham guard which Big-scar had smashed with his fists. The proprietor bent over the figure while the two dicks looked around knowingly. Both had heavy over-coats on. O'Morpha's pocket bulged with a quart bottle.

Big-scar smacked his lips. His nose itched.

"I hope they don't connect me with beaning th' guard," he grinned.

His hopes were set at rest; the two detectives shook their heads. It wasn't likely that the yegg would leave such evidence of his presence in the Museum.

By roundabout aisles Costella and O'Morpha approached the yegg. The bloodhounds from Headquarters were making a thorough search of the Museum. They sized up everybody, questioned guards and workmen, looked behind gruesomely painted curtains. They neared Santa's booth, followed by the Museum's proprietor.

"This," explained the manager, "is for the kids. See, he's loaded with toys. We'll give them away tomorrow, or maybe this afternoon if the crowd is thick enough."

A cold feeling went up and down Big-scar's spine. He held himself in position with a mighty effort. He felt Costella's sharp eyes on his back. O'Morpha remarked dryly:

"It's a rotten imitation of Santa Claus. Eh, Costella? It don't look life-like."

Costella replied: "No resemblance. When they do these things, why don't they do them proper? Why don't they make the effigies true to nature?"

The dicks moved on.

COLD sweat stood out on Big-scar's brow. It had been a close touch-and-go between him and liberty. He was afraid to turn his head and watch the two detectives.

A diversion came at noon when a group of children, led by a teacher, filed into the Museum. The children all carried boxes or baskets. One boy perched himself near the Santa Claus booth and opened his box. He devoured most of the contents, finally taking out a piece of pie. The yegg, who had eaten nothing since escaping, glared at the pie. He leaned toward it—  then hesitated.

The boy laid half the pie on top of the lunch box and went for a glass of water. Big-scar selected a present from his pack and rose from his chair.

Temptation and hunger steeled the yegg's nerve. The sight of his favorite pie made the risk seem small.

He got the portion and thrust it into his mouth. He rubbed his soiled whiskers and resumed his position in the chair.

A cry went through the aisles of the Museum when the boy returned and missed the pie. The present did not appease him. He ran toward the teacher and explained what had happened. Scholars were accused. They denied the theft in loud terms.

"That's a bad rumble tu make over a piece ov pie," thought Big-scar. "What would they do if I copped a whole one? Maybe they'd hang me fer it."

He cast an anxious eye about for escape. The workmen at the back of the Museum had ceased their labors at noon. Perhaps a getaway could be made in that direction. There was the bent bar in the storeroom through which he could squeeze. The yegg started out of the booth. He tiptoed a few cautious steps when voices caused him to halt stiff in his tracks.

Other children were approaching. He was caught. He advanced to them and unloaded his pack, giving each a present.

"Merry Christmas," he said through his beard. "Wish I had more presents, kids. "Now beat it away. I'm goin' tu be a wax image again. Beat it, kids."

He resumed his rigid position on the dais until nightfall.

When the doors were closing, he heard Costella's voice saying: "We'll plant in here tonight. Every clue leads to this Museum."

"Aw, Big-scar couldn't be here!" O'Morpha protested.

"Someone got in here. There's a twisted bar."

The yegg sat like a steel spring, ready to pounce on the two sleuths as they sauntered around, flashing spotlights into every booth. They stopped finally and sat down at a little gold-painted table drawn from the Marie Antoinette Exhibition.

"It'll be a tough night watchin' this dump," declared Costella. "But it's chief's orders. Guffman, alias Big- scar used to live near this Museum. Give me a drink, O'Morpha."

Costella's side-kick produced a bottle of Holiday booze. He upended the bottle before offering it to Costella. Big-scar whose nose was almost white from keeping temperate, sniffed the alcohol. It brought tears to his eyes.

The papier-mache mask and beard fell around his gigantic neck. He waited, leaning forward toward the sleuthes. They drowsed, each groggy from drinking.

Over the intervening distance the yegg reached his arm and gained the bottle. He clutched it in his cotton-covered fingers. The remaining half portion almost vanished down his throat. He set the bottle nearer Costella than O'Morpha, and staggered to his chair. He waited.

STRATEGY might succeed where force would fail. O'Morpha awoke and reached blindly for the bottle. His hand strayed over the table. He blinked his eyes, then, as he grabbed the remaining drop, he cursed his partner drunkenly. Costella awoke. The yegg heard an argument, hot and heavy between the dicks.

"You're a hell of a guy, takin' it all" Costella accused.

They drowsed, after almost drawing guns on each other.

A second inspiration came to the yegg. He shifted the pack from his shoulders, got down and tiptoed toward the sleeping sleuths. His hand touched the little gold-painted table. He gripped the bottle, swung it overhead, and brought it crashing through O'Morpha's slouch hat. Big-scar ducked around a booth and started crawling like a grizzly toward the rear of the Museum.

The diversion of O'Morpha recovering from the staggering blow and lunging at Costella was time enough, to throw both detectives off guard. Over went the little table. Blows were exchanged. Arms swung. The brace of fly-mugs crashed together into the Marie Antoinette booth, O'Morpha cursing:

"Take that an' that, yu hit me with th' bottle!'

"You copped th' booze!"

"Nifty," remarked Big-scar sheding the whiskers and mask from his neck. He threw a knee over the window-sill where the twisted bar was.

Behind him he heard sounds of struggling; ahead in the nipping air was freedom.

"It ain't been such a bad Christmas after all," he grinned. 'An' them poor kids got toys they w'uldn't ov got, if I hadn't played Santa Claus."

____________________

Index to Past Masters Nos 61-67

The "Author Index" to Issues 1-60 has now been uploaded separately.

Achmed Abdullah

The Mystery of the Talking Idols 63

"A. E. P."

The End of Sherlock Holmes  67

W. L. Alden

After the Comet 67

Silver Plated   67

The Wild Man of Borneo 67

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

Susan Glaspell

A Jury of Her Peers 67

Frederick Graves

White Flame  62

Fred V Green

Markham's New Partner 65

Julian Hawthorne

Calbot's Rival 67

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

Crooked Charity 67

R. C. Lehmann

The Umbrosa Burglary 67

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

Arthur Somers Roche (novelette)

In the Money 67

Thorne Smith

Birthday Present 66

Andrew Soutar

Bluebeard 63

Charles B. Stilson

The Sky Woman 67

Halliwell Sutcliffe

Handsome Jack  67

Miss Phyllis Brown 67

Murgatroyd's Wife  67

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: Calbot's Rival / Julian Hawthorne

2: The Umbrosa Burglary / R. C. Lehmann

3: The End of Sherlock Holmes / "A. E. P."

4: In the Money / Arthur Somers Roche (novelette)

5: The Sky Woman / Charles B. Stilson

6: Murgatroyd's Wife / Halliwell Sutcliffe

7: Handsome Jack / Halliwell Sutcliffe

8: Miss Phyllis Brown / Halliwell Sutcliffe

9: Silver Plated / W. L. Alden

10: The Wild Man of Borneo / W. L. Alden

11: After the Comet / W. L. Alden

12: A Jury of Her Peers / Susan Glaspell

13: Crooked Charity / Henry Leverage

Cumulative Index #61-67