PAST MASTERS

SIXTY-EIGHT

15 March 2022

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: The Death Window / A. S. Gregory

2: How the Fat Woman Eloped / W. L. Alden

3: Crocodile Tears / Guy Gilpatric

4: Who Murdered Mr. Thomas? / Edgar Rice Burroughs

5: Drops of Death / George Allan England

6: Hokum Hotel / David Wright O'Brien

7: The Cat of the Stars / Sinclair Lewis

8: The Yellow Jasmine / William Le Queux

9: The Mystery Man / William Le Queux

10: The Mystery of the Third Thumb / William Le Queux

11: The Third Cracker / William Le Queux

12: The Baron's Snapdragon / William Le Queux

13: The Velvet Hand / William Le Queux

14: The Woman Who Hated London / William Le Queux

15: A Chat With William Le Queux / R. A. J. Walling

16: Seven Million Dollars / Sinclair Lewis

17: How The Lone Star Went Down / Mrs. May Agnes Fleming

18: Trooper Jenkins / Harold Bindloss

Cumulative Index #61-68

__________________

1: The Death Window

A. S. Gregory

The Popular Magazine, June 1930

A pulp author of aviation stories who flourished briefly in the early 1930s. Nothing else is known of him.

THE deafening, thrilling roar of the thirty-passenger, four-motored air liner, the Mercuria, melted away into a distant hum when a large, violently excited man dashed out of the field office. He rushed up to Captain Jesse Britten, traffic superintendent, who was watching the winged leviathan out of sight.

"Captain," the man shouted, "we've got to get the plane back!"

Britten stared at the field manager, William Hughes. "You ought to know, Bill, that that's utterly impossible," he said. "But why all this flurry?"

"Farrant— J. C. Farrant is on board!"

"Yes, I know all about him," said Britten. '"He's that mystery key witness who is to testify this afternoon at the oil trial in Los Angeles. Had to go by air because last night he missed his train."

"He didn't miss it!" contradicted Hughes. "He took the Lark at eight o'clock, but left the train at San José and came back by bus. I guess he had a hunch something was going to happen, because this morning when the train pulled into Los they found another man who had taken his berth with a knife in his heart!"

"That was a lucky break for Farrant, wasn't it?''-remarked Britten, in a matter -of- fact tone. "A man in his desperate position, a witness that the prosecution unwisely boasted would expose the whole dirty mess of the twenty- million- dollar oil stock over-issue, should have known better in the first place than to have taken the train. It's safer by airplane, you know."

Hughes was so agitated now that unconsciously he was stabbing the traffic superintendent in the chest with a taut forefinger.

"Just a minute, captain; wait till I finish!" he exploded. 'Nobody was supposed to know Farrant is aboard the Mercuria, but word has just this minute reached us that somehow it leaked out late last night that he had reserved passage. This morning two other men bought tickets. Either one, or both of them are gunmen ordered by that bunch of oil crooks to see that Farrant does not reach Los Angeles alive!"

"Nonsense!" Britten spoke sharply. "Didn't you tell me yesterday the passenger list was carefully selected for this trip?"

"It was!" retorted Hughes. "Only twenty were to go, instead of a full complement. That fool Paley in the downtown ticket office says over the phone that since we took one more last night he didn't see any reason why he should have turned away two more fares this morning. We know personally every one in the original list, including Farrant. But of these last two we haven't been able to find out a thing. They gave their names as F. A. Doughty, and Lew Lubin, both of San Francisco. But the names aren't listed in the telephone book or the city directory. We haven't—"

"Mr. Hughes!" a voice interrupted from the office. "Telephone."

The field manager hurried in. "It's Paley again," he said, slamming back the receiver, as Britten entered the office. "He said the police also have been tipped off about Farrant. They've wired to L. A., but a lot of good that will do! I tell you, Captain Britten, there's going to be murder!— in our plane!"

The traffic chief visibly stiffened. His ruddy face turned pale. He could not doubt that the plane never would reach its destination. The gunman would force it down to escape after killing Farrant. Or, since there was fuel enough in the tanks for seven hundred miles, he might keep the ship flying deep into Mexico. With the rapidity and clearness of distant lightning, a dozen different fearful pictures flashed through his brain.

"I told you we shouldn't take any chances!" Britten said bitterly. "In this game we never know what's going to happen next. Even though we'd have been delayed a couple of days, we should have waited for the radio installation. Then we could have sent the emergency message to order the plane right back. A one-hundred-and-ten-thousand-dollar ship and no radio on board !"

"But the plans had been all completed, captain," replied Hughes. "The newspapers gave us a big play. We couldn't very well have cancelled the trip without drawing a lot of unfavorable publicity."

"To hell with the newspapers!" retorted Britten. '"We're not running this line for sensationalism. You know that our policy is first, last and all the time—  play safe! If nothing happens, nothing appears in the newspapers. Instead, here we are with the stage all set for a murder on the maiden flight of our big transport! What a break for your newspapers! What a break for us!"

"Well, don't blame me for the whole thing!" snapped Hughes. "The other company heads insisted on carrying out the schedule. They let the cat out of the bag! Another bubble goes flooey! The murder plane!" There was a sob in his voice as he raised his arms, dropped them listlessly to his sides. "Do something, captain! It's up to you!"

"There's a chance, Bill! Get my sky burner on the line. Warm it up!" Britten whirled on his heel and strode into his small private office. From the hat-rack in the corner he took down his flying suit, kicked his legs into it and pulled up the zipper fastener. He grabbed up his helmet with goggles and from the drawer of his desk took out a heavy service automatic which he slipped into the deep breast pocket.

The Hornet motor of the blue single seater was roaring on the line when Captain Britten came running out of the office. His heart quickened at sound of the powerful throb that shook the ground under his feet. Like a whippet at leash it strained at the chocks, while the steel prop flung back a cyclone of dust. He stopped for a moment in front to run his eye over the trim lines of the little craft in which he had won a dozen racing trophies, then nodded.

The mechanic in the pilot's seat throttled down  and climbed out. "She's a little cold yet, sir," he cautioned.

"That's all right, Jenkins," Britten said. "She'll soon get hot." He leaped into the cockpit, adjusted the parachute harness over his shoulders, waved.

"Farrant is alone in the last section on the left!" shouted Hughes. "Luck to you!"

Two field attendants, standing on either side, jerked the ropes that pulled the chocks from under the wheels. The quivering plane rolled off the concrete apron, then, as the pilot opened full gun, thundered down the field to zoom out of the dust cloud like a shell out of the mouth of a cannon.

One minute after the take-off the speed indicator held steadily at one hundred and eighty miles an hour. Captain Jesse Britten made a quick mental calculation. The Mercuria, he knew, was travelling at one hundred and twenty miles and had shoved off at ten o'clock sharp. He had started exactly twenty minutes later, so the ship now was out forty miles. His speed was one mile a minute faster. In forty minutes the passenger plane would reel off another eighty miles and would be one hundred and twenty miles out. And in forty minutes, at three miles an hour, he would cover the same distance. He traced his finger on the map to King City where circled figures showed an air distance of one hundred and twenty miles from San Francisco. There he should overtake the liner.

"Hold it, sweetheart! It's a man's life we're racing for to-day. Give me everything you've got." He patted the cowling with the affection that only a seasoned airman can have for his favorite plane. His keen, gray eyes scanned the far horizon. Then his face tightened into a deep frown.

Ahead there soon appeared the dreaded ground fog now being driven from the sun-heated valley to the sea. Higher into the blue he climbed, but at seven thousand feet the gray cloud wall still barred his way. He remembered that Harris, the liner's chief pilot, had been carefully instructed to avoid flying blind through fog or clouds, that if he couldn't go over, to go around. He could see that the fog rose fully another four thousand feet, while off to his right the Pacific Ocean was a green smudge.

Britten swung in that direction. For fifteen minutes he flew with the scorching sun on his back. When he looked down there was water below, and the fog was hanging along the high, rocky shore line. He resumed his course.

It was now five after eleven, forty-five minutes since he started. Britten squinted his eyes until they appeared like the glittering edge of a cavalry sword. Five minutes overdue.

If soon he didn't find the liner, he'd be too late, for surely the killer would waste little time in starting his grim work. He twisted continually in his seat, staring overside, above and on all sides. His eyes roved the skies for twenty miles in every direction.

"What's that?" He strained against the safety belt to peer through his own propeller arc. He had caught a flash of light that unmistakably was the sun's reflection on a varnished wing surface. His left hand pushed the throttle hard against the set screw. The Pitots gave the air speed at one hundred and ninety. An engine-driven bullet, and the thought of murder pounding in the pilot's brain.

"It's the Mercuria, all right," Britten assured himself, as he spied the four motors. Presently he was close enough to see plainly through the windows the passengers within the four compartments of the cabin as the sun's rays slanted down. By the groups around two tables, with others standing about watching, he guessed that two card games were in progress. He was surprised that none had caught sight of his ship, when it occurred to him, that he was between the liner and the sun, and therefore could not easily be seen.

Britten recalled the last thing Hughes had said was that Farrant had taken the rear compartment on the left. Anxiously he shifted his glance. He had got there in time! There was the key witness whose testimony at the oil trial that afternoon would send a dozen stock manipulators to prison. The man was sitting there, calmly, with head bent over a book, unaware that here, six thousand feet above earth, he was marked for death! Now it was Britten's duty to warn this man, to warn the pilots that on board the plane rode a hired killer!

Britten eased back on the throttle until he was flying slightly higher and about a hundred feet in front of the big passenger ship. He waved. Paul Whitberg, the co-pilot, shaded his eyes, and waved back, but Britten saw "Pinky" Harris, at the control wheel, motion him away. At least, they had recognized his blue racer.

Then the traffic superintendent began an elaborate series of gesticulations, pointing backward and drawing a hand across his throat to signify death. Thinking that perhaps the sun in back of him was blinding the two pilots and prevented them from seeing him clearly, he ruddered to the starboard side. He dipped slightly in making the manoeuvre.

When he looked around the liner was fifty feet below.

"That certainly was a fool's trick," Britten told himself. "Should have pulled up higher to go across. Instead, they shot into my slipstream and dropped."

When he got lower he saw both pilots now, with the sliding windows of the cockpit pushed far back. They were shaking their fists and their mouths were wide open, hurling futile curses. Britten shrugged, shook his head, and continued pointing backward. He extended his hand as if holding a pistol and moved the index finger as if he were pulling a gun trigger. He shouted at the top of his lungs, but his voice was drowned in the mighty roar of the five motors. He took out his automatic, held the muzzle against his head and again motioned toward the cabin. Still he couldn't make them understand, and he was having difficulty in holding his position as the liner kept edging away.

"They think I'm nuts!" 'he cried out. He dropped back, trying to devise some means of intelligent communication. He had paper and a pen in his pockets to write a note, but there was no rope or wire to lower it with. What he should have done was to have written the message in chalk on the side of his fuselage. It was too late for that now.

"Maybe I can scare that damned gunman," Britten thought. "If he sees me flying alongside he'll know his chance of escape will be cut off."

So Britten drew up on the port side. He realized how extremely dangerous it was to fly that close to an unwieldy passenger plane, but to his mind the situation was desperate. Besides, he had the utmost confidence in his flying skill to avoid collision.

As he got into position above the great span of singing wing he saw a man slowly rise from his chair, look into the compartment ahead, then face about and, with his hands pressed against his stomach, stagger down the aisle. Watching more closely now, Britten saw the man suddenly lurch against Farrant, who was sitting as before, reading. He saw the witness jump out of his chair, then catch the sick man.

A wild premonition seized Britten. Fascinated, he watched the two men stagger aft to the lavatory. Instantly the wide window was pushed open, apparently to give the sick man plenty of air, and Farrant's head appeared. There was an odd expression on his face as he chanced to look up at the small plane almost on top of him.

"Look out!" Britten suddenly shouted, pointing. "Behind you!"

But the pilot's warning came too late. He saw an arm snake around Farrant's throat from behind and pull the witness down. He could make out the struggling forms on the floor, thrashing about with fists rising and falling, with feet battering against the walls, and the metallic flashes of a dagger. In the blasting silence? he watched the mortal combat that unrolled before him very much like the climax of a celluloid drama.

The terrible sight held Britten breathless. Here he was within fifty feet of a man being murdered, and utterly helpless to aid him! He fingered the gun in his breast pocket, but he did not draw it. He dare not shoot for fear of hitting the wrong man.

The thing he had gone out to prevent was taking place right under his eyes! Twenty-three other men on board, yet none of them was aware of the horrible tragedy being enacted within thirty feet! Britten wanted to leap out of his cockpit and through that window.

He shot his plane ahead fifty feet. It was a miracle that his wheels had not fouled the liner's propellers. He leaned far down and hammered with his fist on the side of his fuselage, cursing and shouting into the faces of the two astonished pilots. The huge ship slipped away. It was all so useless.

"By God!" shouted Britten, raising his fist, "I'm going to make one of the requirements for our pilots that they know the deaf and dumb language so they can talk with their fingers in the air!"

He swept over the Mercuria, quickly pulled about to look again into the cockpit. Pinky Harris was there alone.

"It finally pecolated through their thick heads that something is wrong," Britten muttered. '"Whitberg has gone back." Now he observed startled faces of passengers pressed against the windows. He came up closer.

Suddenly a man's head and shoulders were thrust through the open lavatory window, then slipped back. A monstrous thought flashed through Britten's mind. He looked down. The ocean was below. The murderer was trying to throw the body overboard to destroy evidence of his crime!

Closer flew Britten until he could see the whites of the passengers' eyes. There was Whitberg and a dozen men crowded around him. Britten kept pointing back, then down to motion that some one was falling. He saw the co-pilot rush back, then return and spread out his hands that there was nothing wrong back there.

Britten knew there were two rest rooms on the plane, and that apparently Whitberg had looked only in one. Of course the second pilot couldn't hear what was taking place in the other as the window was open, and the roar of the engines drowned out all sound. So Britten pointed again. Whitberg held his finger against the wall of the fatal room. Britten nodded.

At last he had made them understand there was something wrong on the maiden flight of the Mercuria!

Only for a moment, though. This time, out of the same window, shot a pair of legs. Legs that frantically kicked against the fuselage, blindly seeking something to stand upon.

"He's throwing Farrant out alive!" cried Britten. He felt his blood chill to the marrow.

Farther out Farrant's body was pushed until the shoulders remained wedged within the metal framework. His flying shirt tails were whipped to shreds in the air stream. The kicking feet finally smashed through the fabric to secure a purchase on the steel tubular bracing of the fuselage, while the propeller blast stripped the torn linen clear back to the tail section with a sound like a booming mill saw. Slowly Farrant fought halfway in.

Britten sucked in a deep breath. There was still a chance to rescue the key witness. If they'd only work a little faster in there. Smash the door! Again Whitberg's face appeared. Britten continued jabbing his finger backward and down. Then the co-pilot slid a compartment window open and thrust his head out. What he saw caused his eyes to bulge.

"Save him!" yelled Britten.

The superintendent saw Whitberg inside wave his hands and shout. Instantly the passengers rushed wildly aft. This sudden shift of all that weight changed the center of gravity and threw the plane off equilibrium. The tail went down; the nose shot up in a mild zoom, and half the persons tumbled into a heap.

When Britten followed in a zoom he saw the delay was proving fatal. With the drop of the tail, Farrant again had been shoved completely out of the window. Only one arm was inside grasping something, while a cruel fist was hammering the side of his head to break that frantic hold.

For a brief, agonized moment Britten saw the unrecognizable face, swollen and bloody, turned toward him, with the free hand outstretched, as if he could lean down to grasp it. The mouth was open in soundless screams. Stark fear was leaping in those eyes! Seconds passed—  tense, terrible seconds. Farrant was slipping with the appalling slowness of creeping death. A black object suddenly rose, and fell across the fingers gripping the window ledge. Twice Farrant's body somersaulted, then tightened up into a ball as it dropped into eternity.

Abruptly Britten whipped his single-seater away from the liner into a left-hand power spin. He looked around, caught sight of a small, dark thing far below him, and straightened into a dive under full gun. He sighted through the cross-brace wires to hold that hurtling body in line of his vertical flight.

Britten often had wondered if it could be done— scooping up a man on the wing. Only one incident was on record that he knew of. A Royal Flying Corps observer, engaged in an air battle during the war, on January 6, 1918, was accidentally thrown out of the rear cockpit when the pilot made a sudden dive. He fell in direct line with the machine for several hundred feet and alighted safely on the fuselage back of the gun mount as the plane was coming out of the dive. It had been purely an accident, as the pilot had known nothing about the startling adventure of his observer until after he had landed.

But the thing had been done, Britten told himself. Though he was diving at such terrific speed that the altimeter could not register the descent, he estimated the distance to the water below at five thousand feet. He had plenty of room to try it.

The superintendent now was rapidly closing the gap between himself and Farrant. He could see the fluttering legs and arms. Then he remembered having read that a man could fall no faster than about two hundred and some miles an hour, at which point the suction of the vacuum created by the fall became equal to the pull of gravity. A flick of his eye showed him that the indicator had already passed the limit of two hundred and fifty miles on his air speed dial. The taut flying wires sounded like a thousand steam whistles.

Fifty feet! Farrant was falling flat and face upward. He evidently grasped the purpose of the diving plane, for Britten saw him double his body into a sitting position and extend his arms like hooks.

Britten moved the control stick slightly to avoid striking Farrant with the whirling propeller, and started to close the throttle. He must adjust his speed to that of the falling man when coming parallel, otherwise he'd overshoot.

Suddenly he yanked the throttle clear back. He caught a mere fleeting glimpse of blurred, contorted features, of tensed fingers that scraped along the top wing as he shot past with frightful speed that he had been too late in checking!

Missed him! Britten's heart stood still. Down another thousand feet he plunged like a meteor, his propeller fluttering loudly, and his motor backfiring tails of flame from the exhaust! The white-capped ocean was coming up fast. He jigged the control stick to rock the plane out of the vertical flight, then with a slow, steady pull, heaved back until the nose jerked up to the horizon. Right over the water he kicked the little craft into a vertical bank so that it creaked in every welded joint.

But the pilot was too far away now to get under Farrant for a second try. Like a stone the man plunged into the foaming surf, sending up a long, thin column of water that mushroomed at the top.

Britten circled the spot. He was, suddenly, completely numb. He thought, and felt, nothing.

Gradually Britten's mind cleared. He looked around. There was a high promontory with a lighthouse on top. He checked the place on his map and marked the spot where Farrant had fallen in case the body was washed ashore and could be recovered.

Then a new fear gripped the pilot. The assassin was aboard the Mercuria. He had made his kill; his next thought would be the greatest elemental urge in every man— self-preservation. Escape!

Britten recalled the man hadn't used a gun. Probably he had been afraid the shot would be heard, so he had used a knife. Britten remembered the flashing blade. But without a doubt the man had a gun, perhaps one for each hand. He'd force the plane on across the border!

The superintendent climbed rapidly over the shore line. Anxiously he searched the clear sky, but the Mercuria was nowhere in sight. Again he hurled his single-seater through the air with every ounce of power in the motor.

Feverish conjectures held him rigid in his tight seat.

Soon the great spread of the city of Los Angeles came in view. He saw a half dozen machines soaring high above the numerous airports of the metropolis. But not one bore any resemblance to the four-motored transport. As he passed directly over the gleaming white dome of the city hall, he cut the gun to lose altitude. He had suddenly decided first to land at the terminal.

Then Britten's quick eye caught the wide span of wing aglint with the sun gliding majestically to his field. "The Mercuria!" he shouted. There was relief in his voice. He could see the propeller arcs of the engines. Dust rose behind as the wheels touched ground and the ship taxied to the line.

Britten slammed his single-seater down to a furious landing. The passengers had deplaned and hurriedly entered the terminal building when Britten came dashing up under the nose of the liner. There was fire in his eyes and his fingers were working as if they were itching to grasp something.

"Harris! Whitberg!'' he yelled.

The cockpit door opened and the two pilots jumped down.

"Where is he?"

"He's in safe hands," replied Whitberg.

For a long moment Britten scrutinized his two best pilots, to whom he had entrusted the queen of the air on her maiden flight. He turned his head slightly toward the strident clanging of an ambulance. Then he burst into a vituperative torrent.

"What a couple of nice, prize numskulls you two turned out to be! I suppose you thought I was up there skylarkin', buzzing around, scraping the varnish off the big bus to give your passengers a thrill! Maybe you thought I was drunk and decided to put on a show? The greenest, dumbest pilot would have known that something was wrong, that I was trying to tell him about it! But you birds— you just sat there like a couple of ivory robots!"

"Why didn't you lower us a note, or something?" spoke up Harris, with the merest trace of a sneer. "I was on the point of turning about to come back, only we were more than halfway down, and I didn't see any logical reason to do that."

"I was going to do that," said Britten, "but there was nothing to lower a note with. In fact, I came pretty near landing on your back."

"Well, the thing's been done," said Whitberg, "and there's—"

"That's it!" snapped Britten. "It wouldn't have happened if you fellows had used your brains a little faster. Right after you shoved off, Hughes runs out with a wild yarn about this gunman being on board to kill Farrant, the star prosecution witness in this twenty-million-dollar oil scandal that we've been reading about in the papers. He had taken the train last night, but on a hunch got off at San José, came back and reserved passage on the Mercuria. The man who happened to get into his berth was found this morning stabbed to death. But even in our plane he wasn't safe."

"If you want my opinion, super," said Harris, "I think it'll be called justifiable homicide."

"Justifiable?" demanded Britten. "What do you mean, Harris? Are you in with that gang of oil thieves?"

The two pilots looked at each other in deep puzzlement.

"Say, Mr. Britten," ventured Whitberg, "I think you've got this all wrong."

"Are you trying to tell me I don't know what I'm talking about?" snarled the superintendent, his jawbone growing white. "I suppose you'll be telling me next it was all a movie stunt?"

"Now, just a minute, super," said Harris, stepping closer. "Cool down, will you? Just suppose the two of us were in that cabin fighting. You knew I was hired to kill you, and you knew that I'd throw your body out because nobody would stop to count whether twenty-two or twenty-three passengers got out of the plane here, and I'd make my get-away. Simple, isn't it? And chances are it would have happened just like that if you hadn't pulled what you did to make me twist around up there to avoid a crash."

"You mean," whispered Captain Jesse Britten, his bewildered eyes opening wider with a new gleam of understanding, "that the gunman was taken for a loop?"

"Sure, now you got it straight," said Harris. "The thug was pitched out by Farrant."

___________________

2: How the Fat Woman Eloped

W. L. Alden

1837-1908

The Strand Magazine August 1893

"YES, SIR,' continued the doorkeeper; "fat women are more sentimental than any other women. The fatter they are the more they fall in love. Though, to tell the truth, the most sentimental fat woman I ever had wasn't by any means the fattest. She only weighed two hundred and eighty pounds when she came to me, and I lost her when she had just got up to three hundred and forty; and very sorry I was to lose her, for she had a great future before her, if she had only been willing to stick to business and had kept up her pride in her profession.

"For the first six months I had her I thought she was a jewel. She never took the least bit of exercise, and she dieted as carefully as if she had been a dyspeptic with a stomach in ruins, who was trying to put himself to rights again by eating nothing but the most disagreeable kinds of food. By the way, did you ever notice that the only way to get even with a stomach that has once gone back on you is to starve it, or give it nothing that any rational stomach likes? The minute you begin to treat a stomach kindly, and let it have the sort of meat and drink it wants, that minute you are on the road to dyspepsia. A stomach is just like a small boy— you'll spoil it if you ever let it have its own way.

"I hadn't had this fat woman a week when I saw that she was as bad as all the rest of them, so fat as falling in love goes. Our giant was taken with the scarlet fever, which was a most ridiculous sort of disease for a man of six feet and a half high, and mighty sick he was. Of course, I couldn't send him to a hospital, where everybody could see him, without destroying his market value, so he had to be nursed in his room at the museum. Nobody was willing to nurse him till the fat woman came forward and said that she would nurse the poor man if everybody else was afraid. Naturally, everybody applauded her bravery, as everybody always does when a person undertakes to do something that other people are afraid to do, and are glad to get rid of doing. I didn't altogether like the idea of temporarily losing the services of the fat woman as well as the giant, but I like to let my people have all the pleasure they can, so I told the fat woman to go ahead, and I would pay her half her salary while she was off duty.

"Of course, the fat woman fell in love with the giant before she had been twenty-four hours in the sick room, but I will say that she made a first-class nurse. There was no walking around the room, and knocking over bottles, and putting the furniture in order, and sweeping the floor up, as is always going on when you have an ordinary-sized nurse. The fat woman spent the whole day and night sitting in her chair, except when the giant wanted his medicine, or when he tried to get up, being delirious, and go on the platform in his night-shirt. Whenever this fit was on him, the fat woman would just lean her weight on him till he quieted down.

"Once she accidentally leaned a little too much on his chest, and the man was pretty nearly suffocated before she noticed that anything unusual was the matter, but generally speaking she did her duty in a way that laid over any regular hospital nurse that I ever saw.

"When the giant got well the fat woman, who considered herself engaged to him, though he swore that he had never said a word of the kind, expected him to marry her, and when she found out that he hadn't the least idea of any such foolishness she was destroyed, as you might say. For about a week she lost her appetite and didn't eat enough to keep her alive, not to speak of making progress in her profession, and I had to speak pretty sharply to her about the dishonesty of growing thin when she had a contract with me that obliged her to increase her weight by all legitimate means. However, at the end of the week she braced up again and soon got over her passion.

"That's the way with fat women. They get over their disappointments, and are looking out for fresh ones quicker than any other woman outside of a dime museum. I'd like to find some intelligent man, say a parson or a doctor, who could tell me the reason of this. I can't see myself why there should be any difference between a fat woman and a thin woman in the matter of their affections; but there is a big difference. If you want just to carry on with a girl, take a middling fat one, and she'll get over it without giving you any trouble. But if you mean business, and want to marry a girl who'll stick to you, don't you take any girl weighing more than a hundred and twenty pounds.

"In course of time, the fat woman forgot all about her affair with the giant, and the two were excellent friends, both being good-tempered and goodhearted in their way. But pretty soon the fat woman fell in love again, and this time it was with an outsider. He was a sort of ticket speculator, and about as worthless a fellow as there was in all Cincinnati, which was where my show was located at the time, and anybody except a fat woman would have known that if he made love to a woman, it was because he thought there was money in it. He supposed that the fat woman was well-to-do in the world, as most of them are, seeing as they draw good salaries and have no expenses to speak of. Besides, he was sharp enough to see that she was putting on flesh day by day, and would naturally command more salary according as her weight increased. He used to come into my place pretty nearly every day and have a little talk with the fat woman, and say how-de-do to the other 'freaks' and maybe try to borrow fifty cents of me, for I had known him a good many years— which naturally made him feel that he had a right to borrow money of me.

"One day I noticed that the fat woman looked a good deal smaller round the waist than usual, and I charged her with lacing. At first she denied it, but I told her it was no use, and that she couldn't deceive me, and then she admitted that she was wearing a corset. 'What's got into you?' I asked her. 'Haven't you no sense, and no pride in your profession? Here you are actually trying to make yourself look smaller than you are, when you know perfectly well that you ought to be trying to do just the opposite. I tell you what it is, Melinda, you've got your eye on some young man, and want to make yourself look pretty.'

"'And what if I do?' said she. 'Do you think that a fat woman hasn't got any feelings? I'm a woman, if I do weigh three hundred pounds, and I've got a woman's feelings, though none of you men ever seem to think so.' I told her that there wasn't any question about her feelings, and that I had no concern with anything but her weight, and that if she began to lose flesh she couldn't expect me to stick to the contract. 'Just put all this foolishness out of your mind,' I said, 'and try to work yourself up to four hundred pounds. That's an ambition worthy of a sensible woman, while this hyer falling in love is only fit for women who haven't got brains or flesh to earn their own living.'

"But my advice was wasted, as advice always is, and in a few days the fat woman came to me and asked to be let off her contract, so that she could be married and go to keeping house for her husband. It made me mad to see her so willing to throw away her future, and so careless about my interests, considering that I had treated her kindly and liberally, and I told her that I should hold her to her con- tract, which had two years more to run, and would sue her for damages if she left me, or if she neglected to keep herself up to her usual weight. This made her pretty angry, and she said that she should do as she pleased, and that I was a horrid brute. So I saw that I was going to have trouble with her.

"That night the fat woman had a long talk with her admirer after the performance was over, and for the next day or two was in such good spirits that I knew she must mean mischief. The fact was that the fellow had induced her to agree to elope with him, and she felt so sure that her professional career was coming to a happy end that she openly took to drinking vinegar and eating meat, and drew in her waist till she looked as if she was on the edge of apoplexy.

"The fat woman's room was just over mine, and, naturally, she couldn't move around much without waking me, though I am a pretty middling sound sleeper. Soon after she had taken to vinegar, I was waked up one night by hearing her walking about her room in her boots, and, as my watch said it was two o'clock, I knew something was up. By-and-by she came downstairs as softly as she could, though the stairs did groan as stairs will when you put three hundred pounds of woman on them in the middle of the night. I got up and looked out of the window, and there was a carriage standing by the stage door. I saw the fat woman's little game at once. She was going to run away with the ticket speculator.

"My first thought was to dress and run out and stop her, but presently I remembered how narrow the stage door was, and I made up my mind to wait and see the fun, my window being where it commanded a good view of the scene of action. Just as I anticipated, the fat woman halted when she came to the stage door, and presently I heard her call, in a low voice: 'Tom, come and help me; I'm stuck in the door!' Tom climbed down out of the carriage, and, getting a good hold of the fat woman's arms, braced himself against the jamb of the door and pulled his level best. But he couldn't start her, and, though she stood it like a heroine, she had to tell him, after he had pulled a while, that she couldn't stand it any longer.

"Then Tom tried to push her back into the corridor, so that she could take a fresh start and maybe get herself through the door edgewise, but he couldn't budge her.

So the two whispered together a while, and then Tom called the driver of the carriage to come and help him. The driver was the most intelligent of the lot, and he said that the only way to get the lady loose was for Tom to climb over her and then push from the inside while the driver pulled from the outside. It didn't seem to be an easy job for Tom to climb over her, but he managed to do it, though she screamed a little when his boots sunk into her shoulders. Then I heard him say, 'Now, driver, while you pull I'll try running the length of the corridor and bumping her. The shock may loosen her if you pull just as I bump.' I don't know how the fat woman liked it, but she held her tongue, and after a while something gave way, and she suddenly shot out into the road, falling on the driver, and making him think his last end had come. When he got himself free, and he and Tom together had set the fat woman on her legs again, I heard him say: 'I'll have to be after charging you, sor, for a suit of clothes, being as my own is spoilt entirely, and my left arm is sprained.' But Tom told him to hurry up and help boost the fat woman into the carriage, and he'd see that everything was made right when the time came to pay.

"You may ask why I didn't interfere about this time and keep the woman from running away. Because I knew just what her weight was, and how much the bottom of an ordinary carriage will bear, and I wanted to see how the thing would end.

"Well, it ended just as I knew it would. It was the middle of summer, and daylight began about three o'clock, so Tom was in a hurry to get away before anybody would see him and recognize him or his companion. He and the driver gave the fat woman a most everlasting boost and shot her into the carriage, and Tom was going to get in after her when I heard something crack, and the fat woman gave a dismal yell. She had gone clean through the bottom of the carriage, and was standing with her feet on the road, with the broken pieces of the flooring holding her so tight that she couldn't stir. She gave up all pretense of keeping quiet, and called out at the top of her voice for the driver to hold the horses and keep the carriage from moving; and she begged Tom, if he had any love for her, to help her out of the carriage, and let her get into her own room once more.

'"The fact is, the woman was in a very bad fix. The splinters must have hurt her like so many knives, and the more Tom tried to pull away the broken boards, the more they got their work in. Then, all of a sudden, the horses took it into their heads to start, and the woman yelled that they were killing her, and the driver cut them loose instantly.

"By the time the horses were unhitched Tom had given up the attempt to get the woman loose as a bad job, and was standing in a helpless sort of way by the carriage door, telling her for Heaven's sake to hold her tongue before she waked up the whole neighborhood.

"I judged it was about time for me to take a hand in the proceedings, so I called out of the window, 'Melinda! If you've had enough of this yer foolishness, just say the word, and I'll come down with an ax and help you out of your fix.' She said all she wanted was to be let loose, and she would never try to leave me again, not for any man, let alone a cruel, heartless wretch that would stand by and see a woman suffer, and never lift a finger to help her. So I dressed slow and easy, so as to let the splinters sink into her mind, as you might say, and keep her from forgetting all she owed me, and then I got my ax and came down and broke her out without much trouble. Tom had nothing to say for himself. I will give him the credit of admitting that he stood around while I was working with the ax, till he saw that the woman was loose, and then he bolted, thinking, perhaps, that I might be disposed to use the ax on him, which would have been a waste of labor that I shouldn't have thought of undertaking. The driver tackled up his horses in no time, and started after Tom as hard as he could drive, knowing that his chance of collecting payment would be middling small if he let Tom fairly out of his sight.

"The fat woman was a good deal tore up with the splinters, and. more or less exhausted by the mental strain she had gone through while the two men were trying to haul her through the stage door. She hadn't much strength left for conversation, and she went very quietly with me round to the front of the house and through the big door up to her room. When she was going into her room she turned and said:

" 'Colonel, I'll never do it again, and I'll do my best to fatten up after this.'

" 'That's all right,' said I. 'You just go to bed again and forget all about it. We're all liable to make mistakes, and it wasn't your fault that you didn't know how much a floor of a carriage would bear. I'll send you up the arnica, and just you use it and forget all about Tom, who is no good anyway, and who'll never come round you again, you can bet your bottom dollar.

"After that you never saw a more faithful and conscientious artist than that fat woman. She dieted herself more carefully than ever, and before the year was out she had got up to three hundred and forty pounds."

___________________

3: Crocodile Tears

Guy Gilpatric

1896-1950

The Saturday Evening Post, 28 April 1945

THE MATAMBA is a broad and muddy African river which rises in the western highlands of the French Soudan and flows into the Atlantic not far from St. Louis de Senegal. Some forty miles up this stream from the sea a British freighter, the S.S. Inchcliffe Castle, lay blistering in the awful heat while she loaded a cargo of peanuts. These peanuts, destined to provide oil, soap, and vegetable fats for the recently liberated population of Marseille, were brought out to her in lighters manned by tar-black Mandingos. The process of loading was primitive, its progress painfully slow, and by the ninth stifling day of it, Mr. Colin Glencannon found himself prey to a devastating boredom. With everything in the engineering department shut down except the deck machinery, there was little to occupy him on the ship; on shore, the corrugated iron peanut sheds and the squalid native village offered nothing more diverting than malaria, Mandingo ladies with notably unfashionable figures, and bugs which could bite with both ends. Thus left dismally to his own resources, he was seated in the shade of the poop awning, deep in a copy of the Scots Presbyterian Churchman and deeper in a bottle of Duggan's Dew of Kirkintilloch, when he was waited upon by Mr. Montgomery. The mate had just returned from shore in company with Captain Ball; his khaki shirt and shorts were stained with sweat and he appeared to be out of sorts.

"'Ow soon can you get steam on the engines?" he demanded gruffly and without preliminaries.

Mr. Glencannon finished his paragraph in the Churchman, marked the place with his finger, took a swig from his bottle, yawned, stretched, and finally looked up. "Steam?" he repeated, blinking vacantly. "Did I just noo hear ye blethering something aboot steam?— Steam for what? We're only half loaded, so why in the wurrld shud ye be wanting steam?"

"Because we've got to shift our anchorage immejitly, that's why!" Mr. Montgomery tapped his foot on the deck. "That French bloke at the plantation just got a telegraph message there's been a cloudburst in the back country. 'E says if we don't move up stream to the shelter of that there point, the current'll be too stiff for the lighters and we'll sit 'ere baking for another blarsted fortnight. So now, per'aps Yer Ludship will kindly be so good as to condescend to inform me wot time can I 'ave the ruddy steam."

Mr. Glencannon ignored the sarcasm and stifled another yawn. "Ah, whurra, whurra, what a nuisance ye are! Anybody but you cud have seen with half an eye that this was no fit spot to anchor in the feerst place!"

"Oh, yus?" the mate bristled. "Well, I let go exackly where the pilot said to. Just you attend to your business and I'll attend to mine!"

"Aye, weel, it's lucky for the ship that one o' us knows how," said Mr. Glencannon, folding his Churchman, gathering up his whisky, and frowning at his watch. "I'll have steam for ye at precisely three o'clock, ye ill-natured jockoss.— And at precisely one minute past, I shall be richt here on deck to mak' sure ye dinna try to anchor in the middle o' yon peanut field."

Shortly before the appointed time, Mr. Montgomery and the carpenter took their station on the forecastle head while Mr. Swales and the bosun went aft to the poop. Presently the chains came clunking up the hawsepipes, the telegraph clanged for half speed ahead and the Inchcliffe Castle moved slowly up stream, her partially exposed propeller thrashing a geyser of suds. Returning to his chair beneath the awning, Mr. Glencannon observed that the speed of the current had indeed already increased and that the broad bosom of the Matamba, ordinarily a tarnished yellow, was now cocoa brown. Even as he looked, a great tree, roots and all, came dipping and swirling down the middle. In the glassy calm backwater under the point, however, a fleet of dugout canoes floated motionless as sleeping swans, the native occupants stretched out on their backs with their fishing lines looped around their big toes. Mr. Glencannon considered them pityingly. "Losh, what a life! What a country!" he growled to the second mate and the bosun. "How utterly futile, how frichtfully boring! Moreover, it's contagious! Why, even I, who am normally a mon o' vast energy and..."

There was a sudden dull shock. The deck trembled. Mr. Glencannon sprang to his feet. With a hoarse cry "The propeller!" he rushed to the taffrail and leaned over it. "The propeller's hit a log! Oh, why couldn't that lout on the fo'c's'le keep his eyes open!" Just then, the engines were rung off and the forward anchors let go. Still peering down at the muddy water, the trio on the poop saw rise to the surface, not a log, but a very large and very discouraged crocodile. It lashed its tail feebly once or twice, rolled over with its putty-colored belly to the sky and then lay still. "Great swith, what a munster!" exclaimed Mr. Glencannon. "He tried to bite off the propeller and got his dom neck brukken! Quick, lads, let's give yon blackamoors in the dugoots a hail! We'll heave them a line to mak' fast to the beast and hoist him aboard with the derrick!"

After considerable excitement in the canoes as well as on the Inchcliffe Castle, the crocodile was dragged over the side and deposited on the after well deck. "Ah, losh, isn't it a beauty?" Mr. Glencannon gloated, strutting back and forth in the puddle that surrounded it. "Why, it must be fourteen feet lang if it's an inch! Look it over, Captain Ball and gentlemen!" he invited the crowd. "—Admire it, marvel at it, feast yere eyes on it! I think ye'll agree it does credit to my coolness, courage, and presence o' mind."

"Oh, pooh!" Mr. Montgomery sneered. "Wot's so bally wonderful about picking up an old dead crocodile? And now that you've got it, wot the 'ell are you going to do with it?"

Mr. Glencannon looked at him coldly. "Why, I'm going to skin it, stuff it, tak' it to London, and sell it," he answered. "What did ye think I was going to do— drop a pooched egg on it and have it with my tea?"

"You can drop a raw egg on it and have it with your whisky, just so's you get it off my deck!" Mr. Montgomery turned and waved to the man at the winch. "All right, Rafferty! 'Eave it out over the side again, so's 'e can tow it ashore and stuff it to 'is 'eart's content."

"Ashore? Foosh! Noo, just hold on a minute!" cried Mr. Glencannon. "If ye think I'm going to stuff it on shore, where I'll catch my death o' fever and get drilled full o' holes by jet-propelled mosquitoes, ye've got another think coming!"

"And so 'ave you, if you think you're going to skin that narsty creature 'ere!" Mr. Montgomery retorted. "I'll not 'ave me decks turned into no slaughter 'ouse to make a Roman 'oliday for a drunken Scotch tinker!"

With an outraged snort, Mr. Glencannon sprang forward, his brass knuckles at the ready. His way was blocked by Captain Ball.

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen! I mean to say, come, come!" the shipmaster admonished them. "I really can't see why you should fly off in such a tithy over this here mere crocodile!"

"Mere?" growled Mr. Montgomery. "Gor-blimey, 'e says 'imself it's fourteen feet long!"

"Yes, quite, ker-hem, but don't let's split hairs. What I was about to say was, I was about to say I can't see why you should get so upset just because Mr. Glencannon wants to stuff his crocodile right here where it is. Suppose a certain amount of goo and gurry does get spilled on the deck— well, what then? Ha! You should serve like I did on an old-time whaler, if you want to see a deck really get gullied up with soo and sur— er, sullied up with groo and... Well, anyhow, ker-hem, Mr. Glencannon has got my permission to stuff his crocodile wherever his fancy dictates."

Mr. Montgomery touched his cap visor stiffly. "Very good, sir. You're the captain of the ship, sir, and I 'ereby washes me 'ands of the 'ole ruddy business!"

"And while ye're at it, dinna overlook the back o' yere neck," said Mr. Glencannon, daintily thumbing his nose at him.

Bright and early next morning Mr. Glencannon appeared at breakfast in a pair of moth-eaten bathing trunks and the luxuriant pelt of copper colored shag he had worn since early manhood. Having bolted his meal, he borrowed an assortment of knives from the cook, ordered an ash bucket sent up from stokehold, strode briskly aft, and fell to work with gusto. "Ah, what a delichtful escape from boredom!" he breathed, flopping the crocodile over on its back with a crowbar. "It's nothing less than a godsend! After all, what cud be a better tonic for a curdled soul than a few days o' guid, clean creative wurrk?"

Selecting a butcher knife, he drew it down the length of the crocodile's keel and then stood back to admire the result like an artist viewing his canvas. "Haw! Weel done, Glencannon! Capital! Bravvio!" he applauded himself, unstintingly. "As I've told ye a thousand times, ye're a genius o' infinite talent and even greater vairsatility!" He pried open the slit and peered within. "H'm! How interesting! He appears to have an extremely cumplicated mechanism. Weel, by the time I've finished this job, I foncy I'll know my way aroond inside a crocodile lik' a beggar in his cups.— Ho there, Muster MacQuayle! A vurra guid morning to ye, dear lad!" He greeted the second engineer, who was watching him from the deck above. "Please have the kindness to come doon her a minute and help me drog oot this condenser."

"Aye, aye, sir!" Mr. MacQuayle crooked his arms over the handrails of the ladder, swung his feet into the air, and slid down like a meteor. "—Er, condenser, ye said, sir?" He leaned over the crocodile and studied its interior. "Ye mean this gadget here? That's no' his condenser, sir, it's his intermediate cylinder. His condenser is that purplish sort o' a pudding, ower yon."

"What, that?" Mr. Glencannon smiled indulgently. "Tsk, tsk, Muster MacQuayle, ye're sodly in error! His intermediate cylinder is that thing that looks lik' a pink bowler hat, with all the pipes and tubing coupled up to it."

"No, sir, it's nowt o' the sort," Mr. MacQuayle asserted, positively. "That is his secondurra evoporator unit, as ye can plainly see if ye'll ta' the trouble to trace back the syphon ducts from the main connections."

Mr. Glencannon's face darkened and his walrus mustache bristled. "Noo, just a minute, my dear young mon!" he said. "Am I to understond from yere ossinine blether that ye think ye know more aboot marine engineering than I do?"

"Ye can understond what ye dom weel please," said Mr. MacQuayle, with spirit. "If ye understud e'en the ruddiments o' marine engineering, ye'd understond that this gadget is no' his condenser but his intermediate cylinder, as I told ye in the feerst place."

"Foosh and fuddlesticks!" roared Mr. Glencannon, seizing the crowbar and pounding the deck with it. "It's his condenser, I tell ye!— His condenser, his condenser, his condenser!"

Mr. McQuayle dragged a Stillson wrench from his hip pocket and whanged it thunderously against the ash bucket. "And I tell ye it's his intermediate cylinder, his intermediate cylinder, his intermediate cylinder!" he bellowed.

"Oh, aye?" Mr. Glencannon crouched tense. "Weel, ye headstrong gowk, I'll give ye a closer look at it!" He reached into the crocodile, snatched up the object in dispute and hurled it full at his assistant's head.

Mr. MacQuayle ducked. The missile caromed slitheringly off the rail and fell ker-slop! into the muddy Matamba River. An instant later he ducked again as the crowbar went hurtling after it.

"Hoot! So it's violence ye want, is it? Weel—" he rolled up his sleeve, spat on his palm, and took a fresh grip on his Stillson. "Weel, ye murderous auld boglie, in all o' Scotia's historra, the doughty Clan MacQuayle has ne'er refused the gage o' the nosty, drunken brood o' sheep-stealers that call themselves Glenca ..."

There came an outburst of shouts from the deck above, where a number of the crew had gathered to enjoy the fracas. They were pointing excitedly at something in the water. Leaning over the rail, Mr. Glencannon gasped with surprise and delight. For there, floating alongside the Inchcliffe's weed-grown plates, was a crocodile fully as large and quite as dead as the original specimen!

"'E popped up to the surface and grabbed that 'unk of gizzard you flung at Mr. MacQuayle, sir," one of the coal passers explained. "Just as 'e'd sunk 'is teeth into it, yer crowbar came sailing down and barshed 'is greedy 'ead in."

"It wasn't a gizzard, dom it, it was a condenser! But still," Mr. Glencannon smiled and expanded his chest, "but still, as ye all saw, I made a vurra phenumenal shot. Hurry up, lads— hop into the boat and mak' fast a line to him! Haw! Why, at this rate, I'll be stuffing crocodiles from noo until the oak that fell last winter doth upraise its shottered stem!"

"Like 'ell you will!" snarled Mr. Montgomery, arriving on the scene with Captain Ball and sizing up the situation at a glance. "There'll be no more ruddy crocodiles setting foot on this 'ere ship, not if I knows it!— Look at the 'orrid state me deck is in already! Ugh! It smells like Billingsgate Fish Market!"

"Oh, now, pish-tush," Captain Ball chided him, nevertheless hastening to light a cigar. "Don't be such a fuss budget! Why, another crocodile more or less won't make any difference one way or the other! Crocodiles, Mr. Mate, are like children; having two of 'em is no more trouble than having one."

"Ah! A very profound observation!" Mr. Glencannon nodded. "By the way, Captain and gentlemen, noo while we're all still gathered here, I feel it my Christian duty to testify in yere presence that I bear no grudge against Muster MacQuayle for his recent vicious display o' temper. Let him onswer to his ain fulthy conscience, say I, and let the rest o' us get busy and yonk yon crocodile aboard."

Later that morning, as he was slicing, cutting, hacking, ripping, and humming a gay little tune to himself, young Mr. Levy, the wireless operator, strolled aft and stood watching him. It was apparent that Sparks had something on his mind. After an interval, he shifted his feet and cleared his throat. "Lawks, Mr. Glencannon, I must say you've got a rare talent for this sort of work!" he began, unctuously. "'Ow will you go about the actual stuffing part?"

"Oh, that will be ridiculously sumple," the engineer assured him. "I've read up on the subject in my auld stondby, The Hondymon's Hondbook, or A Thousand Things to Mak' from Odds and Ends. Before the skins are quite dry, ye see, I'll stretch them ower skeletons bent oot o' wire and steel rod. When we get to Marseels, I'll buy some arsenic, or something similar, to sprinkle aroond inside the skins to keep the bugs oot. Next, I'll stuff the hollow parts with cotton waste, auld jute sacking, and what not. And finally, o' course, I'll sew them up."

"H'm!" Mr. Levy took a cigarette from over his ear and slowly tapped it on his wristwatch. "And when we get to London, you'll sell 'em, eh? Or at least, you'll try to!" He lit a match and touched it to the cigarette, meanwhile studying Mr. Glencannon from under half-closed lids. "By the way, just 'oo do you think will buy 'em?"

Mr. Glencannon paused in his labors and wiped his hands thoughtfully on the seat of his bathing trunks. "A-weel, that's a question," he admitted. "Noo that ye speak o' it, it occurs to me there may be any number o' people in London who dinna feel in need o' a brace o' stuffed crocodiles. Ye know how things are in war time!"

"Ah! Precisely!" Sparks tilted back his head and blew a cloud of smoke into the superheated African air. "If you should 'appen to arsk me, Mr. Glencannon, you've got a very limited market and a very tough sales problem!"

"Aye, so it wud seem, so it wud seem. But come, Muster Levy— I know ye've got a keen business head on ye and yere suggestions wud be vurra weelcome."

"Oh, yus? Jus' exackly 'ow very welcome?" Mr. Levy flipped his cigarette over the rail and rubbed his hands briskly. "Shall we say twenty percent of the gross?"

"Ten," said Mr. Glencannon. "And noo that we've come to tairms, let's sit doon here on this latest crocodile and discuss yere ideas."

Mr. Levy shrugged and settled down beside him. "All right— now listen! The way I analyze this 'ere sales problem, crocodiles in London certainly ain't everybody's dish— but still, they're no end of a novelty. Next to nobody'll want to buy 'em, but practically everybody'll stop to look at 'em; see what I mean? Well, the way to carsh in on this 'igh attention value is to use 'em to advertise something."

"But..."

"But wait! Now, just suppose we was to put 'igh stiff collars and good loud neckties on 'em, which would make 'em even more of a novelty than ever. On one necktie we'd have the name Joe and on the other we'd 'ave Sid."

"— Joe?— Sid?— What for?"

Mr. Levy smirked complacently, then leaned over and poked Mr. Glencannon in the ribs. "For Joe and Sid Crocker, that's wot for!"

Mr. Glencannon sprang to his feet. "Joe and Sid Crocker! The Limehouse pub keepers! Ho, splendid! Wonderful! Magnificent!" He seized Mr. Levy's hand and pumped it violently. "Ah, Sparks, Sparks, Sparks, ye're nothing short o' a prudigy!"

"Say, ain't I? And can'tcher just picture wot a ruddy fine eye-catcher them two crocs will make, standing on their 'ind legs out there on the sidewalk in front of the pub? Why say— we can even put big wooden cigars in their mouths and mugs of beer in their 'ands, too! I'll bet we can make the Crockers stump up twenty quid for 'em easy!"

"Twenty quid? Twenty quid, foosh!" Mr. Glencannon snapped his fingers. "We'll demond twenty-five or theerty at the vurra least!"

"Yus, thirty-five— why not? Them Crocker blokes can afford it! Per'aps you didn't know it, Mr. Glencannon, but besides running that there pub in East India Dock Road, Joe and Sid fix prize fights, pull off little deeds with race 'orses, buy jewelry with no questions arsked, and I don't know wot all!"

"Ah! In a wurrd, they're vurra progressive businessmen," Mr. Glencannon nodded understanding. "Weel, t'will be a pleasure and a privilege to deal with them!"

SOME WEEKS LATER, the Inchcliffe Castle nosed into the silvery, hill-ringed amphitheater of Marseille harbor, threaded her way between the wreck buoys that studded the fairway, and tied up at the Hun-blasted ruin of the Quai de la Joliette. She lay berthed at the ravished city for eight days, a good part of which Mr. Glencannon spent combing the pharmacists' shops for certain chemicals with which to treat his crocodiles' interiors, and grog shops for certain others with which to treat his own. From Marseille, the ship went light around to Huelva, where she loaded oranges and cork bark for London. By the time she had left that port and joined a northbound convoy, Mr. Glencannon's long travail was nearly o'er.

"There, noo, Sparks!" he said as he sewed the final stitch in the final crocodile and bit off the thread. "Cast yere eyes upon the neatest job o' toxidairmy since the days o' ancient Egypt, when Queen Cleo Patrick stuffed the infant Moses full o' bulrushes!"

Mr. Levy inspected the crocodiles critically. "Yus, just laying there, they really do look as lifelike as dammit," he declared. "You say you can bend 'em into any position you want, eh?"

"Aye, thonks to my ingenious arrangement o' the metal framework within. O' course, there's no' sufficient headroom here in the 'tween-deck to have them stonding upricht, but I can stond them up in a jiffy on the sidewalk ootside the pub."

"And 'ow about the collars and ties and the big wooden cigars?"

"They and the beer mugs are all that remain to be done. I'll mak' the hoberdashery oot o' tin and the mugs oot o' five-gallon grease drums."

"Fine, fine! My word, wot an eye-catcher they'll be! There ain't a pub in London's ever 'ad anything to touch 'em, I'll guarantee that! Yus, and if Joe and Sid don't whack out fifty pounds for 'em, I'll be ... Oh, 'ere's Mr. Montgomery!"

"Guidbye, Muster Montgomery!" Mr. Glencannon greeted him,

"Er— I 'ope you'll excuse this interruption, gempmen," the mate smiled obsequiously as he stepped in over the high iron sill. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn't 'elp over'earing something about fifty quid for these 'ere crocks. Fifty quid! Whew! It's a lot of money, friends, a lot of money! Welp, Mr. Glencannon, I— I simply can't believe an upstanding sportsman like you would dream of doing me out of my fair share of it!"

"Blosh!" cried Mr. Glencannon, clenching his fists. "What d'ye mean, yere fair share o' it? I kilt the feerst crocodile with my propeller! I kilt the second with my crowbar! I've stuffed them both with my ain fair honds in the teeth o' yere bitterest opposition! Have ye octually got the bross to come pewling to me noo for a share o' my hard won earnings, ye grosping Cockney twirp?"

"Oh, please, Colin, old boy!" Mr. Montgomery looked pained. "After all, despite our little differences, you and me 'ave been chums for years! For old times' sake, let's be fair about this thing! You wouldn't 'ave got either of these crocks if I 'adn't run the ship over the first one— come, you must admit it! I saw it in the water a'ead of us and there was plenty of time to dodge it.— But did I signal the bridge to shift the course? No, I didn't, Colin, and you know I didn't! Instead, my first thought was of you! 'Chauncey,' I says to meself..."

"Aye!, 'Chauncey,' ye said to yersel', 'Chauncey, here comes a dom great log floating in the way! If the propeller hits it, 'twill surely smosh a blade off! Oh, what a lovely picnic Glencannon will have, way doon here in Ofrica, trying to unship the brukken prop and fitting on the spare!' Swith, ye slimy Judas, ye've convicted yersel' oot o' yere ain mouth!"

Mr. Montgomery turned pale and swallowed once or twice. "All right, me bucko, if that's 'ow you feel about it!" he said, stalking away. "But just let me tell you, you 'aven't 'eard the larst of this thing yet!"

Despite his threat, however, he maintained a sullen silence throughout the remainder of the voyage to London.

On the morning after their arrival in Limehouse Docks, Mr. Levy went aft to Mr. Glencannon's room. "Welp," he said briskly, "Wotsay we pick up our crocodiles, nip over to East India Dock Road and talk a bit of business with Joe and Sid?"

"I'm entirely at yere sairvice," said Mr. Glencannon. "However, I must inform ye that through a slicht flaw in my colculations, the crocodiles weigh nearly four hundred poonds apiece, so picking them up will be no laughing matter."

"Let's take only one of 'em, then. Arfter all, a good salesman only needs a sample."

It took the combined efforts of Messrs. Glencannon, Levy, and three deckhands to wrestle the sample across the gangplank to the dockside. "Ah, swith, what a load!" the engineer panted. "We'll ne'er be able to lug it by hond. Do ye go doon to the engine room, a couple o' ye, and fetch up one o' those little roller trucks that we use for shifting heavy parts. And bring me a bit o' rope to tow it with."

Trailed on the truck, which it effectively concealed, the crocodile appeared to be following Mr. Glencannon through the dockyard on a leash. "Haw!" he chuckled to Mr. Levy, who was carrying the neckwear and cigar in the beer mug. "He looks so notural I wuddn't be surprised to see him stop at the next lamp post!"

As they were passing the customs office at the dockyard gate, they were halted by an inspector.

"'Arf a moment, gempmen," he said. "Wot are you going to do with that there crocodile?"

"What's it to ye!" demanded Mr. Glencannon, who loathed all bureaucrats on principle.

"It's nothing to me, sir, but it may be something to you," retorted the functionary. "I'll 'ave to arsk you please to step into the office."

"Ah, foosh!" fumed Mr. Glencannon, following him through the doorway. "Things have come to a pretty poss when His Modjesty's Government stoops to mulcting loyal subjects engaged in the noble wurrks o' chority!"

"Meaning wot?" the inspector inquired.

"Meaning that this crocodile is a children's toy whuch I am even noo on my way to bestow upon The Royal Chartered London Asylum For Orphans o' Sailors Lost At Sea In The Sairvice o' The British Empire, that's what I mean!" cried Mr. Glencannon, beating his breast resoundingly.

"Oh, so it's not for sale, then? H'm!" The inspector leafed through a leather bound volume as thick as a city directory. "Ah, 'ere we are: 'Animals, Stuffed. Paragrarph One. Specimens imported for sale or for any commercial use shall be subject to a tax of two percent of their declared or assessed value, whichever is the greater. Paragrarph Two. Specimens imported for scientific use or for presentation to any public institution shall be admitted duty free.' Welp, I farncy Paragrarph Two puts you all in the clear, sir."

"That's exoctly what I told ye in the feerst place, ye bross buttoned parasite! Come, Muster Levy— let's hasten on our mission o' gloddening a thousand wee orphan hearts."

Outside the dockyard, their passage up Three Colt Street was not devoid of incident. For some distance they were trailed by a troop of whooping children who refused to disperse until Mr. Glencannon charged into the thick of them, boxed the ears of all within reach, and threatened to eviscerate the rest. Farther on, a blowzy lady heavily perfumed with Old Noddy Gin emitted a piercing shriek, cowered back against the wall, and stood pointing with a trembling finger, her eyes dilated with horror. Recognizing the symptoms, Mr. Glencannon dropped his tow line and hastened to reassure her. "There, there, muddum!" he said, sympathetically, "Ye've really no cause for alarm. That crocodile whuch ye think ye only think ye see is octually an octual crocodile."

"Crocodile?" said the lady. "Wot crocodile? I was looking at you, you narsty drunken beast! Get out of 'ere before I 'ollers for the police!"

Turning into East India Dock Road, they came at length to an impressive establishment labeled JOE & SID CROCKER. BEER, ALE & SPIRITS. "Weel, here we are at last!" said Mr. Glencannon, exultantly. "You go richt on inside, Sparks, and get to wurrk with yere eloquent sales talk. Meanwhile, I'll install the cigar, the necktie and the beer mug and stond the croc up here on the sidewalk, all ready to clinch the deal. Guid luck, lad!" He gave him a parting slap on the back, then turned to one of the numerous bystanders. "Pairdon me, my friend, but wud ye mind giving me a hond here for a moment?"

"Oh, I say, Mr. Glencannon!" Mr. Levy called back from the pub's entrance. "There— there seems to be something wrong. 'Ere's a sign on the door that says 'Closed Until Further Notice'— Wot's the reason, any of you chaps know?"

"Inquisitive young bloke, ain'tcher!" One of the group spoke up. "Per'aps we know the reason, chum, and then agyne per'aps we don't! In this 'ere neighbor'ood, it's a lot 'ealthier not to arsk questions."

"Oh, aye!" said Mr. Glencannon, stepping over the crocodile and confronting the fellow. "Weel, ye surly lout, ye'll find it dom unhealthy if ye dinna give a civil onswer to the question my friend just osked ye!"

With remarkable speed and precision, the other drove in a left to the stomach and followed it with a right to the jaw. As Mr. Glencannon went down, vainly striving to unlimber his brass knuckles, half the crowd fell upon him while the other half attended to Mr. Levy. The crocodile was pushed from the sidewalk and went coasting slowly down the road.

The driver of an approaching bus, seeing the struggle and the scurrying crowd and suddenly spying a giant saurian advancing full in his path, directed his vehicle at the monster and ran over it lengthwise. Almost simultaneously, someone blew a police whistle and the melee on the sidewalk ended as quickly as it had begun. When a constable arrived, he found Mr. Glencannon in heated altercation with the bus driver.

"'Ere, now!" said the Law, puffing out its cheeks. "Wot's the meaning of this 'ere disturbance and wot is that there pile of wotever it is out there in the road?"

"That is a vurra voluable stuffed crocodile, officer— or at least it was until this drooling fuddle-wit druv his great dom omnibus ower it!" said Mr. Glencannon. "It was worth a hundred poonds and I shall demond full reimbursement from the bus company!"

The bus driver, though belligerent, was plainly worried. "Wot? A 'undred pounds? For that thing?" he blustered. "Oh, gor-blimey, mister— don't think you're going to get away with no such 'ighway robbery as that!"

"'Old yer jaw, me man!" the constable intervened. "If this gempman can prove 'is crocodile was worth a 'undred quid, the bus company'll 'ave to pay him a 'undred quid, for that's the law of the land. Now beggar off out of 'ere with yer ruddy bus and let's the rest of us drag the crocodile over to the gutter. Good 'eavens, just look at the 'orrible snarl me traffic is in!"

Having written down the constable's number and the names of several witnesses, Messrs. Glencannon and Levy took silent leave of the shapeless ruin that a short time before had been the basis of such roseate hopes. "Ah, me, what a calomity!" sighed Mr. Glencannon. "By richts, I shud be pocketing my fifty quid this vurra minute. As it is, I suppose I can count mysel' lucky if I can swundle the bus company oot o' a measly ten! In any case, Muster Levy, please dinna delude yersel' that I'll give ye so much as a bawbee o' it, because I won't! If ye still hope to mak' any money oot o' this ill-starred affair, ye'd better get busy and sell the remaining crocodile."

"But 'oo can I sell it to? 'Oo?" asked Mr. Levy, plaintively. "That Crocker setup was a natural! It couldn't 'appen again in a thousand years! If the other crocodile was only a shark, now, I might sell it to my Uncle Lionel to 'ang outside 'is loan office. But a crocodile ..." He shook his head and walked away to commune with his sorrow.

Throughout the remainder of the day, Mr. Glencannon wrestled with the problem of how to cajole, browbeat, blackmail, or delude the bus company into believing that the late lamented crocodile had been worth a hundred pounds. He did the wrestling in a long succession of pubs, but closing time found him still without a solution. As he made his way through the dark, foggy streets toward the river, a full awareness of the day's misfortunes flooded dismally in upon him and he wept loud and unashamed. Because the dockyard gate was only thirty feet wide, he had some difficulty in negotiating it. "Ah, whurrahoo!" he sobbed, finally edging through it sidewise. "How hoppy I was, how high my hopes, when I strode through these portals this vurra morning! Then the future seemed..."

An inspiration struck him with such impact that it knocked him off his feet. "Haw!" he exclaimed joyfully, sitting on the damp cobblestones. "Noo wait, wait, let me think a minute!— Aye, it's a flawless idea! It's a pairfict idea! It's an idea worthy o' the intellect that conceived it! Colin, dear lad, let me be the feerst to congrotulate ye!" He slapped himself on the back, shook hands with himself warmly, assisted himself to arise, and headed for the Inchcliffe Castle in his own light-hearted company.

WHEN Mr. Montgomery came into the Inchcliffe Castle's saloon for breakfast next morning, he found Mr. MacQuayle already at the table, cursing the lumps in the porridge. The mate grunted a salutation, gave his order to the steward, and rattled open the newspaper. Suddenly he stiffened. "MacQuayle!" he said, hoarsely, "MacQuayle! When we was at Marsyles, you went ashore with Glencannon a good bit! Exackly where did 'e go? Exackly wot did 'e do?— Think hard, Mac, think 'ard!"

"I dinna have to think hard to tell ye that," said Mr. MacQuayle. "When he wasn't slaking his theerst in the pubs alang the Roo Can o' beer, he was barging aroond from one chemist's shop to another, buying some kind o' powder to put inside his dom crocodiles."

"Ha!" Mr. Montgomery banged his fist on the table. "Welp, Mac, we've got the ruddy old walrus dead to rights at larst! 'Ere!" he thrust the newspaper across the table, "Just carst your eye on this 'ere story 'ere!"

Mr. MacQuayle spread the journal before him and studied the indicated item. It read:

ARRESTS IN DOPE PLOT

LIMEHOUSE PUBLICANS HELD

DRUGS SMUGGLED FROM MARSEILLE, SAYS SCOTLAND YARD

At an early hour yesterday morning, police raided the licensed premises of Joseph and Sidney Crocker in East India Dock Road and found a large quantity of narcotic drugs allegedly brought to London in British ships arriving from the recently liberated French port of Marseille. Before the war, Marseille was notorious as the world headquarters of the illicit drug traffic and was frequently cited as such in League of Nations reports. Scotland Yard officials state that yesterday's seizure is only a part of vast stocks of drugs secretly hoarded by Marseille dealers through the German occupation and warn that large-scale smuggling operations are again underway.

Mr. MacQuayle looked up wide eyed. "Chauncey! Ye mean to say Glencannon?..."

"Exackly!" cried Mr. Montgomery. "It's as plain as the nose on your face! The 'Joe and Sid' I over'eard 'im and Levy talking about was these 'ere Crockers! 'E simply sewed up the dope inside the crocodiles, delivered the first one yesterday morning and these two coves got nabbed with it!"

"Aye!" said Mr. MacQuayle. "Come to think o' it, he ..." Suddenly he cocked his ear to a sound on deck. He stood up and peered through the porthole. "Look, Chauncey! he's taking the other one ashore this vurra minute!"

"Ah, so 'e is, so 'e is!" said Mr. Montgomery tensely, looking over Mr. MacQuayle's shoulder. "Welp, Mac, we'll just let 'im get a 'ead start as far as that first shed. Then we'll nip around be'ind to the other side of it and beat 'im to the customs office. Ha, ha, ha! Oh, blimey, wot a lark! Maybe you didn't know it, Mac, but the customs people pay a thumping big reward for the sort of information you and I are about to give 'em!— Welp, come on! Let's go give it to 'em!"

When Mr. Glencannon arrived at the dockyard gate with his crocodile in tow, the inspector nodded and waved to him to pass. "Well, sir— another little gift for the orphans, I see!"

"No, my guid mon, I regret to say that this one isn't," said Mr. Glencannon. "This specimen hoppens to be a strictly commercial crocodile and therefore subject to import tax. I have been offered a hundred poonds in cauld cash for him and when I have paid ye the duty I shall deliver him to my customer."

"Coo! A 'undred pounds!" the inspector raised his eyebrows. "Welp, mister, that means I'll 'ave to charge you two quid duty. But I must say it's right down honest of you to declare its real value. If you'd left it to me, I'd 'ave assessed it at ten quid at the very most."

"My dear friend," said Mr. Glencannon, righteously, "honesty is the best policy in all walks o' life. That is sumply ethics. But when there is involved a question o' a mon's obligations to his king and country, it is a profoondly sacred motter which pairmits o' no quibble, quobble, nor cumpromise."

"Quite right you are, sir, and it's a pity there ain't more people with the same 'igh principles! Please step inside while I make out the papers for you."

Mr. Glencannon paid the two pounds duty and carefully pocketed the declaration of value and the receipt which would establish the justice of his claim upon the bus company. He was about to step out, shove the crocodile into the Thames and proceed uptown to collect, when a door marked CHIEF INSPECTOR was flung open. Through it strode a gentleman of distinctly truculent mien.

"See here, you," he said, brusquely, "are you the owner of that crocodile out there?"

"I have that honor," Mr. Glencannon acknowledged. "I micht add that I have declared its value, paid the duty, and got the receipt, so ye'd dom weel better mind yere monners when addressing me, ye uncouth boor!"

"Oh, had I?" the chief inspector sneered. "Well, my fine fellow, I've just received information that your crocodile is stuffed to the muzzle with smuggled dope. I warn you to remain quietly where you are while we examine it.— Got a knife, Wilson? Right! Get busy!"

"Ho, hoosh, this is a high-honded ootrage!" Mr. Glencannon protested. "That crocodile is worth a hundred poonds, as yere ain receipt here testifies! Ye— ye surely canna mean that ye're going to cut it to pieces!"

"Cut away, Wilson!" the chief inspector ordered.

Within a very few minutes, the stuffing was dragged out of the crocodile's hull and strewn upon the dockyard pavement. "I don't find nothing 'ere, sir," Wilson reported, crawling about in it on his hands and knees like a dog searching for a bone.

"Cut open its head! Cut open its legs! Cut everything! You know how little room dope takes up."

"Ah, whurra, he's ruining it, ruining it!" cried Mr. Glencannon. "What will my customer say? And what aboot my hundred quid?"

"Cut, Wilson!" snapped the chief.

Wilson cut. When the crocodile was reduced to shreds, he stood up and spread his hands helplessly. "There's nothing, sir," he said. "Absolutely nothing!"

"No? H'm!..." The other scratched his chin, then stepped out and scuffed through the stuffing for himself. "H'm, er, well, tsk, tsk!" he directed a feeble smile at Mr. Glencannon. "There, er, appears to have been a slight mistake. Oh, really, my dear sir, I don't know what I can say or what I can do to...."

"Weel, I'll tell ye what ye can do!" Mr. Glencannon thundered. "Ye can give me an order on His Modjesty's Government for a hundred poonds for the property ye've destroyed, and what's more, ye can do it this vurra minute!"

"Oh, yes, sir! Of course, sir! Naturally, you will be fully reimbursed. Er— " he turned and glowered at the door through which he had entered. "Make out an order for a hundred pounds for this gentleman, Wilson," he directed. "I've got to attend to something in my office." While the slip was being made out, angry voices could be heard through the partition. There was a sound of scuffling, several heavy thumps as though furniture were being tossed about, and then the slam of a door.

Mr. Glencannon tucked the order away with the other documents, bowed coldly, and stepped out into the scattered debris of his crocodile. Just then, Messrs. Montgomery and MacQuayle came limping around the corner of the building and met him face to face. The mate's nose was bleeding profusely and Mr. MacQuayle was holding his hand to his left eye.

Mr. Glencannon halted aghast. "Oh, horrors, dear shipmates!" his voice throbbed with tenderness and sympathy. "What in the wurrld has hoppened to ye? If I didn't have to rush uptoon and collect a hundred poonds from the bus company and another hundred from the Bank o' England, I'd— I'd break richt doon and shed some tears for ye!"

___________________

4: Who Murdered Mr. Thomas?

A "Puzzle Story" by

Edgar Rice Burroughs

1875-1950

Script, 16 April 1932

POLICE INSPECTOR Muldoon and I are old cronies. I was sitting in his office when the report came in that Mr. Thomas had been murdered. Mr. Thomas was a prominent and wealthy citizen.

"I'll look into this thing myself," said Muldoon. "Mr. Thomas was a good friend of mine."

"May I come along?" I asked.

"Sure," said Muldoon.

When we reached the Thomas home, one of the show-places of the city, Muldoon immediately took full charge, placing men at all entrances with orders to permit no one to enter or depart.

As we entered the library, a large room beautifully panelled in walnut, we found six nervous and distraught people awaiting us. Mr. Thomas' body lay on the floor in front of the fireplace, where it had fallen. There was a bullet hole between the eyes.

The daughter of the murdered man was weeping. Her fiancé, a guest in the house, was trying to comfort her. I recall that as I first looked at them I was struck by the remarkable similarity of the color of their hair. A man named Perry stood across the room from them watching Miss Terry closely.

Muldoon's first questions elicited the fact that there were no other people in the house and that no one had entered or left it since the murder. An examination of the corpse revealed no clue to the identity of the killer, unless a strand of hair on the coat might have had significance.

At least, it called our attention to the hair of those present; there were two with blond hair, two with black, and two red-heads.

By adroit questioning, Muldoon elicited these facts: Two suitors for Miss Thomas's hand were in the house at the time of the murder.

Mr. Thomas had violently objected to the man she had chosen.

The butler had been with Mr. Thomas for ten years and had been named a beneficiary of his will; but Thomas, an irascible man, had recently quarreled with the butler and had told him that he was seeing his lawyer the following day for the purpose of entirely revising his will, leaving out the butler, and also his daughter if she insisted upon marrying the man of her choice.

The other suitor owed Mr. Thomas a considerable sum of money.

One of the women guests had, unknown to any of the others present, been Mr. Thomas's mistress for several years; but he had recently cast her off.

When the butler was questioned, he said that the other two men were guests and that their names were Mr. Wayne and Mr. Perry.

Muldoon called my attention to the fact that the strand of hair found on Mr. Thomas' coat was the same color as the hair of one of the men, no two of whom had the same color hair, but I reminded him that it was also exactly the same color as that of one of the women.

When Muldoon questioned Miss Mills, she said that she and Miss Terry were visiting Miss Thomas over the weekend; and when he urged her to make a clean breast of it and tell him who the killer was she just shook her mass of bobbed, black hair; and, burying her face in her hands, burst into tears.

It was about the same with the others; no one would name the killer. One of the girls told Muldoon that she did not know where Miss Thomas was at the time the shot was fired that killed Mr. Thomas.

Muldoon asked one of the male guests, the one with blond hair, how he accounted for the strand of hair on Mr. Thomas' coat.

"I think it has no bearing on the case," the guest replied. "It is not fair to assume that it was a strand of the killer's hair. As a matter of fact the killer had the same color hair as one of the guests who was absent from the room at the time of the murder.

"So you know who the killer is?" demanded Muldoon, but the man closed up like a clam and would say no more.

Muldoon turned again to Miss Mills and snapped, "Where were you when this man was shot?"

"I was with Miss Thomas."

The butler was standing beside Miss Mills; the contrast between the colors of their hair was striking. He fidgeted as Muldoon questioned him.

"Where was Miss Terry at the time of the murder?" the Inspector shot at him.

"She was here in this room with Mr. Thomas," blurted the butler.

"Who else was in the room at the time?"

"There were two others, beside Mr. Thomas and Miss Terry."

"Was the color of the killer's hair the same as that of either of the other two present?"

"No; but the other two had the same color hair."

This was all the information we could gather, but within ten minutes Muldoon arrested the killer.

Whom did Muldoon arrest?

___ ___ ___ ___

Solution

Muldoon finds six people in the library:

Miss Thomas

Mr. Perry

Butler

Mr. Wayne

Miss Mills

Miss Terry

Of the six people, it has been shown that three were women and the other three men; the three women having been named and the butler stating that "the other two men" were guests.

As Perry stood across the room from Miss Thomas and her fiancé, Wayne must be the other guest and therefore Miss Thomas' fiancé.

As no two of the men had the same color hair, there must have been one blond, one red, and one black; and the same must be true of the women, as there were two of each color hair in the room.

Miss Terry was in room at time of murder; she did not know where Miss Thomas was at that time. As Miss Mills was with Miss Thomas at the time of the murder, neither of them could have been in the room; so neither could have been the murderess. We therefore place an X before their names.

There were three in the room (beside Thomas) when the murder was committed; two of them had the same color hair, so must have been of different sexes; the killer's hair was of a different color. Miss Terry was there; and as both the other women were out of the room, Miss Terry and two men must have been there. Miss Terry and one of the men must have had the same color hair; therefore the third person must have been the murderer, and was a man.

The killer had the same color hair as either Miss Thomas or Miss Mills.

The butler's hair was either red or blond, because it contrasted strikingly with Miss Mills' black hair; and he must have been one of the two men in the room, in order to know definitely who was in the room at the exact moment of the murder.

The killer did not have the same color hair as either of the other two men, and as he had the same color hair as one of the guests who was absent from the room it must have been the same color as Miss Mill's, which was black, as she was the only woman guest absent from the room; therefore the killer had black hair.

The butler could not have been the killer because his hair contrasted strikingly with Miss Mill's, and we X him out.

So either Perry or Wayne must be the killer.

As Miss Mills was the only girl with black hair, Wayne's hair could not have been black, as it was the same color as Miss Thomas's, and so we X Wayne out.

Therefore it was Perry whom Muldoon arrested.

__________________

5: Drops of Death

George Allan England

1877-1936

Munsey's Magazine, January 1922

AT HIS desk in the little private room of the offices where he carried on his business as a commission merchant in grains and cereals, Weldon Forrester was reading a letter which greatly astonished him. It ran thus:

Dear Sir:

You are named in the will of Dr. Townsend Veazey, recently deceased, as one of the beneficiaries. Dr. Veazey has willed you two small oriental rugs, a number of books, pamphlets, and reports, and some apparatus. Kindly indicate where you would like the bequest sent, and oblige,

Very truly yours,

Cosslet & Melville.

The light of a sunshiny winter's day, coming through the window near his desk, showed Forrester to be an alert-looking man of thirty, a trifle lean, with incisive eyes, and with dark hair that had already retreated a little from a well-shaped forehead.

"Hm!" grunted Forrester. "Rugs, books, apparatus— funny!"

Very carefully he looked over the letter, but there was no P. S. Its message was final. Forrester's mouth— firm-lipped, the mouth of a doer of deeds— curved in a sardonic smile.

"Devilish funny!" he repeated.

From the outer offices drifted the chatter of typewriters under the fingers of busy girls. Three years ago there had been but one girl and a dingy little place on Crampton Street. Now Forrester employed a dozen girls and a staff of other workers. He had gone far in three years.

He laid the lawyers' letter on his desk, contemplatively lighted a cigar, and grew reflective.

"The doctor always said he was going to leave me a bunch of coin," thought he. "Not that I need it now; but every little bit makes just a little bit more."

Emphatically Weldon Forrester did not need legacies. He had all the legacy he needed in his "go-get-it" spirit.

Proof of that lay in what he had accomplished since he and old Mogul Edgerton, of the Fiduciary Assurance and Annuity Company, had disagreed, and Edgerton had fired him. Now Forrester had his hand on a big percentage of all the Argentine wheat entering the States, and was reaching for more. He could write his check for six figures, which might soon be seven. America is like that to you, sometimes, if you strike her just right.

"Wonder whatever happened to the doctor to change his mind about remembering me with something nice!" pondered Forrester. "He always liked me, ever since I sold him an annuity against his will— always liked to have me drop in for a chat on scientific stuff. The old boy could make chemistry and poisons more interesting than a magazine story. Good fellow, all right! Well, he's gone— and there's been another slip between the cup and the lip, somehow."

Forrester dismissed the letter from his mind and plunged back into work. Outside, the morning traffic and bustle of the city's vast market blurred the air with confusion. Trucks grumbled over slushy cobbles, motor-horns moaned, buyers and sellers of produce chaffered busily. Forrester forgot all about the letter, and all about Dr. Townsend Veazey.

At lunch, however, in the grill-room of the Lockwood Inn, he read the letter over again.

"Wonder if the doctor had any money when that heart-attack took him?" thought Forrester. "Wonder if he blew it on that other big annuity he was thinking about, after all?"

Lunch over, he threaded narrow, crowded ways to the Horsman Building and went up to the offices of the Fiduciary on the eleventh floor. With the assurance of a one-time employee, joined to that of a successful man who feels himself at home everywhere, he walked down the corridor and turned into an office that bore on its ground-glass door the legend:

ELI WORMWOOD

ACTUARY

Eli, all alone in his office, looked over his desktop and his gold-rimmed glasses simultaneously as he smiled a superannuated welcome.

"Hello, Forrester! Got some business for us?" he asked thinly.

"Never no more!" Forrester held up a solemn hand, and sat himself down in the best chair. "I'm off that stuff now. Did a little of it, a while after I quit here, but never again! Why should I go around with a tin bill on, picking up the chicken-feed of annuity commissions, when I've got my trough full of grain? Answer— I shouldn't, and won't. Best little thing old Mogul ever did for me was when he gave me the air!"

"So it seems," agreed Wormwood, rubbing a hawk's-bill nose. "You drive a rather better car than he does now, I hear."

"Hope so. By the way, Wormwood, I dropped in to offer you a position—not a job, but a position. I need a man 'way up in figures to take charge of a new cost-system I'm installing. I'll better your present salary, whatever it is. You were mighty good to me when I was a cub in the insurance game, and I'm not forgetting it. Well, what say?"

The wizen actuary shook his head.

"Mighty fine of you, Forrester, and I'm no end obliged, but I can't change now. At fifty-nine a man's riveted to routine. Insurance is the breath of life to me. Guess I'm aboard this ship till she sinks or I die. Hope she lasts as long as I do!"

Forrester pricked up his ears at that.

"Of course she'll last," said he, with a quick glance. "I've heard the Fiduciary never put across as many annuities in a year as she has this past one."

"Yes," agreed Eli; "but there's not much profit in annuities, the way people hang on."

"You mean, as the old saying is, that annuitants never die?"

"Seems so. Seems as if, when folks— especially old ones— sink their cash with us, and know we've got to pay 'em a good round income all the rest of their lives, they just quit worrying and get fat and healthy. Only way I can account for Methuselah and the Bible patriarchs is that they all must have had annuities!"

"They don't all live forever," commented Forrester. "There's Dr. Veazey that's just died— heart failure, I think it was. He had one of your annuities, and he was only about seventy-six."

"And four months, nine days," supplemented Wormwood. "And what's more, he took out another big one—paid eighty-five thousand for it—only about a fortnight before he died; but it's the exception that proves the rule, you know."

"Lucky strike for the Fiduciary," smiled Forrester.

"We need it. We've been hard hit since the war."

"No! Is that so?"

"Yes, sir," affirmed the actuary. "Our stock's hardly paying three and a half, and it used to run six and seven. Mogul's let a lot of clerks and supernumeraries out, and he's tightening up all round. Fact is, the general business depression has got us, too. Just between you and me, Forrester, my own position's none too secure."

"Well," smiled Forrester, standing up, "if you need another, you've got my address. Got to be on my way now. My cereal story's never done. Busy! It never rains but it pours. So long!"

All the way back to South Commercial Street, Forrester was pondering:

"So Veazey took another big annuity on his own hook, did he? That's why all the legacy I got was two rugs, some books, and apparatus, eh? I was a chump to tell him about annuities and to sell him one! I'm out of luck— but," he added, "Veazey was worse out of luck. To sink eighty-five thousand dollars in a money-back-if-you-live proposition, and then in two weeks have your heart give out— some tough game!"

ii

THREE DAYS later, in the restaurant of Aspinwall Chambers— a bachelor-apartment establishment where he dwelt in no inconsiderable style— Forrester paused over his breakfast as he came upon an item in his morning Chronicle. With knit brows he read the item, then murmured:

"Well, I'll be darned if here isn't another one!"

The paragraph recorded the death, apparently from heart failure, of an old maiden lady, Miss Cynthia Grush. Miss Grush had for many years lived at 274 Muir Terraces, in company with rather a formidable houseful of cats. The news of this death would have been absolutely devoid of interest to Forrester if he had not happened to remember that only a few weeks before he left the Fiduciary Miss Grush had taken out an annuity under rather odd circumstances.

With his penknife, Forrester neatly cut out the item. He put it carefully into his pocketbook.

"Queer old bird she was," said he. "Really seemed to believe that wheeze about annuitants never dying. Seemed to think that having an annuity would insure her almost indefinite life. Well, she's gone now, all right, and the Fiduciary's in luck again to the tune of about fifty-five thousand dollars I"

Then, his eye catching the shipping news, where he saw recorded the proximate arrival of the grain-steamer Mariposa, from Buenos Aires, he forgot all about Cynthia Grush and the Fiduciary.

That evening he found a parcel-post package awaiting him at the door of his apartment. He opened it in his little den.

"Two rugs, extremely small," he took stock. "One bunch of technical books, pamphlets, and reports. A microscope and some slides. Thanks, doctor! Most of this stuff is about as useful to a commission merchant as two tails to a hen. Thus end my great expectations; but thanks, just the same!"

He spread the rugs on his floor, put the books and reports on his shelves, and tucked the microscope into a closet.

"Poor old doc!" said he. "Your investment of eighty-five thousand dollars didn't do you much good, did it?"

For a while he remained pondering, his face clouded by an odd expression.

iii

A FEW DAYS after the beginning of the new year, Forrester's Evening Standard informed him that one Simeon Langstroth, of the fashionable Randol Park section, had died of heart failure.

"Well now!" said Forrester. "The people I sold annuities to, in the old days, seem to be out of luck. I remember I landed this old boy for thirty thousand. Of course, that was rather a small one for the Fiduciary, which specializes on high-class trade and big policies— quality, not quantity of clientele. Wonder if Langstroth's been taking out any more lately!"

At noon Forrester dropped in at the City Hall and looked up some data in the files of the registrar of vital statistics. When he came out of the building, his lips were rather tight. All afternoon Miss Brewster, his private secretary, noticed that he seemed abstracted.

That evening, at the Commerce Club, a long-distance call reached him from Crompton & Marvin, his New York agents. Urgent business impended. Forrester phoned Miss Brewster to "carry on" in his absence, and took the midnight train to New York. There his business lengthened out to three days, arranging for some shipments of hard wheat from the new Trenque Lauquen fields in the Pampa district. Forrester clean forgot all about annuities, heart failure, and the Fiduciary.

Then, all at once, the finger of fate reached out and tapped him on the shoulder again.

That tap was disguised as a small item at the bottom of page five of the Courier, which he was reading at lunch. The item said:

Portsmouth. N. H., Jan. 7— Willard Rockwood, of Newington, died at his home yesterday, aged seventy-four. Mr. Rockwood formerly conducted the Springvale Dairy Farm, but retired from business about eight years ago. Death was caused by heart failure. The deceased was a member of the Grange, Odd Fellows, and Masons, and is survived by a brother, Gallatin K. Rockwood, of this city.

"Well, I will be damned!" exclaimed Forrester. "Another one!"

A few days later he again visited the registrar's office, where he carefully ran over the deaths for the preceding week. This process he repeated a week later, and again after still another week. At the back of his brain— when business could be thrust aside— a tiny spark was glowing. Day by day the spark brightened to a flame almost of conviction.

It was toward the beginning of February that the grain merchant once more dropped in at the offices of the Fiduciary and paid another visit to old Eli Wormwood.

"Yes, I've got some business for you this time," he answered the actuary's question.

"Good!" approved Eli. "We need it, right enough. The way they've been hammering our stock and prying into our securities, on top of the general slump in business, makes every dollar count now." The old man blinked over his glasses. "So you've brought us in something, eh? Well, even though you've piled up more money than most of us even dream about, I suppose you can still use that little four-percent agent's commission?"

Forrester waved a disclaiming hand.

"None in this for me, this time," he answered.

"How's that?"

"The commission's going to you."

"To me?" asked Wormwood, visibly brightening.

"If you want it. I'll place the business through you. I'm taking out an annuity for myself."

"Good idea!" the actuary approved. "But of course, at your age, the rate's pretty low. Twenty-nine, are you?"

"Thirty, the 5th of last June."

"Hm! Thirty years, seven months, twenty-five days. Your interest-rate will only be 4.608 percent, giving you an annual income of forty-six dollars and eight cents for each thousand dollars invested."

"I know all about that. It seems small, but an annuity is about the safest place where I can invest a little cash. What I'm going to sink with you will clear me forty-six hundred and eight dollars a year, and no worry about it."

"What?" ejaculated the old man, blinking with excitement. "You don't mean you're going to put in a hundred thousand dollars?"

Forrester nodded.

"That's a tidy four thousand for you in commission," he added. "You don't mind, do you?"

Old Wormwood turned a little paler even than usual, and his lips trembled visibly as he answered:

"I— I oughtn't to— I can't—"

"Nonsense! You can, and will."

"But you can act as your own agent, Forrester, and save the four thousand dollars. You still have your license."

"Yes, and I still have a very lively sense of gratitude for many a good tip you slid me when I was in this game. Come on now, Wormwood, don't let any personal considerations do you out of four thousand good simoleons! Get me an application-blank and take my check. No physical examination in writing an annuity. The company don't care how punk the applicant's health is. Punker the better, for the company, eh?"

"Yes, that's so," admitted the actuary, getting up. "Since all money paid for annuities goes to the company as its absolute property, of course it's to the company's interest to have the annuitant die as soon as possible. That sounds harsh, but it's the strict business principle that governs the annuity game. I— I'll write this business for you, Forrester. We'll have it over in no time. Just a minute, please."

Shaking and a trifle dazed, the old man shuffled out of the office and went for an application-blank. He was almost stunned at having four thousand dollars drop into his hand out of a clear sky.

Forrester lighted a long, thin cigar, and peered through smoke at the ceiling.

"Sometimes it costs a penny to get at the inside facts," he mused; "but it's worth the penny. After all, as an investment, an annuity can't be beat. Now we shall see what we shall see!"

iv

IMMEDIATELY after the issuing to him of the annuity which was to yield him an income of four thousand six hundred and eight dollars, payable quarterly, Forrester installed in his apartment on the third floor of Aspinwall Chambers a rather ingenious set of electric wiring. This wiring he devised himself. It was all most carefully concealed.

Forrester so arranged it that when the current was on, no door or window in the apartment could be moved without causing the system to function. He took particular pains with the connections that he made on the two windows communicating with the fire-escape.

When the alarm was sprung, it operated a slight, tingling shock between poles that could be strapped to his ankle as he lay in bed. The current could be broken by a switch under his pillow, where also he planted a businesslike revolver, fully loaded with .44-caliber cartridges.

In addition to all this, Forrester rigged a push-button at his bedside, which would turn on all lights in the apartment. Moreover, he put a first-rate alarm-clock into the alarm circuit, and so wired it that when the clock-hands reached any desired point, instead of the alarm sounding, the shock would be thrown on. Thus he was enabled to test the shock. A full week of trials convinced him that it would inevitably wake him from even the soundest sleep.

He also tried the doors and windows many times. Any disturbance of them invariably caused the shock to operate. Furthermore, Forrester trained himself to wake up quietly in response to the shock— not to start or turn over or utter a sound.

When he had everything working to his complete satisfaction, he disconnected the alarm-clock from the circuit; but he never went to bed, even a single night, without strapping the poles of his little apparatus to his right ankle and making certain that it would work. He took the greatest care that none of the wiring should be visible.

Thus he waited, and winter lagged toward spring. Business continued much as usual. So did Forrester's very moderate social affairs.

Ordinarily he spent his evenings alone, smoking and reading. His tastes were omnivorous. The books and pamphlets bequeathed him by Dr. Veazey lasted him almost a fortnight. He followed them with the "Outline of History," by Wells.

Now and then he visited the Bureau of Vital Statistics at the City Hall; but whatever it was that he discovered there, or did not discover, he kept very much his own property.

And so the weeks passed, and still nothing happened.

"It would be a pity, wouldn't it," thought Forrester, "if the spider should have got his parlor all ready, and there shouldn't be any fly to walk into it?"

There was, however, a fly, and very much of a fly, at that, as we shall now immediately see.

v

IT WAS in the early morning of March 3, six weeks and four days after the issuance of the annuity, that Forrester was roused from a dreamless sleep, being awakened at about a quarter past two o'clock by the faint, insistent tingle of the current on his ankle.

Broad awake in a moment, he lay quite still, simulating slumber.

For perhaps five minutes— which seemed as many hours— neither sound nor sight rewarded him. Then, all at once, a ghostly little glimmer of light trembled a second in the den off his bedroom. Forrester perceived it quite plainly, from under lids all but closed. He sensed, rather than heard, that some one was moving toward the bedroom door.

Forrester was a man of hard sense and few nerves; but even so, his heart throbbed faster. None the less, he forced himself to breathe quietly and naturally. He did not try even to switch off the current, but let it prickle.

Under his pillow, he knew, lay the heavily loaded gun. Close at hand was the button which could flood the apartment with light.

Silence continued. From the Parkway sounded a faint burr of pebbled tires as some belated motorist broke the speed laws. An amorous cat distantly serenaded his Maria; but in the apartment all was so still that the ticking of the alarm-clock on the shelf was plainly audible. Yet Forrester well knew that a sinister purpose was close at hand, watching, waiting in the dark.

Forrester lay relaxed, just as he had waked, his right arm bare above the elbow. That arm was outside the coverlet.

"Rather lucky!" thought he. "Good bait, if what I suspect is true!"

He remained entirely slack, but with every muscle ready to whip into prompt and swift activity.

Still the black silence lengthened. Only after what seemed an interminable time of tension heavy with evil possibilities did the unseen presence move forward. A flicker, vaguely white as a will-o'-the-wisp, fingered palely into the bedroom. Some one was entering the room on noiseless soles; some one, with infinite precaution, was drawing near the bed.

Forrester still played his role of slumber. A moment the unknown presence stood beside him. The tiniest of electric flashes played upon the bed. Its beam stopped on Forrester's arm. Through concealing lashes, Forrester perceived it. Beyond its little circle, all was black. The effect of that ring of light on his arm, cast by some unseen maleficence, tore at the nerves. Forrester wanted to strike, to leap, to grapple; but he held himself. Not yet was the time ripe. Not yet had the thing been done which he expected, which he longed for.

The waiting, however, was not long. Forrester knew that the dark presence was bending above him. Then all at once on his bare arm he felt something— something almost impalpable— something like a tiny wet flick— something that, had he been asleep, would never have awakened him.

Something that, quite to the contrary, would have soothed him to a sleep from Which there is no morrow.

Forrester moved not, nor gave any slightest sign of consciousness. Again that tiny something fell, and a third time. Then Forrester knew the light had died; knew that the figure of mystery was turning soundlessly.

With tensions released like a steel spring, Forrester flung aside the bedclothes and leaped— leaped and struck.

vi

AT ELEVEN o'clock that morning— an eminently dignified hour to call on the president of a life-insurance and annuity company— the grain merchant sent in his card to Wolcott Edgerton, otherwise Mogul Edgerton, of the Fiduciary.

"He says he's sorry," reported the boy, "but he can't see nobody this mornin'."

Forrester wrote on a slip of paper: "You will see me at once."

He signed it and handed the paper to the boy.

"Take that in," he commanded.

In half a minute the youth reappeared.

"He says come in."

Forrester went in and shut the door. He tossed his hat on a table.

"Well, Forrester!" said Mogul, dangling agitated glasses by a black grosgrain ribbon. "This is rather peremptory, isn't it?" Even though Forrester now held an annuity in the company, Mogul couldn't forget that he had once been an employee, a despised agent. "What's on your chest?"

"Nothing but a slight cold. There's something on my arm, however, that may interest you."

"Pardon me, but you're in the wrong department," replied Edgerton. "If you'll step into the next office, Dr. Grundlach will advise you. As a policy-holder of any kind in this company, you're entitled to a reasonable amount of medical attention, gratis. Right in that way, please!"

Mogul pointed toward the door that led into Dr. Grundlach's office. He looked a bit uneasy, Forrester thought.

"Thanks, but I don't require any more medical attention," said Forrester. "I've been getting rather too much from the Fiduciary recently. Now—"

"Complaint department is upstairs in Room 1186."

Forrester only took off his overcoat and flung it over a chair. Then he walked to the door of Dr. Grundlach's office and closed it. Within, he caught sight of the doctor's bald head bent over a desk.

He returned to Mogul, drew up a chair, and sat down.

"Now," said he, "let's discuss brass tacks!"

"You're making rather free here, aren't you?" demanded the president.

"Very." Forrester drew out his pocket-book, produced a little sheaf of clippings, and laid one before Mogul. "Here's a notice of the death of Dr. Townsend Veazey. He died of heart failure, shortly after having taken out an annuity with you for eighty-five thousand dollars."

"Well?" asked Edgerton, fidgeting with the ribbon of his glasses.

"The Fiduciary cleaned up big on that heart failure. Now, here's the case of Miss Cynthia Grush. More heart failure— more clean-up!"

"What do you mean to infer?" demanded Mogul angrily.

"Now, here's Willard Rockwood," smiled Forrester, unmoved. "What singularly bad hearts your annuitants seem to have— especially those carrying large amounts!"

"See here, Forrester!" cut in Mogul. "If you've come here to insult a man who fired you three years ago—"

"I wouldn't push that desk-button, if I were you," advised Forrester. His smile was cold, dangerous. "Here are several more clippings from local and out-of-town papers. I've been doing a little collecting lately. Look them over. What extraordinary luck your company seems to be having, just at a time when it's hard pressed!"

"Who told you it was hard pressed?" questioned Mogul, flushing.

"Oh, the proverbial little bird. Of course nobody would ever notice anything about deaths such as these, except a man who'd been in the game, and who knew a good many of your investors— some of them personally— and who could think. Read those clippings, Mr. Edgerton. They'll interest you."

Mogul adjusted his glasses and tried to read, but his attention wandered.

"I— I've been away much of the time since last November," he hesitated. "I—"

"Why make excuses? All I'm asking you to do is to read those clippings."

Edgerton began again. Forrester watched him keenly. From Dr. Grundlach's office drifted a slight sound as of a chair being pushed back.

All at once, Mogul looked up.

"What the devil are you driving at, anyhow?" he blurted, dully flushed.

"You know, of course, that I hold an annuity for a hundred thousand dollars in the Fiduciary?"

"Yes."

"I took it as an investment— in two senses. It's already paid me fully, though I came near dying of heart failure myself, last night!"

"You? Why, you— you're the picture of health!"

"I am; but if I hadn't acted quick, I'd have been the picture of a fine, full-sized corpse this minute. What's more, you people would have been a hundred thousand dollars ahead of the game."

"What do you mean, sir?" cried Mogul, starting up. His wattles crimsoned like a turkey-cock's.

"Keep perfectly calm, Mr. Edgerton," smiled Forrester. "I've still got one more exhibit to show you. See here!" He shoved up his right sleeve. "Does that suggest anything to you?" he demanded.

"Does what suggest anything to me?" asked Edgerton.

"Those three blisters on my arm," replied Forrester, indicating a trio of small red marks.

Mogul peered at them, and— whether he really meant it or whether he was a consummate actor— replied:

"All they suggest to me is that you've been slightly burned in some way."

"Intelligent observation!" gibed the commission merchant.

"Well, why do you ask me? If there's anything the matter with you, see Dr. Grundlach. I told you that before."

"Do you know what burned me?"

"How the devil should I know?" ejaculated Mogul angrily. "And what the devil do you mean by catechizing me in this manner, anyhow? I don't think you need to see Dr. Grundlach, after all. A good alienist would be more in your line!"

"Thank you for the suggestion," said Forrester icily. "Now let me tell you a little story, which happens to be a true one— the story of these bums."

He pulled his sleeve down again and fixed a gimlet-like eye on Edgerton. The president of the Fiduciary braved his look with indignation; but whether that was sincere or only a pose, not even Forrester could tell.

"I'm not at all interested in your bums, or in you," said Mogul, "or your clippings, or your story. This is my busy morning." He reached for the push-button again, "Wait!" commanded Forrester. "I'm giving you one more chance. Touch that button, and the most formidable scandal will be turned loose that ever shook the insurance world. You and the Fiduciary and everybody connected with it will go down in a whirlpool of public indignation. Guilty and innocent will suffer alike. If you are innocent, or have consideration for those that are, wait!"

"Wha— what d'you mean, sir?" stammered Mogul, his eyes rimmed with white. "Upon my word, sir, I do believe you are insane!"

"Thank you. And now, listen. At about a quarter past two o'clock this morning I was wakened by a man in my apartment— an intruder. I waited till he had done what he came to do, and then jumped up and tackled him. I hit him at random, as hard as I could, and knocked him flat. He was up in a second, though, before I could do more than turn on the lights. Then we had it hot and heavy; but I crashed a chair over his head, and that held him till I could cover him with my gun. Get all this?"

"What the deuce has it to do with me, sir?"

"That's for you to judge, Mr. Edgerton. I phoned Station K, and they sent up a couple of men on the double-quick. Before they got to my rooms, though, I frisked my prisoner."

"Frisked?"

"Searched him. I took away from him something of unique interest. That man— a slim chap, clever as a cat— is now held on my charge of breaking and entering. I didn't want to stir things up by entering a charge of attempted murder, till after I'd seen you."

"What? What have I to do with it?"

"You're either uncommonly ignorant of what's going on in your own business," smiled Forrester, "or else you're missing your real profession by not going on the stage. That man, I'm willing to bet my last pair of boots, is the actual murderer of Dr, Veazey, of Miss Grush, of Mr. Rockwood, and of a number of other annuitants in your company. He's a specialist in heart failure. Who is his employer? That's what I'm here to find out."

Mr. Edgerton, from red, became a pasty gray. The color drained even from his lips, leaving them bluish. His hand went out shakingly.

"You— you're not accusing—"

"I'm accusing John Doe, as yet unidentified, that's all; but John's as guilty as hell! Who is he? Who hired that man to steal into people's homes with the deadliest rattlesnake of a weapon ever invented, and murder them in a way that nobody could detect unless the fiend was caught in the very act?"

"What— what weapon do you mean?" tremored Edgerton.

"This!" exclaimed Forrester. "Here's something which the very devil himself must have thought out!"

From his pocket he produced a little flat instrument-case. He snapped open the case, and took from it a small glass-barreled syringe with German silver fittings.

"This is the infernal thing that's made a few hundred thousand for your damned company during the last few months!" exclaimed the merchant. "Now look at it!" The president's eyes bulged as he regarded the syringe that Forrester laid on the desk before him. Within it, a translucent liquid half filled the barrel. Forrester's eyes were hard and hateful as he studied Edgerton.

"D'you know what's in that devilish thing?" he demanded.

Edgerton shook a tremulous head.

"So help me God," he stammered, "I— I never saw that thing before— or heard of it, or in any way knew— anything about it! This is all horrible, incredible news to me! You're bringing an awful accusation, Mr. Forrester. Are you— are you quite positive—"

"I'll say I am! If you're telling the truth, if you're really ignorant of the appalling series of crimes that somebody in this company has been putting over, I'll tell you what's in this engine of death. It's a liquefied form of a certain deadly gas, recently discovered— a gas called lewisite. Now do you understand?"

"No! Lewisite? Never heard of it! What— what does it do?"

"It kills you, that's all. If you put three drops on your skin and don't rub them off, you'll die, and people will call it heart failure. Three little blisters don't attract any attention. No doctors, no coroners, have been trained as yet to identify skin-blisters with this deadly gas. It's an absolutely new thing— safe, quick, certain. That's the kind of a weapon I was attacked with— three drops of lewisite on my bare arm, while I lay there pretending to be asleep."

"But— you're alive yet!"

"Yes, because I rubbed the stuff off as soon as I'd settled the hash of my assailant. If I'd left it there, as a sleeping person would— well, you'd have made another hundred thousand dollars, that's all."

"As God lives, I knew absolutely nothing of all this! But tell me, how can you be certain?"

"Funny thing how poetic justice works out!" laughed Forrester. "Among the pamphlets left to me by Dr. Veazey in his will was one issued by the Chemical Foundation, containing the testimony given by General Fries, chief of the Chemical Warfare Service of the United States Army, before the Dye Embargo Committee of the United States Senate, on August 4, 1921. On page 13, I came across an account of lewisite. I read it about a month ago. When I got hold of that syringe, and saw where I'd been burned, I put two and two together, that's all. This morning a chemist on India Street analyzed a drop of the stuff for me. Yes, it's lewisite, all right enough! Now have you anything to offer before I go back to Station K and start a little third-degree stuff that will bring out the connection between those murders and the Fiduciary?"

"You— you aren't going to do that? For God's sake!"

Forrester laughed and reached for his hat. "Wait, Forrester! Hold on— be reasonable! Think of the scandal— the wreck of this business— the policy-holders who will suffer— the—"

"I'm thinking of those who have been murdered in cold blood. I'm thinking of those, now living, who may still be murdered if I don't jam this matter through to a finish!"

"Yes, but—wait!"

vii

"NO NEED to wait!" sounded a voice at the merchant's back.

Forrester whipped around. Dr. Grundlach was standing there, an odd smile on his thick, rather sensual lips. Noiselessly he had opened the door and noiselessly he had entered.

"What?" demanded Edgerton. "You— you're against me, too? You want to rush this thing through before it's been sifted? You bring accusations which, true or false, will wreck the company and—"

"Not at all. I shall bring no accusations except against the guilty man, who is now in this room,"

"What d'you mean?" ejaculated Edgerton, the veins swelling on his neck, his fist clenched. "Are you accusing me— of murder?"

"Naturally I heard something of what was going on in this office," the doctor said in level tones, ignoring Mogul's question. "Naturally I knew the whole affair had been discovered; so I came in here to offer terms of compromise. After all, why ruin a long-established business that has been saved by such drastic measures? Why injure a lot of innocent people whose investments have been protected by the death of several others, equally innocent?"

"Why, indeed?" echoed Forrester, his eyes gleaming. "Doctor, your villainy is equaled only by your hard common sense. What do you offer?"

"I am a large stockholder in this concern," said Grundlach, a little unsteadily. He leaned against the table, as if to hold himself up. "The company was in danger of investigation by the State insurance commissioner— possibly of bankruptcy. I am an expert chemist. I applied the resources of science, that is all. My coworker, a clever fellow named Scheffel, who did all the jobs at a reasonable figure, understands perfectly well what to do if given the opportunity to escape the electric chair. Your cleverness, Mr. Forrester, will cooperate to protect the company. As for me, well—" He drew up his right sleeve. Three red spots burned on the forearm, the triple mark of death.

"My God!" gulped Edgerton. "What— what have you done?"

"Only the obvious thing. I'll be gone in thirty minutes or so." He leaned still more heavily on the table. "We never reckoned on meeting an intelligence superior to our own. We misplayed— that's all!"

He paused, breathing heavily, and passed a hand over his eyes, as if to clear away a mist. Edgerton, his face ashen, stared with horror. His lips quivered, but he could utter no word. Forrester leaned a little forward, cool to the marrows.

"What an extraordinarily interesting case!" he murmured.

"Is it not?" The doctor smiled grimly. "I ask you, as payment for it, to avoid all publicity. I have— dependents. Their welfare rests on my stock in this company remaining a good investment, as I— have made it. Beyond that, nothing matters to me. Let me go as— just one more case of— heart failure." Grundlach was panting now, but still holding himself. "Will you, Mr. Forrester, attend to— Scheffel?"

Forrester nodded. He picked up the glass-barreled syringe from the desk, slipped it back into its case, and pocketed it. Then he put on his overcoat and took his hat.

"At once!" he promised.

Horrified, his face a mask of terrible emotions, President Edgerton slumped into his chair and sagged there, a wreck of a man. The doctor laughed weakly as he turned back toward his office.

"I prefer to die in my own quarters," he gasped. "More appropriate, somehow. Gentlemen— good day!"

He stumbled through the door, helping himself with his hands like a paralytic. He disappeared.

"Don't go!" whispered Edgerton in a hoarse tremble. "For God's sake, Forrester, don't leave me— just yet!"

"Sorry," smiled Forrester, "but poetic justice, whose agent Dr. Veazey's will has made me, requires my immediate presence elsewhere. Scheffel will be expecting me. I have a gift to make him, in a very private manner. I wish you good day!"

He left Edgerton in a collapse, and fared forth on his final errand of justice immutable alike to innocence and guilt.

_______________

A cheerful fantasy, rediscovered by Matthias Kaether, which can be found online as a standalone story with original illustrations at Roy Glashan's Library, and in CBR format on Matthias's David Wright O'Brien blog.

6: Hokum Hotel

David Wright O'Brien

1918–1944

Fantastic Adventures, July 1942

IN the hotel business you can expect almost anything to happen. But in a theatrical hotel— the sort of inn that caters almost exclusively to hams, yodelers, acrobats, hoofers, jerks and jugglers and such— you can damned well expect everything to happen.

If you don't believe it, look closely at the gray hairs in my head. Gray hairs and not even forty. And if you still don't believe it, listen to this.

It was one of those washed out blue Monday mornings. I had a hangover in my head and chalk in my mouth. The head bellhop, Jerry, had just informed me that the Five Flying Flynns had checked out during the wee morning hours without bothering to stop at the desk and notify me of that fact.

It seemed that they had made their departure down the fire escape and hadn't left anything behind in their suite. Not even the two months rent they owed me.

And around nine o'clock Mrs. Donovan had called to tell me a prospective buyer would arrive in town that afternoon. She was very excited and pleased and hopeful. Now is as good a time as any to explain that Mrs. Donovan is the sweet little old lady who, as owner of the Hotel Harmony, was my boss.

Manager was my title at the Hotel Harmony. I was also day clerk at the desk, which had been my title when old Steve Donovan had been living and was owner-manager of the Harmony. He'd been dead ten years now, and his widow had inherited the Hotel Harmony and the headache and debts that came with it.

Mrs. Donovan lived in a little bungalow in the suburbs and was just able to get along on the income from the Harmony each month. So naturally she was excited when she called. The sale of the dump would be a God-send to her.

"He's going to stay tonight and tomorrow," Mrs. Donovan told me. "Give him the finest of everything, Pete. Oh, wouldn't it be wonderful if he bought it?" She meant the prospective buyer.

"It would be swell, Mrs. Donovan," I agreed. "We'll see that everything is at its best. Don't worry. What did you say his name is?"

"Mr. Buttle," she said. "You'd better write it down."

I wrote it down, then, mentally hoping that a guy who'd been silly enough to keep a name like that all his life would probably be dumb enough to buy the Harmony.

For even though I'd started in the Hotel Harmony over twenty years back, and worked and lived in it ever since, I knew I'd be just as glad as old Mrs. Donovan to get away from it.

For I could have been working for more money in a much more highly rated hostelry. I could have been making almost twice what I was making at Hotel Harmony if I accepted any one of the plenty of offers I'd had from better inns.

Then why was I at the Hotel Harmony? Well, maybe because of my loyalty to old Mrs. Donovan. Maybe because I knew any other guy she might bring in as manager would soon swindle her out of it. Maybe because I knew that as long as she had the Harmony on her hands she'd need yours truly to handle it for her.

So don't think I didn't have my fingers crossed in the hope that this guy Buttle she'd interested wouldn't back out on us.

That reason, plus the previously mentioned blue Monday and heavy hangover, might account for the edginess I felt. Edginess that broke into a rash when I saw the gray mustached old gent swagger into the lobby in advance of a caravan of four bellhops who were buried beneath trunks and luggage.

THE gray mustached old gent looked like one of those summer gin advertisements you see of old southern plantation gentlemen swilling mint drinks on sunny verandas. His face was red, his eyebrows as gray and bushy as his mustache, and the expected paunch protruded behind the visible areas of a white vest across which dangled a heavy gold watch chain.

He carried a cane with practiced ease, and twirled it importantly as he approached the desk.

"Hafffmmmmph!" He sounded his opening salvo about three feet away.

I raised my eyebrows noncommittally. "Yes, sir?"

"Have you rooms?" the mustached old gent demanded.

"How many, sir?" I continued my noncommittal act.

"A suite of, ahhhh, four would be suitable for the present," the old duck said.

I was trying to size him up. He was too damned grandiose to ring true. Not the ham of the theater, but the plush of the con man, if you know what I mean.

"You have reservations, sir?" I asked, stalling. That remark usually brings the best of them down a notch. But not this old guy.

"My name is Colonel Applegate," he said, as if that were enough to command the royal suite in the Waldorf.

I pretended to think deeply. Of course, all I had in mind was the tenth floor suite just deserted by the Flying Flynns.

"There is a four room suite on the tenth," I said finally. "If you don't mind waiting several hours until we put it in readiness."

Colonel Applegate shook his head. "No. Not a bit. Give me time to have luncheon and all that."

I pushed the register over to him. "You will sign here," I said.

Colonel Applegate signed with flowing Spencerian flourish. Then he signed another name below it, and put the pen down. I turned the register around.

"Who is Mr. Joe Jobe?" I asked. "You valet?"

Colonel Applegate stiffened. "Mr. Joe Jobe is, or will soon be, known professionally as Hoako The Hindu. I am his manager. He is the world's greatest exponent of the mystic arts."

"I see," I nodded, looking around the lobby, "and he will arrive later?"

"He is at the moment purchasing a turban and other necessary items," declared the colonel. "When I return in several hours he will be with me."

I nodded again, trying to figure this out. The old colonel looked no more like a magician's manager than he did a bellhop.

"This is, ahhhh, a theatrical hotel, is it not?" the colonel asked.

"Yes," I acknowledged, "this is." That clinched my observation. Anyone in show business knows the theatrical hotels of the circuits.

"I, ahhh, imagine that in your position as manager of this hotel you become well acquainted with matters theatrical," the colonel went on.

"Sure," I said. "What would you like to know?"

"I am rather new to this line of business," Colonel Applegate explained. "Previously, I owned a small but, ahhh, very lucrative factory. Damned priority nonsense put me out of business. Got out before I lost my shirt, however. It was fortune that led to my discovery of Mr. Joe Jobe, ahhh, the new Hoako the Hindu."

"I see," I said.

"Took the chap under my wing," the colonel said. "Remarkable psychic phenomena, this Joe Jobe. I decided to back him, to exploit it, so to speak. Figured there would be money in it for both of us in the, ahhh, theater."

"But you haven't played anywhere as yet?" I asked. "That is, your Hoako the Hindu has yet to appear on the stage?"

Colonel Applegate nodded. "Precisely. We are just, ahhh, launching his career, so to speak. Have you any suggestions?"

"You worked out an act yet?"

The colonel nodded again. "Yes indeed. All we need now is a start, a theater, patrons at the box office, and all that."

"You might get in touch with some of the better agents," I said. "Let them catch his act. If he's all you say, they'll book a straight run for him."

"Ahhhh, yes," said the Colonel. "I see. Precisely. Capital idea. Agents, eh?"

I got a small piece of paper, scribbled several names and addresses on it, and handed it to the colonel.

"These are the names of some pretty fair ten percenters," I said. "You might begin by trying them."

The colonel looked at the slip. "Thank you," he said. "Very decent of you."

"Not at all," I answered. "Your rental for the suite on the tenth floor will be thirty-five dollars for the week, payable in advance."

The colonel nodded, reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet bursting with green stuff. Carelessly, he pulled out a twenty, a ten, and a five.

Bug-eyed, I took the money and scratched him out a receipt. If he was a four flusher, his wallet didn't show it. Later, I was going to regret deeply having taken that dough ...

THE prospective buyer, Mr. J. B. Buttle arrived a little after two o'clock that afternoon. I spotted him the instant he came through the revolving door and into the lobby. He was short, fat, bald-headed and beaming. And even the camel's hair sportcoat he wore couldn't keep him from looking like Tweedledum.

I slammed the desk bell so hard in my excitement, that five bellhops leaped to their feet at once and swarmed across the lobby toward him. I was wearing my biggest, friendliest, most professional grin as he came over to the desk.

"Yes, sir!" I said brightly. "What can I do for you, sir?"

Mr. Buttle looked startled, then pleased. Obviously he wasn't used to such attention.

"I would like to register for a room," said Mr. Buttle.

"Certainly, sir," I beamed. "A suite or a single?"

"A single," said Mr. Buttle. "A single with bath, of course."

I shoved the register under his nose. "We have an excellent single on the tenth floor. Southern exposure. Modern, comfortable— our best."

Mr. Buttle smiled. He picked up a pen and scratched his name on the guest register. I turned it around.

"Thank you, Mr. Bu—" I stopped.

The name scrawled on the register was not Buttle. It was John Smith. For a split second I was stumped. An alias— but of course. He was here to look the place over incognito. He didn't want me to know he was Buttle, the prospective buyer. He wanted to test our service, hospitality, facilities, and such.

I looked up at Mr. Buttle's round, smiling face. There was no mistaking him. Twenty years in the hotel game had made it tough to fool me. Naturally, I didn't let on that I knew his game.

We knew he was Mr. Buttle. Even though he didn't know we knew.

"Thank you, Mr. Smith," I said smilingly. "Don't hesitate to let me know if there's anything further we can do to make your stay here pleasant."

Mr. Buttle, alias Smith, nodded happily and was off, followed by two bellhops carrying his expensive calfskin luggage.

Watching our prospective buyer step into the elevator, I had to smile. This was fine. This was excellent. I'd lavish him with care and attention. I'd make his head swim with hospitality. And all the time he'd never know that I was aware of the fact that he was really Mr. Buttle.

I tapped the desk bell, and Jerry, the bell captain, came trotting up.

"See that gentleman who just stepped into the elevator, Jerry?" I asked.

Jerry nodded.

"He's to have extra special attention, Jerry," I explained. "Cater to his slightest whim. Bury him under a heap of hospitality. Understand?"

"What's his name?" Jerry asked.

"Mr. John Smith," I said. "Room 1020."

Jerry's eyebrows went up, but he nodded. It was plain to him that I wasn't offering any further information, but he was hotel- wise enough to know orders were orders.

Then I went back to work, clearing up mailing and billing lists for the day. About an hour after that, I took time off to telephone Mrs. Donovan.

"He's here, Mrs. Donovan," I told her. "And I've got the situation well in hand. Just sit back and relax. You'll have the place sold by this time tomorrow morning."

"Oh, I'm glad, Pete," she said. "That's wonderful. I know I can count on you. Really, Pete, I don't know what I would have done these ten years if it hadn't been for your—"

I cut her off. "Awww," I said, "skip it, Mrs. Donovan. Any manager would have done the same." This wasn't the truth, but then I was full of becoming modesty.

"I told him," said Mrs. Donovan, "to make the sale arrangements with you, as soon as he'd made up his mind. I know you'll be better at driving a good bargain than I am."

"Just leave it to me," I promised. "Leave everything to me!"

I am always very good at promising things...

IT was a little after noon when Mr. Buttle— alias Smith— came down into the lobby again. Evidently Jerry and the other bellhops had been carrying out instructions to the hilt, for he looked as contented as a prize winning bovine at a stock show.

I beamed at him, and he came across to my desk.

"I must say that your hotel extends itself for visitors," Mr. Buttle smiled.

I was still beaming. "We just try to please, Mr. B—, Smith. Every guest is a special guest to us. It's always been that way. Perhaps that's why we have such a steady patronage. We like to feel that our guests always return." No time like the present to put in a plug, I figured.

"I was thinking of luncheon," Mr. Buttle said. "Could you direct me to a good restaurant?"

This was made to order. "Why, we have a restaurant right here in the Hotel Harmony," I said. "One of the very best, if I do say so. I can advise you, with confidence, to try our dining accommodations."

Mr. Buttle rubbed his bald head delightedly. "How convenient," he said. "I most certainly shall try your restaurant." He paused. "Ahh, would you care to dine with me, if you haven't already had lunch, I mean?"

Inside, I grinned. This was obvious. Along with his incognito inspection, he wanted to gain my confidence, and possibly get some inside lowdown on the Hotel Harmony. But this was right up my alley.

"Gladly," I told him. "But I hope you'll be my guest."

Mr. Buttle's eyebrows went up a notch in pleased surprise. "I must say this is certainly a right friendly hotel," he said.

I gave him a big, warm grin. "You have no idea," I said...

OUR dining room wasn't the most lavish set-up in the hotel world. But it was clean enough, and our cooks were slightly better than average. Catering to a theatrical trade, they had to be pretty good.

I took Mr. Buttle to a corner table by a window looking out over the street. The place was moderately crowded, for which I thanked God, and I made the most out of the second rate theatrical fry scattered around the tables.

"That woman over there," I said, pointing to a henna-haired, wrinkle-necked old doll in another corner, "is Madame Traladeay. She's in opera. Of course you've heard of her."

Mr. Buttle gazed until his button eyes threatened to drop on the tablecloth. Clearly, I was on the right track. And his next comment was proof of it.

"I've always been crazy about the theater, since I was a kid," Mr. Buttle said. "Course, I never was on the stage. Went into business. But I've always admired theatrical people. And it's sure interesting to have you point out celebrities, even if I haven't heard of 'em all."

I smiled, not mentioning the fact that he wasn't the only one who'd never heard of Madame Traladeay. She sang in the mass chorus numbers.

"And that couple over there," I said, pointing to a slick- haired boy and a platinum blonde, "are the famous dance team, the DeLooses."

Mr. Buttle's eye bulged again, and I didn't mention that the DeLooses weren't working at the moment and were a mere three weeks back in their rent.

Mr. Buttle's eyes bugged, and suddenly pointing a finger at the door, "are those two coming in now?"

I looked up, recognizing the portly, moustached figure of Colonel Applegate. Walking beside him was a thin pasty faced, scrawny little man with large, luminous brown eyes and a turban.

It took a minute for me to answer, for I was wrapped up in a quick estimate of the turbaned little egg who was undoubtedly Colonel Applegate's Joe Jobe, or Hoako the Hindu.

"Ohhh, yes," I answered. "They just registered this morning. An interesting pair." And then I told him about the colonel and his pint sized magician.

Mr. Buttle was but briefly interested. And I got the idea that his lack of enthusiasm over the pair was due to the fact that I'd inadvertently disclosed them as beginners in the theatrical trade. Obviously, he wanted to be pointed out the veterans, even if he didn't know them.

Obligingly, I went back to picking out others in the dining room who were a little more familiar with the grease paint and footlight routines. His interest picked up again immediately.

And as I chattered on, I waved to Louie, the headwaiter, who'd been standing in the corner giving a sleepy bus boy hell. I figured we'd better start ordering, for I couldn't go on building up the small fry theatrical patrons indefinitely.

Louie caught my wave, nodded, and started toward our table. Just before he passed the table where Colonel Applegate and his queer looking little magician were sitting, he picked up a couple of menus from a stand.

I turned back to Mr. Buttle, then, to make an opening remark about the cuisine which would steer him to the most passable dishes of the restaurant.

But Buttle wasn't in any mood to listen. His eyes were bugged out twice as far as they'd been when staring at the slightly tarnished theatrical stars I'd pointed out for him. And he was looking in the direction from which Louie, the headwaiter should have been coming.

I looked too. But I didn't see Louie.

Instead I saw a pair of menus— floating through the air at us!

I blinked once, then twice. My mouth must have been as wide open as a fish on land.

The menus were still floating through the air toward us!

Mr. Buttle was trying to speak.

"It, it, I mean he, was holding the menus. Now he's gone. But the menus are still coming!" Mr. Buttle managed to croak in horror.

This was the truth. The menus were still coming at us. And now they paused, hovering in the air, less than two feet from our table while Louie's voice said:

"Sirs, what will you have?"

LOUIE'S voice said that, and the menus suddenly separated, one hovering in front of Mr. Buttle and the other in front of me!

And then Louie's voice, bewilderedly, declared:

"What is the trouble? Is something wrong?"

Was something wrong! A pair of floating menus, and a voice without a body. Was something wrong!

"Louie," I rasped. "Don't be funny; where are you?"

"Am I?" Louie's voice protested even more bewilderedly. "Why, I'm right here in front of the table!"

Mr. Buttle was hastily scrambling to his feet, pushing his fat little paunch frantically away from the table. His face was ashen in horror.

He started around the table, then, and was suddenly halted abruptly, as if by an invisible force.

"Please, sir," Louie's voice declared. "Is there something wrong? Is there some trouble?"

Mr. Buttle let out a shriek, and backed hastily away.

"It touched me!" he yelped. "It put its hand on my arm to stop me!"

And then, yelling at the top of his lungs, Mr. Buttle backed around the other side of the table and streaked for the door.

I started out right after him, thinking only of the horrible fact that this would be a hell of an exit for our prospective buyer.

And then a hand detained me by grabbing my arm. A hand I couldn't see. A hand I could only feel!

"What's wrong?" Louie's voice, croakingly, pleadingly, came less than two feet from my ear.

I shut my eyes tight against any sanity that might come over me. Shut my eyes tight and pushed hard against the body of the hand I couldn't see. The body which was there, all right, but which was also invisible.

"One side," I yelled. "I'll come back and faint later!"

Then I was dashing out into the lobby of the hotel. Looking wildly right and left for some sign of the fleeing Mr. Buttle. I caught sight of the worried face of Jerry, the bell captain.

"Buttle," I yelled. "Which way did he go?"

"Buttle?" Jerry frowned.

Then I remembered. Jerry didn't know.

"I mean Mr. Smith. Which way did he go?" I explained.

Jerry pointed to the revolving doors at the front entrance.

I was across the lobby and starting to step through the doors in less than three seconds. And then, almost simultaneous to my stepping into the revolving apparatus, a huge, enormous creature, undoubtedly some three hundred and fifty pounds in weight, started through the same revolving doors from the street entrance.

We jammed there, as his bulk clogged the whirling panels to an almost complete standstill.

And then, cursing, I recognized the enormous tub as Thumpo, a guest at the hotel, who was currently appearing in a sideshow with an indoor circus on Seventy-Fourth street.

I continued to curse as slowly, laboriously, the big bulk of Thumpo, the sideshow fat man, pressed inexorably through the revolving door. It took exactly one minute and forty-five seconds.

And when I dashed out onto the sidewalk in front of the Hotel Harmony, there was no sight of Mr. Buttle.

It would be the height of understatement to say that I was sickly disgusted as I walked slowly back into the lobby.

In an hour, two maybe, there would undoubtedly be a call from Mr. Buttle. A call advising me to send his baggage on to another hotel.

And there would be no unloading of the Hotel Harmony on our now badly frightened prospect. No unloading of the Harmony, and more grief for old, sweet Mrs. Donovan. Plus the fact, I reminded myself, that I'd be stuck at the Harmony until I smiled at guests through a gray beard.

I was so damned sick inside that I didn't even realize my footsteps carried me back into the restaurant. So utterly dejected that I even forgot about the Louie phenomena until I saw him.

Yes, I do mean "saw" him. Louie, the headwaiter, of course!

For there he was, puzzled, perplexed, and big as life, watching me come back into the restaurant.

I stopped short when I caught sight of him. Stopped short and remembered what had happened scant minutes before.

"Looooie," I gurgled. "My God, Louie!"

"What happened?" Louie demanded shakily. "What on earth happened?"

I advanced cautiously toward him. "You're asking me?" I demanded shrilly, as the awful implications on what had happened tugged at the sleeve of my brain.

"Yeah," Louie stuck to his guns of confusion. "I'm asking you. I come up with your menus and you and your friend starting acting crazy mad. What was it, a gag?"

"Look," I said sharply. "I had a hangover, and maybe I still got it. But it wasn't the deetees that made you disappear, become invisible, before me very eyes."

Louie drew in his breath sharply. "Are you all right?" he asked solicitously.

"And Mr. Buttle saw you, too," I said hotly. "Or didn't see you, whichever way you like it!"

"Look," said Louie, "maybe your friend had a hangover, too. Maybe the two of you were out too late and too stinko last night, huh?"

I STARTED to get hot under the collar. No one can become invisible before my eyes and then deny it.

And then a voice boomed behind me, and I turned to see the portly, smiling bulk of Colonel Applegate.

"Really, old chap," he said. "We must apologize."

I frowned, getting still hotter. "For what?"

"For the trick my man, Hoako the Hindu, pulled on your headwaiter here," Colonel Applegate said.

"Hoako the Hindu?" I squealed.

Colonel Applegate was smilingly affable. "But, ahhh, of course. He was just practicing, sort of unthinkingly. He threw a cloak of invisibility over your headwaiter as he was passing our table."

"He what?" I screamed.

"He was just practicing," Colonel Applegate said. "Just brushing up on his invisibility trick, doncha see?"

The thin, scrawny, turbaned little figure of Joe Jobe, or Hoako the Hindu, appeared at the Colonel's elbow.

"Sure," he said. "Excuse me. I was just practicing."

A great light was beginning to dawn on the flushed face of Louie, the headwaiter.

"You mean I was invisible when I went up to that table?" he yelped.

Joe Jobe, alias Hoako the Hindu, nodded solemnly.

"But of course," declared the colonel.

I didn't say a word. The damn foolishness of the situation, the utter impossibility of it all, was just beginning to occur to me.

"This is all some damned rib. Someone's pulling my leg!" Louie growled, suddenly suspicious.

I looked at Louie and the colonel and Hoako the Hindu.

"You three think you cooked up a good joke," I said. "I don't know how you did it, but it stank. I'm warning you, all three of you, to keep out of my hair in the future. I'm not saying anything more!"

I was boiling inside as I turned away. Boiling and getting sick again. For their damned fool practical joke had driven Mr. Buttle, our prospect, far, far away. Further than I cared to think about.

When I passed the desk in the lobby, the assistant I'd placed there, called out:

"Mrs. Donovan telephoned. She wants you to call her."

The sickness got worse. "Tell her," I said, "that I'm still out. Tell her you don't know where I am."

I couldn't bear the thought of having to tell the little old lady that I'd nixed her prospect and ruined her chance at a secure old age in a little less than thirty minutes. I was going up to my room. I was going to put towels on my aching head. I was going to think.

Then, maybe, after a little while I'd be able to get up courage enough to telephone old Mrs. Donovan and break the bad news to her.

But half an hour wearing a groove in the rug of my room didn't help at all. I threw the cold towels off my aching head and slammed out of the room determined to find my way to the nearest bar and possible alcoholic refuge.

HOWEVER, I didn't get any farther than the lobby. In fact I was halfway across it, headed for the door, when I stopped dead in my tracks.

For Mr. Buttle had just stepped through the entrance!

Mr. Buttle wasn't beaming, but there was a tremulous effort at a smile on his round little face, and his composure seemed to have returned.

He saw me, then, and came directly over.

"I, I, just want to apologize," Mr. Buttle said earnestly.

It was all I could do to keep from fainting.

"Apologize?" I croaked.

Mr. Buttle nodded rapidly. "Yes," he admitted. "I guess I sort of acted like a fool, didn't I?"

I was too busy getting a grip on myself to answer that one.

"I, I mean," said Mr. Buttle, "running out screaming like that." He paused. "I, I guess I'm not a trouper," he said.

"Trouper?" I gasped.

Mr. Buttle nodded more earnestly. "Yes. I guess I got scared out of my wits by that show stunt." He blushed. "For a person as crazy about the theater as I am, that was certainly terrible, wasn't it?"

I nodded weakly. "Forget it."

"No," said Mr. Buttle. "I'll never forget it. I must have looked pretty silly. Imagine— thinking there was someone invisible present!"

"Yes," I agreed uncertainly, "imagine that."

Mr. Buttle laughed. "Someone invisible," he repeated self- scornfully. "Why, that's impossible. You'll have to forgive me. I know so little about show business. I didn't realize it was a stunt."

I tried a hearty chuckle. My knees were watery with relief.

"Think nothing of it," I said. "Ha, hah, hah."

"Ha, hah, hah," Mr. Buttle echoed.

Mr. Buttle wiped the perspiration from his bald dome.

"Boy," he said, "I must say it was certainly a shock."

"That's a fact," I agreed. "I think it would be a good idea if you had a drink. Like to join me?"

Mr. Buttle beamed. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you, very much. Do you have a bar in the Hotel Harmony, too?"

I shook my head. "There's one right around the corner, though. One that's very excellent."

From the corner of my eye I caught sight of Colonel Applegate and his pint sized magician, Joe Jobe, now Hoako the Hindu. They had just sighted us, and were moving in our direction. I grabbed Mr. Buttle's arm, turning him toward the door, and hastily piloted him toward it ...

MY chum Mr. Buttle and I not only had one drink, we had ten each after that. Ten drinks apiece in a little over an hour and a half. And I don't mind admitting that my gait was a trifle unsteady when we left the bar at last.

Mr. Buttle, however, hadn't been the babbling type of drinker. He was a trifle tight by the tenth drink, of course, and my subtle sales talk seemed to have had a pretty good effect on him. However, he hadn't admitted to being anyone but the alias under which he had registered, John Smith. And when we went back to the Hotel Harmony, he was under better control when we entered the lobby than I was.

In fact, he spotted the pint parcel magician, Hoako the Hindu, before I did.

"Look," Mr. Buttle exclaimed in awe, grabbing my arm and extending a slightly unsteady finger. "Look at that!"

It took an instant for my eyes to focus, and another for me to follow Mr. Buttle's waveringly pointing finger.

I saw the rope before I saw Hoako the half-pint Hindu.

The rope rose straight up from the floor in the center of the lobby. It rose straight up and stopped some five feet short of the rather high lobby ceiling.

It didn't seem fastened to anything.

And yet it stood as rigidly as a pole.

And there was a crowd, maybe ten or twelve people, grouped in a circle at the base of the strangely erect rope, while, from the center of that group, right next to the rope, I caught the flash of the turban of Hoako the Hindu, alias Joe Jobe.

"I, I, really do believe that we are aboush to witsnesh the Hindu Rope Trick!" exclaimed Mr. Buttle, profoundly excited.

Sobriety was coming back to me. Coming back in a hurry. Theatrical hotel or not, the Harmony didn't tolerate acts in the lobby. It was a long standing policy, and I didn't intend to have it violated now. Even if a pseudo-professional magician wanted to practice.

I started for the crowd around the foot of the weirdly stationary rope. Mr. Buttle, babbling excitedly, was at my heels.

I pushed my way through the ring of spectators to confront Hoako the Hindu.

"What's going on here?" I demanded.

The turbaned little guy looked somberly up at me. "I am just brushing up on a trick," he said.

I looked up the strangely stationary rope. It was all of fifteen to twenty feet high.

"This is no place for tricks," I said. "You rented the suite on the tenth, not the lobby."

"It's too small," Joe Jobe, also Hoako the Hindu, declared.

"Then rent the Roxy," I said. "But get your damned rope trick out of this lobby!"

Mr. Buttle was plucking at my sleeve then, and I turned to see his round anxious face staring up imploringly at mine.

"Let him work his trick," Mr. Buttle begged. "I've never seen it done."

I hesitated. After all, Mr. Buttle was our prospective buyer. I had almost lost him once. There was no sense in crossing him now. I decided to make him happy.

"Okay," I told the turbaned little guy, "do your trick. But make it snappy, understand?"

Hoako the Hindu's large, luminous, sorrowful brown eyes looked around the crowd. He spotted a breathless little lad of about ten in his audience.

"You know how to climb, sonny?"

"Oh, Boy," exclaimed the youngster. "Kin I climb. Try me and see how good I can climb!" The kid dashed to the peanut magician's side.

And then, before I could think fast enough to do anything about preventing it, the kid was shinnying up the stationary rope toward the ceiling!

I watched him climb higher and higher, while Hoako the Hindu looked up, arms outstretched toward the boy, fingers working as if running a scale on an invisible piano.

"Abracadabra," muttered Joe Jobe soulfully, trying to look as Hindustanish as his stage name. "Abracadabra, baba, slabah!"

It happened just as the youngster reached the top of the rope, just as if it looked as the only thing left for him to do would be to climb down again.

There was a brilliant puff of smoke, completely concealing the kid. And when the smoke cleared an instant later— the kid was gone!

I SHOOK my head in astonishment.

Right up the rope to the top and then— gone.

A shrill scream suddenly sounded behind my ear.

"Bobby! Bobby! My God— what did you do to my boy?"

The scream was feminine, and I needed no instinct to tell me it came from a mother in anguish.

Then a fat, red-faced, frightened woman was pushing through the circle around the rope which Hoako the Hindu, alias Joe Jobe, was now complacently taking down.

"My boy," the woman screamed. "My little Bobby. My darling child. You sent him up that rope! Where is he? Where IS he?"

She sailed into the mite of a magician with all fists flailing, screaming shrilly still.

Hoako the Hindu ducked into the crowd, and very skillfully got himself out of harm's length. The yowling mother, no longer able to see him, turned wailingly to a bystander.

"Where's the manager?" she yelled.

Someone pointed at me.

And just like that, the outraged picture of militant motherhood was bearing wrathfully down on me.

"Give me my Bobby!" she shrilled. "Give me my Bobby, you murderer. I'll sue you. I'll sue this hotel. You let a strange little boy wander into your lobby and go up a rope into thin air. You've killed him!"

A quick sidelong glance told me instantly that the enraged mother wasn't my only problem. Mr. Buttle had paled considerably, and now looked just as about as ready to flee as he had a while back in the restaurant.

"Police! PolEEEEEEEEEce!" the woman began to yell violently.

"Oh, my!" Mr. Buttle gasped. "Oh, my goodness!"

"Don't you think you better go up to your room?" I suggested desperately to my prospective buyer. "I'll handle this, rest assured."

Mr. Buttle nodded whitely, scurrying out and around the crowd that had now gathered, heading toward the elevators. I stuck out my arm to ward off the avalanche of maniacal motherhood bearing down on me.

"Madam!" I yelled as commandingly as I could. "Madam— please calm down!"

I might as well have been a matador yelling those words at an enraged bull. The irate dame was swarming all over me inside of another two seconds. I remember going down under the several hundred pounds she undoubtedly weighed. And I remember her big red, steamy fists pounding lumps on my noggin, and remember, too, wondering if I should hit a lady who wasn't a lady.

And then her weight was being pulled off of me. Pulled off of me while a deep, thundering voice demanded to know what in the hell was going on around here.

I looked up to see the bulk of two, blue uniformed coppers.

And climbing unsteadily to my feet, I recognized the biggest and bulkiest of the pair as Steve Clancy, officer of the beat on which Hotel Harmony was located.

Clancy was holding hard to the weighty and threshing woman. And though Clancy was a big man, and one of the toughest coppers on the force, he had his hands full at the moment.

"What goes on, Pete?" he thundered at me. "What's this she devil breaking up your lobby for?"

I mentally thanked God that Clancy and I were on the best of cordial terms. And I did some fast thinking in preparing my answer, when suddenly I spotted Hoako the Hindu coming back to the circle. He had the ten year old youngster with him!

"Nothing," I said swiftly. "This poor woman thinks her little kid came in here to climb up a rope and disappear."

Then I pointed toward Hoako the Hindu and the white-faced tyke beside him.

"Is that your youngster, madam?"

The big woman stopped struggling. Her eyes lighted.

"Bobby," she yelled, "my boy!"

Clancy released her, and she rushed to the little kid, swamping him in beefy affection.

I gave Clancy a knowing look. "Better steer her out gently, Steve," I advised. "I think she's had a little too much to drink."

Clancy's expression became righteously indignant. "A mither who'd drink with a fine little kid like that, oughtta be—" he punctuated his remark by starting toward the woman and her boy.

"Be gentle," I called after him remindingly, "'cause she thinks he ran up a rope in here and disappeared."

Clancy nodded knowingly. "I will that," he said, "fer the sake of her tyke."

WHILE Clancy and the other copper gently but firmly steered the previously hell-bent woman out of the Harmony's lobby with her child, I set out in the direction of Hoako the Hindu, who'd started for the elevators after he brought the kid back.

"Hey, you," I yelled.

The pint sized magician turned around. He looked suspiciously at me from those sorrowful brown eyes.

"I want to talk to you," I said, catching up with him.

Hoako the Hindu nodded noncommittally.

"Look," I said. "I'll have to get this straight. I don't want any more of your impromptu rehearsals in the public sections of this hotel. Do I make myself clear?"

"The colonel," said Hoako the Hindu mildly, "told me I should practice. I gotta brush up on things."

"I'll speak personally to Colonel Applegate," I said. "But in the meantime, you lay off. Get me?" If my voice was hot and harsh it was probably because I was thinking of Mr. Buttle up in his room at that very moment, thinking things over much too much, and quite probably deciding that hotels were things to keep your money out of.

Hoako the Hindu shrugged.

"You talk to the colonel," he said. "He left me orders what I should practice."

"Where is he?" I demanded hotly.

Hoako the Hindu shrugged. "Out somewheres signing up my act, I suppose."

"Where did that kid hide?" I demanded suddenly.

"Hide?" Hoako the Hindu blinked uncomprehendingly. "Hide? Why, he didn't hide. I made him disappear. Just like I made that headwaiter invisible."

I really got sore.

"Who in the hell do you think you're kidding?" I yelled. "You have a good routine, I'll admit it. But don't give me any of that Hindu hokum. I'm no paying customer."

Hoako the Hindu looked at me guilelessly. He shrugged.

"You talk to the colonel," he said. Then he turned away and stepped into an elevator.

Fuming, I went back to the desk and took over from my assistant. Half an hour later, I was still burning, still worrying, and still wondering what Mr. Buttle's reaction to the second messy scene had been.

And five minutes after that, I got my chance to talk to Colonel Applegate. He swept in through the revolving doors like a duke on his way to Parliament. He was carrying his cane, and twirling it happily as he sauntered over to the desk.

"Ahhhhhh," he opened beamingly, "and how are you, sir?"

"Rotten," I snapped. "And I have some words I want to say to y—"

"Ahhhhh, yes," the colonel said, peeling a pearl gray kid glove from his right hand, "about the agents you recommended. I had only to see three. I have booked our act at, ahhh, a modest starting price. A three week starter, with an increase proportionate to our value if we're kept on. We open the night after tomorrow."

"That is all very fine," I said sourly, "but doesn't concern the talk I want to have with you a bit."

The colonel raised white, aristocratically tufted eyebrows in faintly nettled annoyance.

"You refer, I presume, to l'affaire invisibility of this noon?" he asked frostily.

"Only in part," I said grimly. "That was bad enough, but you missed your magical mite's very messy rope stunt just half an hour ago."

The colonel looked disturbed. "Messy? You mean Hoako the Hindu messed up the rope trick?"

I GOT hotter. "I mean he messed up the lobby with it, almost lost a woman her child, and almost lost me my front teeth!"

The colonel smiled in relief. "Hah, glad to know it worked. Had me worried for a moment. Thought he might be slipping. That rope trick is one of his best."

My blood vessels must have started bulging dangerously then.

"You and your damned faker!" I screamed. "Is that all you think matters around here? We aren't running this place as an exhibition hall for a clever magician."

Colonel Applegate raised his eyebrows indignantly. "My good man," he said. "Permit me to correct you. Hoako the Hindu is most certainly no mere magician. He is actually a wizard. You thought the invisibility thing was some trick. It was most certainly nothing of the sort. Your headwaiter was actually invisible when Hoako turned his concentration on him. The child you speak of actually disappeared into thin air at the top of that rope. Hoako is no magician. He is a modern throwback to the ancient wizards of past ages!"

This was more than I could stand.

"Then why don't the two of you get the hell onto your brooms and ride out of this hotel?" I yelled.

"We have paid," the colonel reminded me in frosty indignation, "a week in advance. You have accepted our money. We will remain here until the week has expired!"

With that as an exit line, the colonel turned his back on me and stamped off toward the elevators. At a boiling point of helpless rage, I stalked back behind the desk.

And then the telephone at my elbow rang.

Automatically, I grabbed the instrument from the cradle. Irately, I barked into it.

"Hello?"

Mrs. Donovan's voice came to me!

"Hello, is this Pete?" she asked.

I gulped once, twice, and felt sick all over again.

"Why, uh, yes, Mrs. Donovan. How's everything?"

"You sound strange, Pete," the little old lady said worriedly. "Is there any trouble? Has anything gone wrong?"

"No, no, nothing wrong. Nothing like that," I lied quickly. I couldn't bring myself to tell her the truth.

"Is Mr. Buttle still there, Pete?" Mrs. Donovan asked.

I could answer that one truthfully. "Oh, yes. Yes, indeed, Mrs. Donovan. Mr. Buttle is still here." I hated to think of how long he was going to stay here. I hated to think about Mr. Buttle's probable attitude by now at all.

"Are you making everything nice for him, Pete?" Mrs. Donovan asked. "Is he seeing everything?"

"He's seeing plenty, Mrs. Donovan," I said hollowly.

"That's fine. I'm so glad. I was worried. This means so much, doesn't it, Pete? I, I guess I've worked myself into a state where a disappointment would be awful. I'm silly that way. I know I shouldn't. But, well, I hope you understand, Pete."

"I understand perfectly, Mrs. Donovan," I declared. And then, before I could stop myself, I added: "Just leave everything to me."

Mrs. Donovan's tired little old voice came back relievedly. "Of course, Pete. I don't know what I'd ever do without you. Goodbye, and call me as soon as anything happens."

I put the telephone back in the cradle, feeling all the while like a guy who has just kicked a sweet little old lady into the path of the Broadway Limited.

I put my head in my hands. This was too much. Nothing worse could happen. Nothing more awful could—

The telephone rang again that instant. I picked it up.

"Hello!" yelled a frantic voice. "I want room service. I want the management. I want help!"

I breathed a terrible curse as I recognized that voice. It was Buttle.

"What," I gulped hysterically, "is wrong?"

"My room," squealed Mr. Buttle, "is filled, no— crammed, with rabbits and pigeons!"

"Rabbits and pigeons?" I echoed aghast.

"Hundreds of them!" Mr. Buttle yelped. And then I heard him yipe shrilly and slam the phone down into place.

IT was a little less than two minutes later when I was dashing along the tenth floor corridor toward Mr. Buttle's room near the end of the hallway.

I could see that his door was ajar, and I could also see that the door of the suite just beyond his room was also open. The suite in which I'd placed Colonel Applegate and his pint sized magician.

I don't know why I didn't see the pigeons on leaping from the elevator to the hallway— or the rabbits either, for that matter. But they were there, all right. The rabbits bounding in droves from the Applegate-Hindu suite, and the pigeons flapping noisily around in the hallway.

There must have been close to a hundred of them. And all were emerging from the tenth floor suite of Colonel Applegate and his damned magician!

I came to a skidding stop in front of Mr. Buttle's door. He was inside there, wearing nothing but an old fashioned nightshirt. And he was standing atop his dresser, purple faced with horror, while about his room swarmed a veritable rabbit and pigeon zoo.

He saw me, and his mouth opened and closed wordlessly.

I waved my hand, signaling him to hold on. Then I rushed on to the open door of the colonel's suite from which all this wild life was swarming.

The colonel sat comfortably in an easy chair in the drawing room of the suite, looking in benign approval at his half pint magician, Hoako the Hindu, who was standing in the center of the madhouse, holding a silk hat in his right hand, while extracting pigeons and rabbits at random from the depths of the topper.

"What in the hell is all this?" I screeched from the doorway.

Colonel Applegate looked up.

He smiled. "Oh, ahhh, yes, come in. Do come in. You can be of invaluable assistance. We are rehearsing."

"Rehearsing?" I screamed the word. "The rabbit-silk hat routine," the colonel explained. "Can't seem to get it down right."

"You'll get it down right!" I yelled. "You'll get it down in some other hotel. Get the hell out of here. Get those damned pigeons and rabbits out with you. Get your magician out of here, too!"

The colonel's smile disappeared. He gave me a frostily disapproving stare.

"Rabbits and doves," he said. "Not pigeons."

"Doves or pigeons, I don't care which. Get them the hell out of here, and take yourselves with them!" I screamed.

Hoako the Hindu looked up from his rehearsing. For an instant he pulled no more rabbits and pigeons from his silk topper.

Then he saw that the door in which I was standing was open.

He grinned apologetically, glanced at his mentor.

"Colonel," Hoako declared. "Maybe this guy has got a legit beef. We left the door open. I'll bet the doves and rabbits is all over the place."

The colonel raised his eyebrows. He looked at me, and then the open door. His frosty attitude thawed into one of apologetic friendliness.

"Haw," he said. "So we did. So we did. Awfully sorry, old man. Didn't realize it. Hope we haven't caused any trouble."

Hoako, scratching his head, sheepishly put the silk hat down on the bed.

"Get rid of the rabbits, Hoako," the colonel ordered.

Hoako waved his hands in a wide gesture.

"Abracadabra," he declared.

"And the doves," the colonel added.

"Ala salaba," Hoako said, repeating the gesture.

My eyes almost fell out of my head. I reeled back against the door jam. There were no more rabbits. No more pigeons. Hoako had made them vanish as easily as he had been making them appear!

"There," the colonel said affably. "Does that satisfy you?"

I gurgled something and staggered out of the room down to Buttle's adjoining room. I peered in the doorway there.

There were no more rabbits or pigeons in Buttle's room!

NIGHT-SHIRTED Mr. Buttle, his eyes filled with terror and tears, his face a portrait of bewilderment, was climbing shakily down from his perch on his dresser. His mouth was still working as he tried to say things to me, but no sounds came.

I stepped across to his dresser and helped him down.

"I want to get out," Mr. Buttle finally croaked feebly. "I want to get out of here before I lose my mind completely!"

I was thinking swiftly, desperately. No matter what happened, I couldn't let him out of my clutches now. Maybe there'd be some way to soothe this over. Maybe if I could throw the damned magician and his manager out of the hotel, and convince Mr. Buttle that he'd been the victim of self-delusions, we could still peddle the hotel to him.

Maybe.

"Look," I said sympathetically. "I don't know what's wrong with you. But obviously you aren't feeling well. Maybe you're having hallucinations or something."

Mr. Buttle looked wild eyed at me.

"Didn't you see them?" He whispered hoarsely, his fingers biting deep in my arm.

"See what?" I lied.

"The rabbits," Mr. Buttle said. "And the damned pigeons!" He shuddered deeply and swayed back and forth on his rubbery little legs.

I forced a humoring smile. "Now maybe you'd better get some rest," I said soothingly. "I'm sure it will fix you up fine. A nap is all you need."

"I want to get out of here," Mr. Buttle said brokenly. He started swayingly toward his open suitcase near his bed.

I picked up the room telephone.

"Send up some sleeping pills!" I barked into it. "Snappy!"

I took Mr. Buttle gently by the shoulders, forcing him down onto his bed.

"Just lie there a minute and rest," I told him. "Everything is going to be all right. You wait and see."

I hoped to hell, in my secret mind, that it would be all right.

While Mr. Buttle went through a series of shuddering spells, I paced the room and went quietly crazy trying to find a solution to his mess. Then the bellhop arrived with the sleeping pills. I gave a couple of them, plus a glass of water, to Mr. Buttle.

"Here," I said. "Take these. They'll make everything fine!"

Mr. Buttle swallowed them unprotestingly with the water. I fixed his pillow, covered him up, and stood back watching the drowsiness take effect. A few minutes later and he was sleeping.

Mopping a fevered brow, I closed his door behind me and stepped down the hall to Colonel Applegate's suite. I pounded on their door for almost two minutes before I realized that they weren't going to answer. I went down to the elevators at the end of the hall.

"Has Colonel Applegate left in the last ten minutes?" I asked the elevator boy when he stopped at the tenth.

"Yes, sir. Just about five minutes ago. The little man with the turban wasn't with him, though."

I went back to the door of the Applegate suite. I found a passkey and stepped inside a moment later.

The place was deserted.

"Hoako!" I hollered. "Come out, wherever you are."

No answer. I stormed through the bedrooms and the rest of the suite. No sign of the little magician. And yet the elevator boy hadn't seen him leave.

THEN I saw the note on the desk in the drawing room. It was written in a scrawly, childish hand. Obviously by Joe Jobe, alias Hoako.

Dear Colonel:

I have gone out of the world for about twenty minutes. I will practice some more when I get back.

Joe, Hoako the Hindu, Jobe.

This, definitely, was more than I could stand!

I must have been frothing mad as I churned out of their suite and stormed my way to the desk down in the lobby.

For fully five minutes I was so purple I couldn't utter an intelligible word. And when I was finally coherent again, I screamed instructions at the bellhops, doorman, chambermaids and guests as to what to do the moment any of them caught either Colonel Applegate or his half-baked Hindu sticking their noses into the hotel again.

And then for another ten minutes I panthered back and forth in a secluded corner of the lobby, trying to twist and turn the problem of Mr. Buttle- the -would-be -buyer of the Hotel Harmony into some chance of solution.

For I was aware that it was one thing to knock Mr. Buttle out with sleeping pills and keep him a virtual prisoner in the Hotel Harmony, and quite another to return him to his happy potential- buyer frame of mind when he woke up.

He'd been thinking of packing his bag and fleeing this madhouse, undoubtedly, when he opened his eyes again. And yet, if there was something I could do along the line I'd hastily conceived some fifteen minutes ago— something that would make him think he was sick and nothing more than the victim of his own imagination— I might have a chance of pushing the hotel off on him before he was quite aware of what had happened.

The situation, bad as it was, could have been worse. He could, for example, have jumped from the window of his tenth floor room when the rabbits and pigeons swarmed into the place.

I shuddered at the thought of the grease blob our buyer would have made on the sidewalk under those circumstances. Shuddered and thanked God that he was still alive and intact.

And I was congratulating myself on this fact, while mentally deciding that the situation was still not lost as long as nothing further in the way of complications occurred, when the commotion started on the mezzanine balcony overlooking the lobby.

My first indication of the furore came in the form of several shrill feminine yelps from the lobby itself. I looked up to see three women standing underneath the mezzanine balcony railing, gazing up in terror at the scene above them.

With a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach, I let my eyes follow their horrified gazes.

And then I, too, felt like yelping shrilly. For Mr. Buttle was up there on the mezzanine balcony. Mr. Buttle and Hoako the Hindu. And quite obviously Mr. Buttle wasn't at all aware that he was up there. For he was still in his nightshirt, and sound asleep. Sound asleep, and floating horizontally some three feet from the floor, while Hoako the Hindu, palms extended flat over Mr. Buttle's sleeping form, maneuvered him this way and that!

Hoako the Hindu was practicing again.

And then I saw Hoako, still steering the horizontally floating form of Mr. Buttle before him, start down the mezzanine stairs to the lobby itself.

OTHERS in the lobby, attracted by the yipping of the three dames, were gathering in a rapidly growing group of spectators by the time I was out and around the desk and racing headlong toward the staircase down which Hoako was piloting Mr. Buttle.

But by the time I reached Hoako and Mr. Buttle, the half pint magician was already down the stairs and starting to steer his floating victim across the lobby.

And the crowd was surging in around us, forming an ooohing and ahhing, and laughing gallery.

For as near as I was to the brink of insanity at that moment, even I was aware that the night-shirted, plump, floating little body of Mr. Buttle did look ridiculous.

"Hoako!" I hissed desperately. "Hoako, for God's sake, take him back upstairs where you got him!"

But Hoako the Hindu, alias Joe Jobe, didn't seem to hear me. His gaze was cloudily fixed on Mr. Buttle's horizontally drifting carcass. He seemed deep in a trance.

"Take him back upstairs, Hoako!" I said more sharply.

Hoako the Hindu still didn't look up. He continued to move along behind Mr. Buttle's floating form as he steered it along.

"Damn you," I yelled, "take him back upstairs!"

Hoako the Hindu's eyes grew a trifle less cloudy. A little light appeared in them. But still no glimmer of response.

The crowd was hooting hysterically by now.

"Pass a hoop around his body," someone shouted. "See if it isn't all done by wires."

"Or mirrors," another wag yelled.

I grabbed Hoako the Hindu viciously by the arm, jerking him around to face me.

"Listen, you—" I started to shout hotly. "This is too mu— ."

And in the next sickening instant I realized I had done the wrong thing.

For, with Hoako's concentration disrupted, Mr. Buttle crashed heavily to the floor of the lobby, landing with a smack on his back and nether extremity!

"Oh, God!" I gurgled, releasing my grip on Hoako.

Mr. Buttle was blinking wildly, rubbing his eyes with his pudgy fists, and gazing around like a stricken woodland gazelle.

Hoako's voice, indignantly reproachful, exclaimed: "Now look what you went and made me do!"

The spectators were roaring with laughter now, and Buttle, scrambling to his feet with frantic embarrassment, uttered a choked, confused cry and tried to sweep his nightshirt tighter around his pudgy frame.

Suddenly I wanted very much to fade from view. But before I could do so, Mr. Buttle's bewilderedly accusing gaze lanced me.

"So," he said hoarsely. "So!"

"Look," I cried frantically. "It's all a mis—"

But Mr. Buttle wasn't waiting around to hear what I had to say. He dashed toward the elevators and into the cage of one just about to go up, while the derisive hoots and guffaws of the lobby crowd followed him.

I started after him, then stopped. I'd seen the look in his eye. The look he gave me. If I'd had the proverbial chance of a snowball in hell to sell him the hotel fifteen minutes before it, was a cinch that said chance had now vanished.

THERE would be no talking Buttle out of leaving this time. I had awful, sinking visions of myself staying at the Hotel Harmony until both the building and I were condemned as unfit for further service.

But that didn't lessen the emotional reaction I had toward Hoako the Hindu. And it didn't cut down the verbal barrage I sent his way in the next instant.

"And furthermore, you @@— *†— ! &(‡"*§!!!,"  I concluded a full five minutes later, "I'll see to it, personally, that you and your damned manager spend the rest of your lives in jail!"

Hoako the Hindu had been listening wide-eyed through my tirade, but in the last few lines of it, his gaze had wandered up and over my shoulder. It was still fixed there as I concluded breathlessly.

"What's this? What's this?" a deep rumbling voice demanded behind me.

I wheeled to face Colonel Applegate, who had just returned to the hotel.

"I'll tell you what this is!" I yelled.

Colonel Applegate raised his hand, as his button eyes swept around the fascinated group of spectators surrounding us.

"Come, come, sir. I would prefer that you state your, ahhh, complaints in a place somewhat more private."

I nodded grimly. "Okay. You bet I will. Come right along!" I led the colonel and his half pint magician into my private office to the rear of the desk.

Slamming the door, I turned on the colonel.

"Your magician," I thundered, "has gone too far. For the fourth time he has jeopardized the sanity of the tenant adjoining your suite on the tenth floor." I paused for breath. "And now said guest will undoubtedly pack up and leave."

The colonel had been listening with his tufted brows knotted in concentration. Now they suddenly smoothed, and he raised his hand characteristically to interrupt.

"Ahhhhhh," he declared. "I see what you mean. Of course. Of course. The guest my, ahhh, magician has annoyed is leaving your hostelry, eh?"

"Precisely," I grated. "And what's more, I—"

The colonel cut me off again.

"Tut, tut, my dear fellow. It's a simple matter to adjust. I shall merely reimburse you for the rent you will lose by his leaving."

He started to dig in his pocket for his wallet.

"Listen," I began again.

"Isn't that a satisfactory, ahhh, adjustment?" the colonel demanded.

"No!" I yelled emphatically. "No. It is not!"

And then I was off and running. Running at the mouth. In no small detail did I omit the complete picture of the mess they'd put me in. I screamed forth the facts about poor old Mrs. Donovan. I set down with cold, biting bitterness, the events they had contributed to in driving our potential buyer to near madness. And when I finished, out of breath and somewhat glassy- eyed, five minutes later, I glared from Hoako to the colonel and back.

"So, you see," I snarled, "a mere matter of rent missing is not the trouble. It is plenty deeper than that."

The colonel looked sober. Hoako looked guiltily ashamed, like a small boy who has been caught pitching pennies in church.

COLONEL APPLEGATE tugged reflectively at the end of his sweeping gray moustache. He squinted in concentration, his button eyes disappearing beneath the rolls under them. "You say the owner of this hotel is, ahhhh, a poor widow?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Hmmmmmmm," said Colonel Applegate. "I wonder if we could. I wonder. Hmmmmmm. It isn't ethical. But, ahhhh, the situation might seem to warrant it."

"What the hell are you muttering in your moustache about?" I demanded.

Colonel Applegate gave me an offended glance. "I was just arriving at a solution to your dilemma," he said.

"Solution?" I yelped. "You mean you can—" And then I stopped. "No, you don't," I said quickly. "You've messed things up badly enough already. Keep out of this!"

"Could it be any worse than it is now?" Hoako the Hindu asked quietly.

The colonel nodded. "Precisely. What could we do now that could hurt the situation, ahhh, further? It is obvious that your prospective buyer is no longer such."

"You could have us all tossed in jail," I suggested. "No. I don't think I'd be smart to trust you two—"

The colonel raised his hand and cut me off. "Tut, tut. I give you the Applegate word of honor that we will do nothing to bring any of us into a court of law!"

I looked at him indecisively.

"What do you say?" the colonel asked. "Will you permit us to repair the damage done?"

"Oh, God," I groaned. "If you only could!" Then another thought occurred to me. "What's your plan?"

The colonel looked solemn. "Hypnotize the chap," he said.

"Hypnotize him?" I squealed. "Why, that would be like putting a man under morphine and making him buy something. It, it would mean the pen for us all!"

The colonel shook his aristocratic head. "Not at all," he explained. "Not at all. You see, we would hypnotize the blighter, bring him out of it, and then have him buy the hotel."

"I don't get it," I said flatly.

"The power of suggestion," said the colonel, "is extraordinarily strong under hypnosis. We can have Hoako hypnotize the chap, and while he is in that state, convince him that none of the things which occurred to him in his stay here at your hotel actually occurred. We can, through suggestion, make his memory insofar as what happened here a complete blank."

"So when he comes out of the hypnosis he'll have no recollection of the invisible waiter, the rope trick, the rabbits and pigeons, or floating horizontally downstairs in his nightshirt?" I demanded.

"Precisely," said Colonel Applegate. "Yeah," Hoako the Hindu seconded. "Are you sure you can do this?" I asked.

"In the realm of the occult, nothing is certain. It has, however, been accomplished in other cases I have read of," Colonel Applegate said.

I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath. "Let's find Buttle," I said....

MR. BUTTLE had his bags packed and was frantically getting into his camel's hair overcoat when the colonel, Hoako, and I entered his room. The moment he saw us, his face went ashen and he backed slightly away.

"What do you want?" Mr. Buttle demanded hysterically. "What devilment are you three up to now?"

"Listen," I said soothingly, "we aren't going to hurt you. We just want a few moments of your time."

Mr. Buttle sidled nervously toward his bags. "I haven't any time," he croaked. "I'm leaving here, now, right away, at once."

Colonel Applegate gave me a sidelong glance. He sighed, our signal to advance on him together, should force become necessary to hold him for the experiment.

The colonel was surprisingly strong, amazingly agile. We had Mr. Buttle helplessly on the bed in less than a minute. Hoako advanced and stood over him, while the colonel and I held.

There was a burning intensity in Hoako's eyes as he glared forcefully down at the prostrate and pinioned Mr. Buttle.

Buttle groaned, and turned his head away from the glance.

"Hold his head," Hoako ordered.

The colonel put his large hand on Buttle's forehead, pressing palm down so the chubby little victim couldn't turn away.

"Look at me!" Hoako said.

Mr. Buttle closed his eyes and shuddered.

"Pry his eyelids open, and hold 'em open," said Hoako.

I moved around so that I could hold both Buttle's arms. Then the colonel, his other hand free, opened Buttle's eyes forcibly with thumb and forefinger.

"Unreceptive duck," commented the colonel. "This will take a bit of doing."

Hoako was wordless now. But he continued to stare commandingly down at the helpless Mr. Buttle. His brows, beneath his silly white turban, were knotted in concentration from the effort. Sweat was starting to bead his forehead.

"You are getting sleepy," said Hoako somnambulantly.

"No, I'm not," Mr. Buttle yiped shrilly. "I never felt more wide awake."

"You are getting sleepy," Hoako repeated insistently. "Sleepy, sleepy, sleepy!"

"No," Buttle choked. "No." His reply seemed weaker.

"Sleepy," Hoako repeated, his voice suddenly growing soothing. "Very, very sleepy. Rest, rest. Think only of rest." The drops of sweat beading his brow were now starting to trickle down his nose.

And then, much to my amazement, Buttle answered docilely: "Yes. Yes, I am very tired. I want to rest. I want to sleep."

"Sure you do," said Hoako. "You want to sleep. You want to sleeeeep, sleep, sleeeeep."

Mr. Buttle sighed. "Yes." he said.

Colonel Applegate released his pressure on Buttle's eyelids. They remained open, staring, glazed.

Hoako bent over Buttle and passed his hand before his eyes several times. There was no reaction.

"You are asleep," Hoako declared.

"Yes— I am asleep," Buttle replied in a far-away voice.

"Release his arms," the colonel said. I stopped holding Buttle, and the colonel took his palm from the chubby little guy's forehead. I noticed, then, that the colonel's brow was also beaded with sweat.

"You want to forget some things," Hoako said soothingly.

"I want to forget some things," Buttle repeated.

Hoako nodded at the colonel. "He's right where we want him," he whispered. Then he turned his attention back to Buttle.

"You want to forget about the invisible waiter you saw in the restaurant," Hoako declared.

"I forget having seen an invisible waiter," Buttle responded.

"You forget that rope trick," said Hoako.

"I saw no rope trick," Buttle answered mechanically.

"You didn't see any doves and rabbits," Hoako went on.

"There were no doves and rabbits," Buttle said.

"You didn't float downstairs and wake up embarrassed in the lobby with nothing on but a nightshirt," Hoako told him.

"No floating. No lobby. No embarrassment. Never happened," Mr. Buttle's voice declared.

The colonel looked triumphantly at me. "Good enough?" he asked.

"Will it stick?" I asked.

The colonel nodded. "It should."

"Usually does," Hoako seconded.

I HAD a sudden brainstorm. "Why not put in a few plugs for the Hotel Harmony now that we got him this way?"

The colonel looked dubious. "We've already used Hoako's powers somewhat unethically. Don't know as if it would be right."

"Think of the poor old lady you two almost gypped. Poor Mrs. Donovan. If you put in a plug, it'll sort of even things up."

The colonel thought this over a second, then nodded. "Very well," he said, giving the Hoako the go signal.

"Marvelous hotel, the Harmony," Hoako said, putting his attention back in focus on Buttle. "Cheap at any price. You'll be a lucky man if they let you buy it."

"It is wonderful," said Mr. Buttle from his trance. "It is a positive steal. I'll be lucky to buy it."

"You'd be a fool if you passed up a chance to buy it," Hoako declared.

"I would be a fool," Buttle echoed.

"Swell," I said. "Now bring him out of it."

Hoako's gesture was swift, the noise startling, as he clapped his hands under Buttle's nose. Buttle blinked, shook his head, staring uncertainly at the colonel, Hoako, and me.

"Wh-where am I?" he asked without much originality.

I stepped in, then. Stepped in and told him. And did a neat bit of lying to account for the time that had passed which he wouldn't recall. Briefly, I explained that he had come in here an hour or so ago, signed the register as John Smith, and collapsed. I told him that we'd called a medico, who ordered him to bed here in his room for a few hours rest.

"I must have had some shock," Buttle said weakly, sitting up. "My recollection of everything is fuzzy, blurred. Did the doctor think there was anything seriously wrong with me?"

"No," I said laughingly lying in my teeth. "No. You're in perfect shape. He said he wouldn't have to look at you again. He said when you woke up you'd be okay."

"I do remember something about this hotel," Buttle frowned. "It's very strong in my mind. This is the Hotel Harmony, isn't it?"

"It certainly is," I said quickly.

Buttle thought a minute. "I want to buy it," he said suddenly. "That's what was sticking in the back of my mind. I remember that it's a wonderful buy. Very urgent that I snap it up."

I was beaming as I fished into my pocket and drew out the sales contract I'd had ready and prepared ever since he arrived. I handed him the contract and the fountain pen Colonel Applegate produced.

"Here you are. Better grab it now."

Buttle looked it over. "Cheap at the price," he said.

"Sign right there, Mr. Buttle," I told him. "Then I'll sign, and the colonel and his friend," I indicated Hoako, "can sign as witnesses to the deal."

I felt like yowling and screaming for joy. Inside everything was a warm, flushed elation. This was triumph. Triumph after almost certain defeat.

But Mr. Buttle was holding the pen and the contract and looking at me queerly.

"What did you call me?" he asked.

"Why, Mr. Buttle," I said. "I knew you were Buttle the moment I saw you, even though you registered here as John Smith— incognito."

"But I am not Mr. Buttle," he said. "My name is John Smith. What's all this about?"

Everything inside me started turning around like a top.

"What?" I squealed.

AND at that instant someone was knocking on the door, and Hoako was across the room to open it. A bellhop stood there. Next to him was a tall, thin, dyspeptic chap with gray hair and a miserly set to his mouth. "This gentleman insisted on being taken to you immediately, sir," the bellhop declared, addressing me. "He said his name is Mr. Buttle."

"You're damned right my name is Mr. Buttle," said the tall, gray haired drink of acid, striding into the room.

His eyes flashed from me to the colonel and then to Hoako, finally resting on the guy I'd mistaken for Buttle. They seemed to read the contract my chubby mistake held in his hand at a glance.

"What's this?" the tall, thin, real Buttle demanded. "Is that fourflusher trying to buy this hotel out from under my nose?"

The chubby, ex-Mr. Buttle, John Smith by fact, rose indignantly to his feet.

"Whoever you are, sir, I won't be so insulted. You're damned right I'm buying this hotel," he declared, clutching the contract in his fat little paw.

"At what price?" thundered the acidulous old gent who was really Buttle.

The John Smith who'd been mistaken for Buttle looked down at the contract in his hand. He looked up.

"Listed price," he said. "Fifty thousand."

"I'll pay seventy-five," said our newcomer angrily.

"I'll pay a hundred thousand," said the ex-Mr. Buttle.

"A hundred and five thousand," said the thin, gray, real Buttle.

My head was swimming. A hundred and five grand— twice what I thought I'd get!

"A hundred and ten thousand," said the chubby little John Smith, after a moment's hesitation. He seemed to be dreading another bid upping. It showed on his face, and the real Buttle saw it.

"A hundred and twenty," said old acid pan.

There was a silence. The fat, round, little John Smith choked. Tears came to his eyes.

"I don't have any more money than my last bid," he said.

The thin, honest-injun Buttle grinned triumphantly. He snatched the contract from the guy I'd originally thought to be Buttle. He pulled a fountain pen from his pocket, scratched his name across the bottom, and handed it to me. I signed promptly, then the colonel and Hoako completed the deal with their witnessing signatures. I pocketed my copy.

John Smith watched it all disconsolately.

The thin, acidulous Mr. Buttle pulled out three checks. He handed them to me. "You beat my price up," he admitted. "These checks are certified, and amount to a hundred and twenty thousand. I was," and here he grinned gloatingly, "prepared to pay more. But now the bargain is sealed, no backing out. You see, this hotel property will be bought by the government at a handsome price very shortly. They'll put up Factory Number Ten, for gunsights, here."

Colonel Applegate started chuckling. I looked at the real Buttle and then to Applegate, while my stomach turned inside.

"The joke is on you, my dear man," Applegate told the real Buttle. "Factory Ten, for gunsights, has already selected a site. I ought to know. They recently contracted for my Novelty Products Factory. Put me out of business, but with a handsome profit, of course."

It was the real Buttle's turn to look sick.

"That's a lie!" he gurgled.

Colonel Applegate shrugged. "As you like, sir. I know it to be true. I'm but a disinterested spectator."

"And as you said, Mr. Buttle," I threw the last knife into our thin drink-of-acid's neck, "the deal is sealed. You can't back out!"

I started for the door then, my knees hardly strong enough to hold me up. But in my pocket was the signed contract, plus the certified checks. I wanted to get to a telephone. This time it would be a pleasure to talk to old Mrs. Donovan ...

IT WAS when I was walking out of the lobby of the Hotel Harmony the following day, bags in hand and headed for the swank hotel I now manage, that Colonel Applegate, carrying a telegram in his hand, staggered weakly over to me and grabbed my arm.

"Look," he said chokingly. "Look at that. I'll sue the bounder. I have a contract. I've made bookings. I'll sue him!"

I took the telegram from his trembling hand.

AM ON WAY TO WASHINGTON, AFTER BEING ACCEPTED THIS MORNING FOR SECRET SERVICE DUTY. FEEL IT ONLY RIGHT I SERVE U. S. MIGHT BE OF HELP. HOPE YOU UNDERSTAND.

JOE, HOAKO THE HINDU, JOBE.

"The Secret Service!" Colonel Applegate groaned. "Hoako has joined the Secret Service!"

I grinned, thinking of the little guy who could make things vanish and people disappear. Maybe he could try his hand on Hitler.

"It's just like you said yesterday morning, Colonel," I answered. "Those damned priorities!"

_______________

7: The Cat of the Stars

Sinclair Lewis

1885-1951

The Saturday Evening Post, 19 April 1919

THE FATALITIES have been three thousand, two hundred and ninety-one, to date, with more reported in every cable from San Coloquin, but it is not yet decided whether the ultimate blame is due to the conductor of Car 22, to Mrs. Simmy Dolson's bland selfishness, or to the fact that Willis Stodeport patted a sarsaparilla-colored kitten with milky eyes.

It was a hypocritical patting. Willis had been playing pumpum-pullaway all afternoon, hence was hungry, and desirous of winning favor with his mother by his nice attitude toward our dumb friends. Willis didn't actually care for being nice to the dumb friend. What he wanted was cookies. So slight was his esteem for the kitten— whose name was Adolphus Josephus Mudface— that afterward he took it out to the kitchen and tried to see if it would drown under the tap of the sink.

Yet such is the strange and delicate balance of nature, with the lightest tremor in the dream of a terrestrial baby affecting the course of suns ten million light-years away, that the patting of Adolphus Josephus Mudface has started a vicious series of events that will be felt forever in star beyond mounting star. The death of exiled Napoleon made a few old men stop to scratch their heads and dream. The fall of Carthage gave cheap bricks to builders of dumpy huts. But the false deed of Willis Stodeport has changed history.

Mrs. Simmy Dolson was making an afternoon call upon the mother of this portentous but tow-headed Willis, who resides upon Scrimmins Street, in the Middle-Western city of Vernon. The two matrons had discussed the price of butter, the iniquities of the fluffy-headed new teacher in Public School 17, and the idiocy of these new theories about bringing up young ones. Mrs. Dolson was keeping an ear on the car line, for the Oakdale cars run only once in eighteen minutes, and if she missed the next one she would be too late to prepare supper. Just as she heard it coming, and seized her hat, she saw young Willis edge into the room and stoop to pat the somnolent Adolphus Josephus Mudface.

With a hatpin half inserted Mrs. Dolson crooned, "My, what a dear boy! Now isn't that sweet?"

Willis's mother forgot that she had intended to have words with her offspring in the matter of the missing knob of the flour bin. She beamed, and to Willis she gurgled, "Do you like the kittie, dearie?"

''Yes, I love our kittie; can I have a cookie?" young Machiavelli hastened to get in; and Aldebaran, the crimson star, throbbed with premonition.

"Now isn't that sweet!" Mrs. Dolson repeated— then remembered her car and galloped away.

She had been so delayed by the admiration of daily deeds of kindness that when she reached the corner the Oakdale car was just passing. It was crowded with tired business men in a fret to get home to the outskirts of Vernon, but Mrs. Simmy Dolson was one of those plump, amiably selfish souls who would keep a whole city waiting while she bought canary seed. She waved at the car and made deceptive motions of frantic running.

The conductor of the car, which was Number 22, was a kind-hearted family man, and he rang for a stop halfway down the block. Despite the growling of the seventy passengers he held the car till Mrs. Dolson had wheezed aboard, which made them two minutes late. That was just enough to cause them to miss the switch at Seven Corners; and they had to wait while three other cars took the switch before them.

By that time Car 22 was three and three-quarters minutes late.

Mr. Andrew Discopolos, the popular proprietor of the Dandy Barber Shop, was the next step in the tragedy. Mr. Discopolos was waiting for this same Oakdale car. He had promised his wife to go home to supper, but in his bacchanalian soul he desired to sneak down to Barney's for an evening of poker. He waited one minute, and was tremendously moral and determined to eschew gambling. He waited for two minutes, and began to see what a martyr he was. There would never be another Oakdale car. He would have to walk home. His wife expected too darn much of him, anyway! He waited for three minutes, and in rose tints and soft gold he remembered the joys of playing poker at Barney's.

Seven seconds before the delayed Oakdale car turned the corner Mr. Discopolos gave up the struggle, and with outer decorum and inner excitement he rushed up an alley, headed for Barney's. He stopped at the Southern Cafe for a Denver sandwich and cuppa coffee. He shook for the cigars at the Smoke House, and won three-for's, which indicated to him how right he had been in not going home. He reached Barney's at seven-thirty. He did not leave Barney's till one-thirty in the morning, and when he did leave he was uncertain of direction, but very vigorous of motion, due to his having celebrated the winning of four dollars by buying a quart of rye.

Under a dusty and discouraged autumn moon Mr. Discopolos weaved home. Willis Stodeport and Mrs. Simmy Dolson and the conductor of Car 22 were asleep now; even the disreputable Adolphus Josephus Mudface had, after a charming fight behind the Smiths' garbage can, retired to innocent slumbers on the soft folds of the floor mop in the corner of the back porch where he was least likely to be disturbed by mice. Only Mr. Discopolos was awake, but he was bearing on the torch of evil destiny; and on one of the planets of the sun that is called Procyon there were floods and earthquakes.

When Mr. Discopolos awoke in the morning his eyes were filmy and stinging. Before he went to his shop he had three fingers of pick-me-up, which so exhilarated him that he stood on the corner, swaying and beaming. Normally he had pride in his technic as a barber, but now all his more delicate artistry was gone in a roving desire for adventure. With a professional eye he noted the haircut of a tough young man loafing in front of the drug store. It was a high haircut, leaving the neck and the back of the head bald clear up to the crown. "Be a joke on some fellow to cut his hair that way!" giggled Mr. Discopolos.

It was the first time in a year that he had needed, or taken, a drink before afternoon. Chuckling Fate sent to him the next torchbearer, Mr. Palmer McGee.

Palmer McGee was one of Vernon's most promising young men. He lived at the University Club; he had two suits of evening clothes; and he was assistant to the president of the M. & D. R. R. He was a technical-school graduate and a Spanish scholar as well as a business-system expert; and his club-grill manners were as accurate as his knowledge of traffic routing. Today was his hour of greatness. He had, as the result of long correspondence, this morning received a telegram inviting him to come to New York to see the president and directors of the Citrus and Southern Steamship Company about the position of Buenos Aires manager for the company. He had packed in ten minutes. But he had an hour before his train, with the station only twenty minutes away by trolley. Instead of taking a taxi he exuberantly walked from the club to Selden Street to catch a car.

One door from the corner he beheld the barber shop of Mr. Discopolos, which reminded him that he needed a haircut. He might not have time to get one in New York before he saw the steamship directors. The shop was bright, and Mr. Discopolos, by the window in a white jacket, was clean and jolly.

Palmer McGee popped into the shop and caroled "Haircut; medium." Magnetized by Mr. Discopolos' long light fingers he closed his eyes and dreamed of his future.

About the middle of the haircut the morning's morning of Mr. Discopolos rose up and jostled him and dimmed his eyes, with the result that he cut too deep a swath of hair across the back of Mr. McGee's sleek head. Mr. Discopolos sighed, and peeped at the victim to see if he was aware of the damage. But Mr. McGee was sitting with eyes tight, lips apart, already a lord of ocean traffic, giving orders to Singhalese planters and to traders in the silent northern pines.

Mr. Discopolos remembered the high-shaved neck of the corner loafer, and imitated that model. He ruthlessly concealed the too-deep slash by almost denuding the back of Mr. McGee's head. That erstwhile polite neck stood out as bare as an ostrich.

Being an artist, Mr. Discopolos had to keep the symmetry— the rhythm— correct, so he balanced the back by also removing too much hair from in front— from above Mr. McGee's Yalensian ears.

When the experiment was complete, Mr. McGee looked like a bald young man with a small wig riding atop his head. He looked like a wren's nest on top of a clothes pole. He looked painstakingly and scientifically skinned. At least it was thus that he saw himself in the barber's mirror when he opened his eyes.

He called on a number of deities; he said he wanted to assassinate Mr. Discopolos. But he hadn't time for this work of mercy. He had to catch his train. He took his maltreated head into a taxi, feeling shamefully that the taxi driver was snickering at his haircut.

Left behind, untipped and much berated, Mr. Discopolos grumbled, 'T did take off a little too much; but rats, he'll be all right in couple of weeks. What's couple of weeks? Believe I'll go get a drink."

Thus, as ignorant as they of taking any part in a progressive tragedy, Mr. Discopolos joined Willis Stodeport, Adolphus Josephus, Mrs, Dolson and the too-generous conductor of Car 22, in the darkness of unimportance, while Palmer McGee was on the Pullman— and extremely wretched.

He fancied that everyone from the porter to the silken girl across the aisle was snickering at his eccentric coiffure. To Mr. McGee, queerness of collar or hair or slang was more wicked than murder. He had rigidly trained himself to standards in everything. There were, for example, only three brands of whisky on which a gentleman could decently get edged. He was the most dependable young man in the general offices of the M. & D. R. R., and before that he had been so correctly pleasant to the right fellows and so correctly aloof with the wrong fellows, so agreeably pipe-smoking and laudatory of athletics, that he had made both junior and senior societies at Yale. He had had no experience to teach him to bear up under this utter disgrace of a variation from the standard of haircutting.

As the train relentlessly bore him on toward New York he now and then accumulated courage to believe that his haircut couldn't be so bad as he knew it was. He would stroll with noble casualness into the smoking compartment, and the instant it was free of other passengers he would dart at the mirror. Each time he made the same quaking discovery that he was even more ridiculous than he remembered.

By day, trying to read or scan the scenery or impress fellow smokers, by n:ght, folded in his swaying berth— he could think of nothing else. He read only one paragraph of the weighty book which all persons carry on all Pullmans in the hope that they will be forced to finish it because they have nothing else to read. He grew more and more sensitive. Every time he heard a laugh he was sure that it was directed at him; and because he so uncomfortably looked away from the absent-minded gaze of fellow passengers he made them gaze the harder.

The beautiful self-confidence which had always concealed Mr. McGee's slight defects from himself and had helped him to rise to the position of assistant to the rail-road president was torn away, and he began to doubt himself, began to feel that others must doubt him. When he finally crept up the cement incline in the New York station, after a writhing glance at the redcaps, to see if New Yorkers would notice his ludicrousness as much as people had on the way through, he wondered if he could not return to Vernon and wire the steamship directors that he was ill.

He was not exaggerating about the importance of this trip to New York. The directors of the Citrus and Southern Line really were waiting for him. They needed him.

It is a curious fact of psychological economics that there are almost as many large employers waiting and praying for the chance to pay tens of thousands a year to dependable young men as there are dependable young men waiting and praying for the chance to earn a thousand a year. The president of the Citrus and Southern, the pouchy blob-nosed dean of South American and West Indian shipping, had been in the hospital for six months, after peritonitis. From his bed he had vaguely directed the policies of the company. Things had run well enough, with the old clerks working mechanically. But a crisis had come. The company had either to expand or break.

The Green Feather Line, weary of litigation, wanted to sell all its ships to the Citrus and Southern, which if it bought them might double its business. If some other company bought them and vigorously increased competition, the Citrus and Southern might be ruined.

The Citrus and Southern held a five months' option. By the end of that period they hoped to have found the man who could connect the sick president's brain with the general office's body — and they believed that in Palmer McGee they had found that man.

McGee did not know how carefully he had been

watched. He had never met one of the directors or officers

of the Citrus and Southern, had never seen one of them, and their correspondence had been polite but not exciting. But the two suave gentlemen who had been poking about Vernon lately had been commercial secret agents of the Titanic Rating and Credit Company; and they knew all about McGee, from the number of drinks he had at the club to the amount of his bank account and his manner of listening to the stories of the chief shippers of the M. & D. R. R.

The Citrus and Southern chiefs were certain that they had found their man. McGee was to be sent to Buenos Aires, but only on test. If he was as good as they thought, he would in three months be brought back as vice president at a salary nearly four times as large as the one he had received in Vernon. In this crisis they had the generosity of despair.

They were to meet McGee in the president's suite at the hospital at four-thirty; and the train got in at three-fifteen.

McGee went to a hotel, and sat still, scared, looking at himself in a dressing-table mirror. He became momently more rustic, more tough, more skinned and awkward in his own eyes.

He called up the hospital, got the president. "Th-this is McGee. I— I'm coming right over," he quavered.

"Huh! That fellow sounds kind of light-waisted. Not much self-confidence," complained the president to his old friend, the chairman of the board of directors. "Here, prop me up, Billy. We must give him a thorough look-over. Can't take any chances."

The note of doubt was a germ which instantly infected the chairman. "That's too bad. The Rating and Credit people reported he was a find. But still— of course "

When Palmer McGee faced the president, the first vice president and a committee of four directors, three of the six had already turned from welcoming eagerness to stilly doubt. He felt that doubt. But he interpreted it thus:

"They think I'm a complete boob to have a haircut like this. Think I don't know any better. And I can't explain. Mustn't admit that I know there's anything wrong— mustn't admit I was an easy mark and let a drunken barber carve me up."

He was so busy with these corroding reflections that he did not quite catch the sharp question which the president fired at him:

"McGee, what's your opinion of the future of the competition between Australian wheat and the Argentine crop?"

"I— I — I didn't quite understand you, sir," lamented poor McGee, victim of the cat of the trembling stars.

The president thought to himself: "If he can't get as dead simple a question as that— Wonder if the first vice president wouldn't do, after all ? No. Too old-fogyish."

While he meditated he was repeating the query without much interest; and without interest he heard McGee's thorough but shaky answer.

And McGee forgot to put in his usual information about the future of New Zealand grain.

Two hours later the president and directors decided that McGee "wouldn't quite do"; which meant that he wouldn't do at all; and they wearily began to talk of other candidates for the position. None of the others were satisfactory.

Four months later they decided that they would have to go slow; wait for the president to recover. They could find no one adaptable enough to coordinate the president and the working management. So they gave up their option on the steamers of the Green Feather Line.

The best of the jest was that Palmer McGee had looked rather well in his flippant haircut. Because the Chapel Street barber had started cutting his hair a certain length when he had been a Freshman in Yale he had kept up that mode, which was respectable but dull. But the semi-shave had brought out his energetic neck muscles. Never had he looked so taut and trim. Though dozens of people between the Vernon barber shop and the New York hospital had noticed his uneasiness none of them had considered his coiffure queer— they had merely wondered whether he was an embezzler or a forger.

McGee returned to Vernon broken, and General Coreos y Dulce, ex-president of the Central American republic of San Coloquin, entered the train of victims of Willis Stodeport, of Scrimmins Street.

The general had colonized Ynez Island, lying off the coast of San Coloquin. Fields of cane and coffee he had created, and he was happily expropriating ten thousand melodious natives. The general was a merry and easy ruler. When he had accepted the presidency of San Coloquin, after certain military misunderstandings, he hadn't even executed anybody — except a cousin or two, merely for politeness' sake.

His colony on Ynez Island was served by the steamers of the Green Feather Line. The business was not yet sufficient to warrant a regular stop, but General Dulce had a private agreement with the manager of the Green Feather, as well as one with the sick president of the Citrus and Southern, which later agreement was to take effect if the company took over the Green Feather boats.

But when the Citrus and Southern gave up their option the Green Feather fleet was bought, not by another Atlantic line but by a Seattle firm, for their Alaskan and Siberian trade. Consequently the general had to depend for service on a tin-can line which ran out of San Coloquin.

The owner of that line hated the general; had hated him when the general had been president, and had added to that hate with every meditative gin rickey he had sipped in the long years since. The general's fruit spoiled aboard the creaky old steamers; it was always too late to catch the boat north. His coffee was drenched, and his sugar short weight. When the general desperately bought a freighter of his own it was mysteriously burned.

Poverty and failure closed in on Ynez Island. The colonists hadn't enough to eat. When the influenza reached the island the weakened natives died in hordes. Some of them fled to the mainland, carrying the disease. The number of fatalities that would probably have been prevented by comfort and proper food and a supply of drugs has been estimated by Dr. Prof. Sir Henry Henson Sturgis at three thousand two hundred and ninety. One of the last to die was the broken-hearted general.

Before he died the wheel of Fate had turned past him and stopped at a certain European monarch. The general had in all his colonizing and his financial schemes been merely the secret agent of that monarch. The king was uncomfortable on his throne. It rocked and squeaked and threatened to give way at the seat. It was kept together only by many fees for repairs— jolly gifts to the duke who hypocritically led the opposition party, to a foreign agent, to certain clerics and editors and professors, even to the ostensible leader of the left wing of the radical party.

Five years before Willis Stodeport had patted Adolphus Josephus Mudface, the king had realized that he was in danger of using up all his private estate. He had speculated. He had called General Coreos y Dulce from Central America; and it was royalty's own money that had developed the colonization of Ynez Island.

It had been impossible for the king to keep in touch with the details of the colonization. Had he learned of the loss of the Green Feather service he might have raised funds for the purchase of the whole fleet when the Citrus and Southern gave up the option. But the proud, dogged general, with his sky-climbing mustachios and his belief that one Castilian was cleverer than four Andalusians or eight gringos, had been certain that he could pull through without help from the royal master.

It was not till the approach of death that he sent the coded cablegram which informed the king that he could expect no income from Ynez Island. Then the monarch knew that he could not keep his promises to certain peers and ministers; that his wordiest supporters would join the republican movement; that the gold-crusted but shaky-legged throne would at any moment be kicked out from beneath him by rude persons in mechanics' boots.

So it came to pass that at a certain hour the farthest stars quivered with mystic forces from the far-off fleck of dust called Earth, forces which would, just for a sketchy beginning, change all the boundaries and customs of Southern Europe. The king had at that hour desperately called in the two ministers and the one foreign emissary whom he trusted, and with that famous weak smile had murmured: "'Gentlemen, it is the end. Shall I flee or— or— You remember they didn't give my cousin the funeral even of a private gentleman."

At that hour, in a hovel in the Jamaica negro quarter of the capital of San Coloquin, General Coreos y Dulce, friend of composers and masters of science, was dying of nothing at all but sick hope and coldly creeping fear, and a belief that he had pneumonia.

A thousand and more miles away the president of the Citrus and Southern Steamship Company was writing his resignation. His old friend, the chairman of the board of directors, again begged: "But this means the ruin of the company, Ben. We can't go on without you."

"I know, Billy," the president sighed, "but I'm all in. If we could have found someone to carry out my ideas I could have pulled through — and the company could have. Shame we were fooled about that McGee fellow. If we hadn't wasted so much time looking him over we might have had time to find the right man, and he'd have taken enough worry off my shoulders so that Well, I'll about pass out in three months, I reckon, old man. Let's have one more go at pinochle. I have a hunch I'm going to get double pinochle."

About half an hour after that, and half a continent away, Palmer McGee left the home of the president of the M. & D. R. R. He walked as one dreaming. The railroad president had said: "I don't know what the trouble is, my boy, but you haven't been worth a hang for quite a while now. And you're drinking too much. Better go off some place and get hold of yourself."

McGee crawled to the nearest telegraph office that was open, and sent a wire to the Buffalo & Bangor, accepting their offer in the purchasing department. The salary was not less than the one he had been receiving, but there was little future. Afterward he had a cocktail, the fourth that evening.

It cannot be authoritatively determined whether it was that evening or the one before that a barber named Discopolos first actually struck his wife, and she observed, ''All right, I'll leave you." The neighbors say that though this was the first time he had mauled her, things had been going badly with them for many months. One of them asserts that the trouble started on an evening when Discopolos had promised to come home to supper but had not shown up till one-thirty in the morning. It seems that, though he had forgotten it, this had been her birthday, and she, poor mouse, had prepared a feast for them.

But it is certainly known that at the same hour on the same evening there was much peace and much study of the newspaper comics in the house of the Stodeports on Scrimmins Street.

Willis stooped to pull the tail of Adolphus Josephus Mudface, now a half-grown cat. Mrs. Stodeport complained: ''Now, Willie, do let that cat alone! He might scratch you, and you'll get fleas and things. No telling what-all might happen if you go patting and fooling with "

Mr. Stodeport yawningly interrupted: "Oh, let the child alone! Way you go on, might think something dreadful would happen, just because he strokes a cat. I suppose probably he might get one of these germs, and spread it, and before he got through with it, maybe be the cause of two-three people taking sick! Ha, ha, ha! Or maybe he might make somebody rob a bank or something just awful! Ha, ha, ha! You better hold in your imagination, Mamma! We-ell "

Mr. Stodeport yawned, and put the cat out, and yawned, and wound the clock, and yawned, and went up to bed, still chuckling over his fancy about Willis having a mysterious effect on persons five or six blocks away.

AT EXACTLY THAT MOMENT in a medieval castle about five thousand miles from Willis Stodeport, the king of an ancient nation sighed to the Right Honorable the Earl of Arden, K. C. B., special and secret emissary of the British throne: "Yes, it is the twilight of the gods. I take some little pride in saying that even in my downfall I can see clearly the mysteries of Fate. I know definitely that my misfortune is a link in a chain of events that impressively started with—"

"—with the loss of thousands of lives and millions of pounds, in San Coloquin," mused Lord Arden.

"No! No! No! Nothing so earthy and petty. I have long been a student of astrology. My astrologer and I have determined that this evil chance of myself and my poor people is but the last act in a cosmic tragedy that started with an esoteric change in the magnetism of Azimech, the cold and virgin star. At least it is comforting to know that my sorrows originated in nothing trivial, but have been willed by the brooding stars in the farthest abysses of eternal night, and that—"

"Um. Oh, yes. Yes, I see,'' said the Earl of Arden.

__________________

8: The Yellow Jasmine

William Le Queux

1864-1927

Australian Town and Country Journal, 25 June 1913

A HIGH-PITCHED voice came to me from across the Nile. It came from the thin, minaret of the mosque which showed white against the cloudless sky— the call to Allah.

The gorgeous gold and saffron of the Eastern sunset lay over the yellow sands of the Nubian Desert; the air was heavy with the scent of a hundred sweet perfumes, and the broad winding river, flashing back the sun's rays, flowed on among its huge black granite boulders around the historic Island of Elephantine, opposite Assouan, on its way seven hundred miles to the sea.

A big felucca with white lateen sail, one of those queer-shaped Nile boats, the same today as in the time of the great Rameses, was passing down stream, and from it came to me the sound of a tom-tom, and the weird plaintive evening song to Allah. "Al-la! Al-la!" sung by the black-faced Soudanese crew to the rhythmic heating of the native drum.

Alone, I was sitting by the Nile bank in the beautiful garden of the Savoy Hotel which covers nearly half the island, shaded by the flowering oleanders, high feathery palms and spreading acacias, smoking a cigarette after my tea, prior to re-crossing the river to the big Cataract Hotel on the mainland, where I was spending the winter.

Of all the quiet beauty-spots of Egypt, that land of fierce loves and bitter hatreds, that garden of the Savoy at the end of December must rank first. There, about me, La France roses ran riot with the yellow mimosa, and the flaming poinsettia, sweet-smelling carnations, with dozens of varieties of tropical flowers huge and brilliant, and among them the great orange trees laden with fruit both green and golden.

Yet on the banks of the river what a contrast! Down to the very water's edge descended those barren ever-drifting sands which for hundreds upon hundreds of miles contained no vegetation, no living thing save the jackals who howl so dismally at night, and the slow plodding strings of camels going east and west, heavily laden with merchandise. So unusual, so beautiful, so full of grandeur, so thoroughly Eastern, and where rain is unknown, it is surely little wonder that Upper Egypt, with its ancient tombs and temples and its exotic life, should have become the winter playground of Society, even though it be three thousand miles distant from London.

In the blaze of that brilliant sunset— a sunset such as one witnesses only in the African desert— I sat thinking and wondering with the Nile, broad and mysterious, flowing on at my feet. Close to me one of the great Pharoahs had, four thousand years ago, sculptured his cartouche within an oval ring upon one of the huge water-worn rocks, and there it was still to-day— the heiroglyphics of the sun, the helmet and the snail— the name of Khephren who built his pyramid at Gizeh.

Truly that Land of the Pharoahs— or that part of it which lies between Luxor and the frontier of the Sudan— is an unchanging world, a world of ancient wonders in which stand Thebes, Philae, and Abu-Simbel, all incomparable with anything that civilisation has ever seen.

My mind was, however, far away from my surroundings, as the novelist's mind must so frequently be. I had all the morning been busy upon the book I was writing, and now at evening, was about to return to my manuscript, when, of a sudden, I heard a light footstep passing over the gravel behind me, and a woman's voice speaking so low that I could not catch the words. I recognised the voice, and therefore did not turn. Only when she had passed I gazed after her.

She was young, perhaps twenty-two, rather tall, dressed very tastefully in white, embroidered muslin, with white kid shoes and large white hat, and she carried a sunshade in her hand, having come up the garden from the little steam-launch which runs across every five minutes from the mainland. Even though her back was turned to me she was, I knew, young, delicate, and refined, with fair, well-dressed hair, and an unusually pretty face. Her name was Evelyn Nicholson, and she had arrived at my hotel on the previous day with her elder brother, Arthur, by the express steamer from Cairo.

I had seen them both in the big Oriental hall at the Cataract Hotel on their arrival, and ever since that moment I had been filled with wonder. The girl had greatly attracted me. Why, I know not. And now this wonder was greatly increased, for there, in that quiet, deserted island garden, where there were no onlookers or eavesdroppers, she was walking in deep conversation with a tall, keen-faced Arab, a veritable statue in bronze, in his long black flowing robe, his scarlet papouches, and white turban.

At a glance I saw that her companion was a common person— a man such as one meets in the bazaars, and will act as interpreter and assist in a bargain for a tip of a couple of piastres.

They were walking slowly, and as I watched I saw the Arab speaking deliberately and emphasising his words with gestures.

It is unusual, and quite unpardonable, for any European woman who stays at the smart hotels of Assouan to associate with an Arab, no matter what his grade in society may be. But in this case I was amazed to see that the pair evidently understood each other. From where I sat hidden by the trees, I watched them halt.

She was speaking to him softly but clearly in English. He shrugged his shoulders, and it struck me that they were making some bargain.

For fully ten minutes they remained in conversation in that spot where they believed themselves to he unobserved. Then at last the fellow grinned with satisfaction— grinned evilly it seemed to me— and bowing, he touched his forehead in salute, and turning, left her, and disappeared down one of the leafy alleys.

That secret interview which the young English girl had had with the Arab roused my curiosity. The expression upon that man's face had been a distinctly sinister one. Therefore, I rose and, following him, watched him cross the garden to the opposite side of the island, where a small boat awaited him. This he entered, and was rowed around the bend of the river by the two black-faced Nubian boatmen.

Afterwards I strolled back to the great hotel where native servants in white robes and scarlet sashes, statues of bronze, stood on either side of the door to dust one's boots with big feather-brushes. I searched the public rooms, until suddenly I found myself out upon the balcony leading from the drawing room. There she was standing alone, gazing over the river.

I raised my hat, and she at once, recognised me as staying over at the Cataract.

"How delightful it is here!" I remarked. "So much better than our hotel— don't you think so."

"Oh, ever so much," she said. "Only it's such a bother to cross the river every time one wants to get to the town. My brother and I only arrived yesterday, and we are delighted with this place."

"You have never been in Egypt before?" I asked.

"Never," was her reply. "I'm charmed by it. The spell of Egypt is upon me already, and yet we only left London three weeks ago."

Her reply puzzled me, for in the lounge of the Cataract on the previous night I had overheard her in conversation with a woman, speaking of Luxor and Assuit with a knowledge quite as intimate as my own— and I had spent half-a-dozen seasons on the Nile.

No. As I stood there, leaning against the wooden balcony, I decided within myself that this pale, sweet-faced English girl was not exactly what I had first supposed her to be.

People of the middle-class never go to Assouan. It is only a place for the aristocrat, and for the newly rich who cling to the edge of their garments. And expensive! Well, the difficulties of transport and the great distance from the base of supplies necessarily renders it one of the most expensive places in the whole world. As I chatted with her in the blood-red afterglow I noted how very good-looking she was, how exquisitely she was dressed, and how, though she only wore a single bangle, yet lit was a very costly one of splendid diamonds.

"It's getting cold," I said presently. "You ought to have a wrap. The hour after sundown is very dangerous on the Nile."

"Yes." she replied. "I think I'll go back again to Assouan. I've been waiting for my brother, who promised to come over and give me tea. But he hasn't come."

"And you've had no tea!" I exclaimed. "That's really too bad. Let me order you some."

Then, heedless of her protest, and knowing the feminine weakness for the "five o'clock," I rang and ordered tea in the big empty drawing-room with the pale blue furniture and carpet to match.

She chatted merrily and frankly. She lived in London— in Holland-road, Kensington, I learned— and her brother a barrister, had been ordered abroad for his health. After Egypt they were going to Sicily, and later on to Switzerland. They did not expect to be in London again for at least eight months.

As she sipped her tea I saw that, whatever mystery surrounded her, she was at least refined and well-bred. Yet I could not reconcile her assertion that that was her first visit to Egypt with her secret meeting with that tall, thin, wiry Arab— unless his handsome bronze features had attracted her, and she had allowed him to smile upon her.

But no! That interview was no love-tryst. Behind it was some distinctly evil intent.

When she had finished her tea we descended to the little steam-launch, and crossing the river together walked for half a mile along the river-front and up the hill to our hotel, where I bade adieu to her in the hall, more than ever puzzled.

Yes. She was a delightful little companion— most charming.

When I ascended to my room I looked forth upon the Nile now purple in the afterglow, with the ruins of the temple upon Elephantine standing dark against the yellow desert on the opposite bank.

The handsome suite of rooms next my own were occupied by young Prince Gortshindoff and his wife, a pretty young Frenchwoman, who at that moment was seated upon her balcony with her maid standing near.

The name of Gortshindoff is one to conjure with, as everyone knows who has travelled in the south of Russia. The Prince, who lately succeeded his father, was owner of enormous estates on the Caspian, as well as half the oil-wells in Baku. A year ago he had married Georgette Allard, daughter of a Paris banker, the slim, pale-faced pretty young woman who sat upon her balcony gazing at the dying rays of the sun, and as she turned, she wished me a gay "bon soir."

I had often met the Prince and Princess in the lounge and chatted with them after dinner. I knew Russia, and that was our bond of friendship. I had visited his oil-wells in Baku long ago. and written about them in one of the English magazines.

"My husband was yesterday unexpectedly called away to Cairo," the Princess said to me in French across the balcony. "Is it not annoying? He has some financial business there."

"I hope, madame. he will not be away long," I said. "Otherwise it will be very dull for you."

"Five days— two nights in going and returning, and three days in Cairo," she replied.

"And then you go up to Wady Haifa, and on to Khartoum— eh?" "Yes. I want to see the rock-temple of Abu Simbel and the Sudan," was her reply.

I suppose we must have chatted for nearly half an hour, the maid having discreetly, retired, when we both went in to dress for dinner.

That night, after coffee, I sat with her for a long time on the big wide verandah which overlooks the Nile. For a Frenchwoman, she was very level-headed and sensible. She took a keen interest in literature, especially in fiction, and was greatly excited over a novel of mine at that moment appearing daily in the Paris "Matin."

The lounge was filled by a gay crowd — that self-same crowd that one sees at supper in the season at the Savoy or Carlton in Loudon. Then, at eleven o'clock, I bent over her hand, and she ascended to her room. I had seen nothing of Evelyn Nicholson, though her brother had been playing billiards all the evening.

The moon, that white brilliant moon of Africa, was up, therefore instead of retiring to bed. I took my hat and stick and went forth for a walk away out of the town and into the soft sand of the desert, along the camel track which leads south into this wilderness. I wanted to be alone in order to think, and surely in no place is there less distraction than in this wild African desert, with its high bare rocks and rolling sand-dunes.

Only the dismal howl of the jackals broke the silence of that clear and wonderful night— a night of steely brilliance to be remembered for a lifetime. I was thinking— thinking very deeply.

By some words which the Princess had let drop to me I felt suspicious that some little unpleasantness had arisen between herself and her husband. It was not the first occasion on which they had been in Assouan. Indeed they had met there, in that same hotel, three years before, and again in the following year — prior to their marriage. But Russia— ah! it was an impossible country, she had that night declared. Then lowering her voice she said to me in confidence:— "I know it is very wrong of me, but I hate the place— I hate it! Fortunately we have a house in Paris, or life would be quite impossible."

I knew how devoted the Prince was to her. He and I often met, and sometimes we had wandered through the native bazaars together. He lived only for his beautiful young wife. Often, too, when they had thought themselves unobserved, I had, I confess, glanced out of my window and seen him holding her white band or kissing her upon the lips as they sat upon their balcony in the darkness of the night. Surely they could not have quarrelled!

Just before two o'clock I entered my room and switched on the light. But some twenty minutes later, while undressing, my eye suddenly caught sight of something upon the carpet, and I picked at up. I held it in my fingers, filled with surprise and astonishment.

What I had found was a narrow band of pale blue ribbon-velvet, with a hook sewn on one end and an eye upon the other. Over the latter the velvet was gathered into a small bow. It was the velvet band from a woman's hair!

What woman had been to my room— and with what purpose? I locked away the piece of velvet, and for hours lay awake much puzzled.

Next morning I had a long chat with Miss Nicholson in the hotel lounge. She was very neatly dressed in her sun-helmet and grey riding-habit, and presently she went forth with her brother for a ride into the desert.

Then, not half an hour later, as I was passing near the steamboat pier, I came across the tall, sinister-faced Arab leaning idly upon a rail and gazing blankly out over the Nile. His long black gown was soiled and dusty and his red slippers sadly worn, while around his tarboosh a white scarf had been wrapped many times, the fringed ends hanging over his shoulder. In his thin, bony hand he carried a stick of hippopotamus hide from the Sudan.

I lingered, pretending to look into the shops, and though many Arabs passed and re-passed, it was evident that the keen-faced man who stood there was a stranger, and unrecognised.

That night the Princess did not appear at dinner. The table had been set upon her balcony, and I caught sight of her in the negligee in a pretty black kimono, embroidered with gold.

But after dinner I found Evelyn Nicholson, looking very sweet in pale pink chiffon, and for over an hour sat with her at one of the little tables out upon the verandah where the Nile lay dark and mysterious beneath the stars.

"My brother has gone out with some people— some Americans who arrived this morning," she said presently, glancing at the jewelled watch upon her wrist. "I think I must now go upstairs. It is already half-past ten. You are going out, I suppose?"

"Yes," I said. "I generally go for a stroll before going to bed."

Then we bowed and parted.

It was nearly half-past one, and the hotel was in silence when I passed along the thickly-carpeted corridor, and entered my room. I touched the switch, but to my annoyance the light failed. The long French windows were open to the balcony, but the room was so dark that I was compelled to grope about for a match.

While doing so I heard a strange, unaccountable noise from the adjoining room— the Princess's bedroom— a low cry, as though of pain.

I halted to listen, when suddenly I became conscious that I was not alone in that room, and next second a crushing blow fell upon my head, causing me to stagger and reel.

The blow was a heavy one, but fortunately I did not lose consciousness; in a second I sprang forward at my assailant. My finger touched some soft, flimsy material, and I gripped it. But, alas! it came away in my hand.

Another swinging blow was aimed at me, but I dodged clear, when suddenly I became aware that the door had been opened and the intruder, whoever it was, had escaped! Apparently I had not latched the door on entering.

I dashed into the corridor, but saw no one. A dark passage was close by and my assailant had disappeared down it. But in my hand remained a torn piece of pink chiffon.

The intruder had been none other than Evelyn Nicholson!

Smarting beneath the blow I found the matches and lit the candle, when upon the floor I saw there lay the formidable weapon with which I had been dealt that terrible blow— a yellow, hippopotamus-hide stick. It was that same stick with a crook which I had seen in the hand of the thin Arab.

I was examining it, utterly amazed at the extraordinary incident, when again that strange cry from the next -room reached my ears.

It was the Princess!

I rushed out upon the balcony. Yes; the cry was again repeated! Therefore. I got over the rail, and approaching the closed sun-shutters saw that one of them stood open.

Upon the table de nuit an electric reading lamp was burning, beneath its shade of yellow silk. But as I looked I saw that the handsome room was in great disorder. The mosquito curtains had been half torn down from the bed, the sheets and coverlet were half upon the floor, and as I looked more intently I saw that upon the pale blue carpet the Princess in her nightdress was lying with her dark hair unbound, her handsome face white as death. From her ashen lips a groan escaped.

Next instant I was at her side. There had been foul play! I rang the bell violently, and a sleepy Arab appeared. I sent him at once for the hotel doctor, and within a few minutes the latter, a man named Mason, appeared in his pyjamas.

"Most extraordinary!" he said, after having made a rapid examination, and finding no wounds of any description. "Looks as though she were in a fit."

"It's no fit," I declared. "She's been struck down by an assassin."

"There's certainly no evidence for it," was his quick reply. Then he sent for Harrison, another doctor in the hotel, and together they held a consultation. I said nothing of the unaccountable attack upon myself, or of what I had discovered.

At present the sole question was how to save the Princess' life.

Both doctors, while I supported her head upon my arm, seemed entirely at a loss to account for the curious symptoms. They had never seen similar ones before.

"Professor Muller, of Berlin, is in the hotel. Let's get him," suggested Harrison, and ten minutes later the stout elderly German with his grey hair disordered stood staring at the patient through his big round spectacles. He made a long and minute examination, while the Princess, recovering her speech, began to utter ridiculous sentences and behave as though she were intoxicated, while every now and then she would tear frantically at her white throat in her difficulty to gain breath.

Presently the German professor said:

"We must give an antidote quickly! This lady has been poisoned! Gelseminum, the root of the yellow jasmine, a most deadly poison, well known here in the East, has been administered hypodermically. Half a grain is sufficient to cause death. The needle was probably put into the scalp while she was asleep. The poison is a most powerful one, and affects the motor tract— paralysis of the muscular system, walking, and speech. Quick! no time must be lost!" and he sat down and scribbled something in pencil.

An improvement was noticeable, in half an hour, but through the night we never left the unfortunate lady. When, however, at nine o'clock next morning I inquired of the hall porter if Miss Nicholson had come down, he told me that both she and her brother had left an hour before by the express for Cairo.

By the time the Prince returned unexpectedly from Cairo next evening his young wife had almost recovered from the effects of the deadly poison which had with such daring been administered to her. He came to my room, and I related the whole of the circumstances. Then he rose angrily, and sighing, said—

"The whole thing is, unfortunately, quite clear to me. The telegram which called me to Cairo was a fictitious one. I met Evelyn— I mean Miss Nicholson, in Luxor two years ago, and she believed that she was to become Princess Gortshindoff. She did not— hence her fiendish revenge. She came here in secret with her brother— who probably is in ignorance of the whole affair. She knows Egypt well, and no doubt by her soft persuasion induced that scoundrelly Arab— who was probably no stranger to her— to make this dastardly attempt upon my wife. She hoped, perhaps, that if I were a widower, I should marry her after all. Were it not for your knowledge and interruption poor Georgette would have been found dead in her bed. She owes her life to you," added the Prince. "And she hopes to-morrow to be sufficiently well to thank you personally."

"And the English girl?" I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"What reprisal can I make without creating a great scandal?" he replied. "It would reflect upon me. I promised to marry her but I learnt something— and I changed my mind. Ever since then her heart has been consumed by the fierce fire of jealousy— that mad jealousy which has prompted her, alas! to use the Yellow Jasmine!"

___________________________

9: The Mystery Man

William Le Queux

World's News (Sydney) 24 Oct 1914

"AH! there, my friend, you have a mystery after your own heart!"

"Unfortunately, I am only aware of few disconnected facts gathered from foreign telegrams in the papers. Tell me the story as far as you know it," I urged of my friend, Max Hein, the well-known chief of detective-police of Berlin, an officer of European fame.

A fair, rather stout, round-faced, clean shaven man, he sat back in the low leather arm-chair with his cigar, presenting the appearance of a prosperous merchant or financier, rather than that of the astute investigator of crime he really was.

In the old world, smoke-mellowed Devonshire Club, in London, there is one large, gloomy, silent room at the rear, which is preserved just as it was in the days of the Dandies, when the Devonshire was "Crockford's," the house wherein fortunes and estates were lost nightly at dice or cards. It is a room full of memories, for there upon its gilded chairs sat in bygone days the young "bloods" of the town, who so recklessly played against Crockford's inexhaustible bank, and who inevitably ended in ruin.

In that room, with closed door, I was sitting one grey afternoon last April, chatting with Hein, whom I had known for years in the various capitals of Europe.

A strange affair had happened— a very strange drama of life, the prologue of which had opened in Berlin, while the denouement had occurred in London. And it was concerning it that he had called to have a chat with me.

"The story," he remarked deliberately in German, removing his cigar from his mouth and blowing the smoke towards the dingy ceiling. "The story is an extremely curious one. I will relate it to you briefly, my dear friend, so that you may be able to follow the events in their proper sequence. As you well know, one of our Under-Secretaries for Foreign Affairs in the Wilhelmstrasse is Baron Rudenburg, who is at the same time a well-known financier in Berlin. In his office he had a confidential secretary in the person of a certain young lady of noble birth, named Leonie Von Sachs, and to this clever little person many delicate matters were entrusted. More than once she had been sent upon semi-diplomatic missions abroad, and had successfully accomplished them. On several occasions she had been instrumental in instigating and directing press campaigns in Austria, Turkey, and even in England, in favor of Germany. Consequently, she was well-known in the capitals and very popular among the foreign journalists on account of her elegance and extreme beauty. Her mother had been French, and she inherited all the chic of the true Parisienne."

"And she had a lover, of course?" I interrupted, smiling.

"Ah!" laughed the chief of police. "You novelists always look for the lover— just as we do. Well, let me continue. Just two months ago to-day, Leonie Von Sachs was at the Hotel de Milan, in Milan, having been sent there to settle up a financial point regarding the amount of subsidy to be paid by the German Government towards the International Exhibition in Turin. She had, after a week's negotiations and argument, settled the point with the promoters of the enterprise, and was about to leave Milan for Berlin when something unexpectedly happened. By mere chance, she met a young, good-looking American, named Hamilton Kennedy, and as far as we can ascertain, they both fell violently in love with each other. She left Milan and he followed her to Berlin next day, taking up his quarters at the Esplanade Hotel, which, as you know, is one of the best in the German capital."

"Then she had a lover!" I remarked,

"Of course. But listen to what followed," said the famous chief of police. "A month after her return home to her flat in Berlin she was sent here, to London, on a secret mission regarding some financial transaction— to deliver a note to a certain person called Karl Riek, living in Fitzjohn's Avenue, Hampstead, and to receive a verbal answer. And now comes the mystery. We know that she carried out her mission safely— she delivered the note and obtained a reply—but shortly after three o'clock next morning she was found by a constable in Earl's Court Road, Kensington, lying dead against some railings."

"The person named Riek, whoever he is, must know something— or suspect something."

"Our embassy, as soon as the truth became known, instituted searching inquiry of Riek, but the attaché who went up to Hampstead received a shock. Mr. Riek had also been found in his bed that morning stone dead."

"And what had been stolen?" I asked, quickly scenting some conspiracy.

"Ah! That's the curious point. Nothing whatever had been taken from Fitzjohn's Avenue, and as far as your agents of Scotland Yard can trace, there is no mark or evidence of any intruder in the house of the murdered man."

"Then he was murdered!" I exclaimed. "That is an established fact— eh?"

"Professor Salt, your Home Office expert, has declared that he was killed, probably in his sleep, by a hypodermic injection. He found gelseminine— an extremely potent poison."

"Then the lady was probably poisoned also," I remarked thoughtfully.

"The professor has failed to establish the cause of death, just as the two doctors who made the post-mortem failed. There is no mark of a hypodermic needle, no sign of foul play, no bruise, indeed nothing abnormal was revealed on analysis."

"Her death is a mystery, then?"

"A complete mystery," my friend remarked, after a deliberate pull at his cigar. "I have been here in London nearly three weeks, and I brought four of my most trusted inspectors to assist me in my inquiries, but, up to the present, I can find no clue. You, who write so many mysteries of crime, may perhaps be able to see the affair from another point of view. You may even have some theory."

"I must weigh over all the details," I said. "Is there nothing more you can tell me? What about the young American? Where is he?"

"Living at home in Boston. I had a cable only last night from our police commissary who lives in New York. He has been to Boston, seen Kennedy, and established the fact that the young man has not left Boston for the past three weeks."

"Then there can be no suspicion concerning him?"

"None."

The problem placed before me was certainly a very curious and complicated one. To me, one fact appeared quite certain, namely, that the young lady who had been entrusted with a secret mission to the German living in Hampstead held some knowledge detrimental to her assassin, and for that reason the mouths of both her and Riek had been ingeniously closed for ever.

But by whom?

Very little appeared in the newspapers concerning the affair, for the London police had been careful to conceal the actual facts from the inquisitive reporters, and only the baldest evidence given at the inquest had been published.

I confess that the affair, with its many curious features, fascinated me.

That evening I called upon a man named Davidson, who lived out at Clapham, and was a retired inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department. Seated with him in his front parlor, I described the mystery, and told him all the details I knew. Then he put on his hat and coat, and taking with him a jemmy, which unscrewed to go into the pocket, a dark lantern, and a bunch of skeleton keys, which he had secured a few years before from a notorious, burglar, we set out for Fitzjohn's Avenue, Hampstead.

You probably know that long, aristocratic, tree-lined thoroughfare of large, detached, red-brick houses, which runs up the hill from Swiss Cottage to Old Hampstead. There, at half past nine that evening, a taxi deposited us. We walked for some little distance on the left-hand side northward from the corner of Nutley Terrace, until we came to a big modern house, which, in complete darkness, stood a little way back from the roadway in its own grounds.

The road was quiet and deserted, save for a passing car, while only a few paces away a constable was idling, the real object of his presence there being to keep observation upon the house of mystery. He recognised Davidson, who, in a few brief words, explained that we intended to visit and examine the scene of the ingenious assassination of the mysterious German.

The constable accompanied us, but as no key we had would open the Yale latch on the front door, we forced a window in the basement and were soon inside.

The place, though well furnished, smelt very stuffy, having been densely shuttered for three weeks. In room after room we switched on the electric light, revealing the fact that Mr. Riek, whoever he had been, certainly possessed a house which was the very acme of comfort and luxury.

Everything had been allowed to remain just as it had been on the night of the double tragedy. In the dining-room were the remains of a meal which had been served to two persons, tete-a-tete— a meal cooked by a highly respectable woman named Mrs. Harrison, whose past had already been very carefully investigated— and served by the woman's daughter, who acted as parlor-maid. They were the only two servants. They came there daily, and upon them there was not a shadow of suspicion.

As we stood together in the room where the mysterious man and his secret visitor had taken their last meal, I made some inquiries of the constable concerning the owner of the place.

"Oh! He's lived 'ere about two years, sir," the man replied, hitching his fingers in his belt, a habit with many members of the force. "He was very good to us— often gave us a bob when he spoke to us. He frequently used to ask us to keep an eye on things for 'im while 'e was away. He went abroad a good bit."

"Do you know what he was— his profession?"

"Something in the City, I 'eard— something to do with companies. Most o' the people who live in the Avenue are City folk," he answered.

"Anything happen here before?"

"Nothing very extraordinary, sir."

"You never had any suspicions, for instance, regarding any of the visitors here, I suppose?" I said quietly, having glanced around the heavily furnished room, and made certain mental notes.

"Well, sir, the gentleman certainly used to have callers, at all hours of the night— people in motors and taxi-cabs. I've seen them drive up often when I've been on duty alone here— well-dressed men, and sometimes women. They would only make a brief visit, and then drive away again. Most of them were smartly dressed people who seemed to look in on their way home from the theatre or supper. But for the past three months, the visitors have ceased."

"Curious that they should pay such late visits," I remarked. "I take it , that the women carried small handbags?"

"I don't follow the drift of your inquiry," said Davidson frankly.

I smiled. Something which my eyes had detected had caused me to form a vague and strange theory regarding that silent house. It held me in utter surprise.

"Tell me," I urged of the constable. "When on duty did you at any time see anyone arrive at a late hour with luggage— a bag or a trunk?"

The constable reflected for a few moments, then replied:—

"Yee, once I remember a foreign lady arriving just after midnight with a dressing-case and a large American trunk—one of those with rounded ends. I recollect that she objected to the fare charged on the taximeter."

"Mr. Riek's visitors never stayed here."

"Never. They simply called, and after half an hour or so left again."

"Did these callers attract the attention of any other police officer beside yourself?" asked Davidson, interrupting.

"I think they, did, sir, for one night in the section-house I heard Mr. Riek discussed."

I made a tour of the place, which I learned had, until two years before, belonged to a maiden lady, from whom Riek had rented it furnished, thus accounting for the old-fashioned solidity of the furniture, and its early Victorian atmosphere, except the drawing-room, which was quite fresh and modern, with pale blue silk upholstery, and a saxe-blue carpet upon which were spread some valuable Persian rugs. Upon a little table were two framed photographs, one of a clean-shaven, good-looking young man, and the other a pretty woman in an evening bodice of black net. These I examined closely, going to the length of opening the frames and finding the names of the photographers and the numbers of the negatives, which I noted on my shirt-cuff. I had made a discovery which certainly very much surprised me.

Davidson and his companion looked on, but said nothing.

Afterwards we ascended to the dead man's room, wherein he had been found in bed lifeless. Situated on the second floor front, it was well but plainly furnished, the bed still tumbled as the cold body had been removed from it. For some time I remained there alone, the others going on a tour of inspection through the attics before leaving the house.

Hemmingway, of Scotland Yard, and Max Hein, of Berlin, both world-famous investigators of crime, had made their examination of the place three weeks previously, therefore there was but little fresh material upon which to base a theory.

I closed the door and lay down upon the spot where the man had been so stealthily done to death. As I lay my head was behind the door, and when I put the door ajar a wide crack was opened within a foot of my cheek. Examination of the door showed that though the key was on the inside it would not lock, being badly rusted, while there was no safety-bolt. Therefore it was proved that Riek's habit was to sleep with his door unlocked, or probably open.

Had the injection of that fatal drug been administered through the crack of the door?

I decided that without using a hypodermic syringe at least a foot and a half long, it could not have been done. But my main object was to discover the assassin. The mode in which the crime had been perpetrated was of secondary importance.

I suppose I must have remained there fully two hours when I was joined by appointment by Max Hein. I had been alone in the house of mystery for over an hour, and from certain things I had seen there had formed a vague and somewhat startling theory which I intended to put at once to the test.

We were seated together in the dead man's cosy little library when I asked him:—

"What was the nature of the confidential message brought from Berlin to Riek by Leonie Van Sachs?"

"Ach, my friend," he replied; "I do not know. We are unfortunately not in the confidence of the Wilhelmstrasse."

"An official secret, perhaps?"

"In all probability."

"Riek was not a secret agent of your Government?"

"I can assure you to the contrary. I have made inquiry in Berlin, and find that he was unknown to us."

"But known to Fraulein Von Sachs. Why was she sent to him if he were unknown in Berlin?"

"Fraulein Von Sachs herself suggested visiting him."

At midnight I parted from Hein, and returned to the club, where for hours I sat in my bedroom in Arlington Street— pondering deeply.

Cosmopolitan that I was, a constant traveller to and from the European capitals, I possessed a very wide circle of acquaintances, and certain things I had noticed in that silent house had caused me to wonder, though to neither Hein nor Hemmingway had they appeared at all out of the common.

To me, they furnished a vague clue. The lips of both man and woman had been closed by someone who stood in deadly fear of what they could reveal. Of that there was no doubt.

I slept but little, and was early astir next morning.

At ten o'clock I called upon a certain well-known photographer in Baker Street, and after an examination of his books, went to another in High Street, Kensington, where I did exactly the same thing. Then, at half past two, I was on my way from Charing Cross to Folkestone, and at eleven o'clock that night I was drinking a gin-fizz in "Henry's," the well-known American bar in Paris.

Near me, also drinking, was a short, under-sized little Frenchman, with quick black eyes, and a rather sallow complexion, who, truth to tell, was a somewhat distinguished friend of mine— Henri Lageste, inspector of the Paris Sûreté. He had met me upon my arrival at the Gare du Nord, but we had entered "Henry's" as strangers.

Just after midnight a rather tall, thin-faced young Frenchman, wearing evening dress, a soft shirt-front, and a gold-rimmed monocle, entered, and came up to the bar.

He had ordered a drink when, on turning, he suddenly recognised me and greeted me most effusively.

Together we drank, and a quarter of an hour later went forth, with Lageste following us discreetly. We had walked in the direction of the Opera when, quite unexpectedly, I turned to my companion and asked in French:—

"Where can I find Zizi?"

He started, and for a second looked at me in blank amazement.

"Is she still working the grand expresses— or has she come into a fortune?"

"What do you know?" he asked, turning upon me fiercely, his manner changed in an instant.

"I know a good deal, my dear Jules," I replied quite calmly. "And Lageste, of the Sûreté, just behind us, knows more."

In an instant I detected his intention, for had I been alone he would surely have struck me down with his keen knife. Jules Solary was one of the most daring and desperate jewel thieves in all France, and head of a band known as the "Grasshoppers," who were the most expert safe-breakers of modern times, and to whom in recent years nearly all the really big jewel thefts on the Continent had been due.

"No," I laughed, drawing my revolver in a second; "not this time, Jules. Now— tell me where I can find Zizi to-night."

"You won't find her," was his sullen reply.

"Then you won't go home," I declared, halting. "Lageste wants you badly."

"I see!" he cried quickly. "You want Zizi?"

"Only to ask her a question. Take me to her, and Lageste shall look the other way while you escape. He wants you for the affair of the Rue de Rivoli," I whispered.

The man glanced quickly around, and seeing the famous detective a hundred yards away, realised that I was speaking the truth.

"You won't have her arrested, will you? I had so idea you were a police agent!"

"I'm not," I assured him. "Only I happen to know who leads and controls the 'Grasshoppers.' I only want to ask Zizi a question— about the German in Hampstead."

"The German! Who?"

"Karl Riek. He's dead."

"Dead?" gasped the notorious thief, his dark face showing intense surprise. "How?"

"Killed," I said, and briefly explained the circumstances, adding: "Zizi has been in London lately— on business, I suppose."

"I believe so. In fact she's in London now— at this address," and he produced a piece of paper whereon was written "Madame Barbier," with the name of a well-known boarding-house in Gower Street. "Is that all you wish to know ?"

"Where is Victor Jouven?"

"Also in London— Zizi knows his address. I don't," was his reply.

Then I thanked him for the information, and after a drink at a neighboring café, Lageste, at a sign from me, disappeared, and ten minutes later I parted company with the most ingenious thief in France.

About six o'clock on the following afternoon I called upon "Madame Barbier," and was shown into a small private sitting-room in Gower Street where the original of that photo-graph I had seen in Riek's house rose to greet me.

She was a tall, fair-haired, and extremely pretty young woman, elegantly yet neatly dressed. We had once been fellow travellers on the Sud Express between Paris and Madrid. The international expresses were her happy hunting ground, for to her was due many a theft reported. Yet so refined and elegant was she that surely nobody would have ever taken her for one of the "Grasshoppers."

"I was with Jules in Paris yesterday," I said suddenly in French, when the door was closed. "He told me you were here."

She started, turned pale, and looked at me quickly.

"No, no," I assured her with a laugh. "I'm not a police-agent, but I am inquiring into the death of a man you knew. Mr. Riek up at Hampstead." '

"I know nothing of it," she declared.

"Permit me to contradict you, mademoiselle," I said, looking straight at her. "But your memory is conveniently short. You came to London to do business with him, private business which others have so often transacted, namely the sale of jewellery stolen on the Continent. On the night of the crime you brought him over some stuff which came from Forrer's, the jewellers, in the Rue de Rivoli— stuff obtained by Jules and his friends a few nights before. The cook and her daughter had gone home as usual before your visit. You handed the jewels over to him, and he paid you a cheque for two thousand pounds in the name of Madame Barbier."

"How do you know that?" she gasped, open mouthed.

"Because the cheque is still in existence— the last cheque he drew. Victor Jouven was with you, and both of you took part in the sale."

Her face was now pale as death; her slim white hands were trembling.

"The stones— worth eleven thousand pounds it is declared— changed hands and the receiver locked them up in his safe, prior to sending them over to Amsterdam to be re-cut. Riek invited you to remain the night as his guest and you accepted. Victor, however, drove you down to the Empire Theatre in the car he had hired for a week, and it was nearly midnight when he brought you back to Hampstead. On arrival you found that Riek had an unexpected visitor in the person of Leonie Von Sachs, a German girl, who five years before had been a particular friend of Jules, and who knew many of the secrets of the 'Grasshoppers.' The recognition was mutual, but both Jouven and yourself feared lest, now that she had been taken into the employ of her Government as a secret agent, she might make revelations to the police. And—"

"We feared nothing," Zizi protested. "A pearl necklace belonging to the Princess Augusta, the Kaiser's daughter, had been stolen in Carlsbad, and Leonie had been sent in secret to Riek to inquire for news of it, and offer a reward for its recovery."

"Your companion had, during the evening, been seized by a sudden evil idea, of which he told you nothing." I said.

"What idea?"

"I may as well speak plainly," I said frankly, "for I have pieced together the whole story. His idea was to kill the man who made such huge profits as a receiver of stolen jewels, to obtain his keys and clear the safe. But the presence of the German girl seemed likely to thwart him, so— "

"Ah!" she cried hoarsely, throwing up her hands. "How have you learned all this?"

"By careful examination of the house in Fitzjohn's Avenue, and by knowing what I do of the 'Grasshoppers' and their methods," was my calm reply. "Jouven left in his car, but when he believed the house to be quiet he returned and entered by a window which he had previously unlatched. He ascended to Riek's room, and deliberately killed him with an injection of a subtle poison, obtained the safe key and re-possessed himself of what he had sold earlier in the evening, together with a quantity of other stolen stuff which was awaiting transport to the Dutch lapidaries. He entered your room stealthily to warn you to fly, when, to his surprise, he found that you were still dressed, smoking a cigarette and gossiping with Leonie Von Sachs."

"Enough! Enough!" she gasped, covering her face with her hands.

"Leonie he saw was witness against him. He had but a second in which to decide," I went on. "So next moment he sprang upon her like a tiger, and before she could utter a cry he had pressed into her head the little hypodermic needle which he always kept so handy, and with the use of which he is so expert. The effect was almost instantaneous. Leonie Von Sachs fell lifeless in his arms. Then he went out drew the car up to the door, and aided by you, carried the inanimate form into the landaulette, afterwards driving away with you seated beside him. In Earl's Court Road he pulled up, put the body of the young lady out upon the pavement, and then drove on, carrying with him all the jewels from Riek's safe. Deny it, it you can!" And I faced her.

She uttered no word. Her face was like marble.

"Zizi, I will conceal your connection with this affair upon one condition," I said determinedly, looking her straight in the face. "The condition is that you tell me where tonight I can find Victor Jouven. He is hiding in London. I know. Where is he?"

Her countenance was hard and drawn, and I saw by the movement of the muscles how entirely she, shrewd and clever as she was, had been cornered.

She endeavored to prevaricate, but I told her that outside in Gower Street, Max Hein stood awaiting me.

Then at last she was forced to tell me that if I went to a certain address in Burton Road, Brixton, and asked for Mr. Drioux, I should find him.

An hour later Hein and myself alighted from a taxi at the corner of the road in question, and walked to the house wherein the assassin was living in concealment.

We entered by a ruse, but instantly scenting the truth the Frenchman dashed upstairs and locked himself in his room.

When we succeeded in breaking open the door we found that he had already used his hypodermic needle, and was lying upon his bed; his white face upturned, lifeless.

There was an inquest, but the jury, in ignorance of the true facts, merely dismissed it as a simple case of "suicide while of unsound mind."

________________

10: The Mystery of the Third Thumb

William Le Queux

World's News (Sydney) 29 April 1916

ON the fourteenth of August, 1914, I was sitting alone in my rooms in Clarges Street, musing away an idle hour before turning in after a hard day's work. Only ten days before, the international war-bomb had burst over Europe; the Foreign Office had retired gracefully from an unequal combat and turned over the responsibility of a fate-fraught future to us of the Admiralty and our colleagues at the War Office. I reflected that, according to my previous plans, I should at that very hour have been whirling north in pursuit of grouse and salmon, so I comforted myself with a Corona cigar and dreamed, a little wistfully perhaps, of moors and burns. It was my man Cooper who interrupted my thoughts as he entered with a telegram. I opened it carelessly, and read it through without any particular interest.

"Please spend weekend with me at The Grange," it ran. "Write time of arrival. Do not wire. Corbin."

The somewhat unusual wording of the telegram banished my idle thoughts and set me thinking furiously. I rose and paced the room, dismissing Cooper with a nod.

"Write time of arrival. Do not wire," I repeated. "Why is he so anxious that I should reply by letter and not by telegram?"

Lying on the writing-table in the window was a copy of an illustrated paper for the previous week. Instinctively I picked it up and turned to a full page photograph of my friend Corbin's beautiful bride. Only three weeks previously Arthur Corbin, the millionaire shipping-magnate, had been married to Miss Muriel Lorilard, described in the newspaper reports as one of the most beautiful girls in America. Corbin's honeymoon had been cut short, and he returned to place his immense resources and his own limitless energy and ability at the disposal of the Government. As the whole world now knows, he was immediately placed in charge of the arrangements for the transport of the troops. By his urgent injunction that I should write my reply to his invitation, I gathered that he wished to see me on business of some sort, though I was quite at a loss to understand his strange request.

Had he merely wished to introduce his oldest friend to his beautiful bride, he would have said, "Can you spend the weekend with us?" and not "Please spend weekend with me." However, I gave up idle speculation, and looked up a train to Farnham in Bradshaw— for my official mind scorned the simplicity of an A.B.C. Then I wrote a short note telling him that I should arrive at four-twenty the next day, and went to bed.

The following afternoon I was met at the station by one of Corbin's secretaries, and was whirled along in a motor-car among the beautiful Surrey pines to the Grange. My friend was awaiting my arrival on the terrace.

"I am very glad you have come," he said, with a curious air of relief and gratitude, as be shook me warmly by the hand. "I was afraid you might be engaged."

"And how is your wife, Arthur?" I asked as we reached the library.

"She is fairly well," he answered evasively, and then evidently decided to come straight to the point. "Look here, Jack," he blurted out suddenly, "I can trust you, can't I?"

"Of" course," I replied readily.

"Then I will tell you exactly why I sent for you, at once," he continued. "I asked you not to telegraph your reply because Muriel might have been present when I received it, and I was anxious not to tell her you were coming."

"I hope there's nothing wrong," I said. "It is obvious that you wish to speak to me about her."

"Yes," my friend admitted. "I will begin at the beginning, and tell you our secret, so that you may see the whole thing from my point of view. My wife is an orphan. Her father, James Lorilard, an American of very fair means, died some twelve years ago, and Mrs. Lorilard took as her second husband a man of the name of Higley, Wilbur Higley, a dissolute gambler, a thorough scamp, who married purely and simply for money. Mrs. Higley herself died four years ago. After her death Higley gambled away the money and got mixed up with a dangerous gang of card-thieves and so-called gentlemen crooks. Muriel told me all this, and at first made it her reason for refusing me, but at length I persuaded her that she could not be held responsible for her step-father's misdeeds, and in the end she married me, as you know.

"I suspect she knew the extent of Higley's iniquities more intimately even than she cared to admit, and she was simply delighted when I had him looked up and pensioned him off on condition that he left America and came to England, where I could keep an eye on him. He is an unmitigated wastrel, but I am prepared to make him a handsome allowance so long as he lies low. Now, as I say, Muriel was delighted when I made this arrangement, and the wedding went through without the faintest shadow of a cloud. Scarcely had we started on our brief honeymoon, how- ever, before she became silent, thoughtful, and depressed. I questioned her to no purpose, and my efforts to cheer her up were equally fruitless. Then suddenly, two days ago, she became her old self, bright, charming, and— well, wonderful. I can hardly tell you how relieved I was to see her smile once more, and I had almost forgotten her little attack of depression, when, last evening, her maid

Walters came bursting into this room, where I was sitting working, making a great deal of hysterical noise, from which I could not extract one word of information. I dashed past her and ran upstairs to my wife's room, and found her lying on the floor in front of a cheval-glass in a dead faint." Corbin paused and looked at me, evidently expecting me to make some comment. "The heat, very probably," I suggested. "No, Jack," he replied solemnly, "it was not the heat. I was so sure of that that I immediately wired for you. I am, as you know, exceedingly busy on very important work for the Government, and nothing— not even my love for my dear wife— must come between me and my duty to my country. I know that you are somewhat similarly placed, but I hope you will spare me a weekend and give me your help, old fellow."

"Anything I can do," I murmured sympathetically, "I am entirely at your service."

"Thank you, Jack," my friend replied simply.

Truth to tell, I saw no very great difficulties in our way. Mrs. Corbin was a mere girl, and it seemed to me that her step-father had worked on her nerves, and the hot weather had done the rest. Then I recalled that Corbin himself had dismissed the theory of heat-oppression.

"What makes you think it was not the heat?" I asked.

"She was lying down in front of a long cheval-glass," be replied, "and on that glass, rather low down, was the imprint of a human hand, upside down."

"Some clumsy servant," said I. "I can hardly see how that can have had anything to do with it." I was anxious to dispel his fears, whatever they might be, if it were at all possible.

"Come with me, Jack," Corbin answered. "My wife is out, and I will take you into her room and show you exactly what I mean."

As I followed him upstairs I reflected that he must have some sort of reason for his suspicions, but I could not, for the life of me, imagine what connection the finger-marks of a careless maid could have with the faintness which had overcome my friend's beautiful young wife. He led the way into the room, and we stood in front of the glass.

"Good Heavens!" he exclaimed suddenly. "Why, there's another one!"

I looked at the glass and saw the imprint of a hand pointing downwards, the fingers outstretched.

"They have probably left the old one there," I suggested carelessly, "which proves my contention about the slovenly servant."

"The first was lower down," he asserted, and then suddenly stepped back with a startled exclamation.

I looked at the imprint more closely, and then I too could not refrain a short, involuntary cry. There was the clear, distinct imprint of a human hand, its four fingers were the normal fingers of an average man. But it had two thumbs! I looked at Corbin, waiting for him to speak, but he stood and gazed at the impression in blank astonishment.

"Was the first one like that, too?" I asked presently. "I mean, had it two thumbs?"

"No, I am certain it had not," Arthur declared emphatically. "I studied it carefully, trying to decide whose hand could have made it, and how it could have got there. If there had been two thumbs I should have noticed it at once."

I swung the big glass in its mahogany frame over as far as it would go on its pivot, thinking that perhaps the imprint might have been made the other way up when the glass was turned over to face the other way. But it did not go further than at right angles, and I saw at once the impression must have been made deliberately by someone who held the glass with his left hand while he inscribed his strange message with his right, for a message of some sort I firmly believed it to be.

"Quick," my companion exclaimed suddenly. "Rub it out before Muriel returns."

I held up my hand to restrain him.

"Leave it there, just as it is," I advised him. "If it is there for a definite purpose, as it obviously must be, we shall not learn what that purpose is if we rub it out."

"But Muriel, my dear fellow," Corbin cried anxiously. "She fainted when she saw the first one. What will Happen when she sees this?"

"This is a message of some sort, Arthur," I replied. "Your wife knew what it meant— something very, very serious. If she had not known she would not have fainted. She told you nothing of her fears, though she must have been desperately afraid. This time you must be at hand as soon as she has seen this, and if you go about it the right way she will tell you everything."

"Perhaps you are right," he admitted grudgingly. "But how can it have got there?"

"We can discuss that just as well in the library," I answered. "She may come in at any minute." And, I took his arm and led him out of the room.

But, though we sat and thrashed the matter out for the best part of an hour, we came to only one conclusion, and that was that the imprint must have been made by someone in the house. At the meaning of the second thumb we could not even guess, neither could we understand how it had been made without smudging the rest of the impression. Poor Corbin was so anxious about the effect that the discovery might have upon his wife that he fidgeted about the windows all the time, looking for some sign of her approach. She had gone out motoring by herself, and we both listened intently for the sound of the returning car. Neither of us heard anything, so we were, naturally, very surprised when Mrs. Corbin walked into the library. She had evidently changed from her walking costume into a tea gown, and had, therefore, probably seen the imprint of the two thumbs. Yet she appeared to be in exceedingly good spirits, and to look at her radiant beauty one would have imagined that she had not a care in the world. She greeted me very charmingly.

"I am very pleased, indeed, to meet my husband's oldest friend, Mr. Duddingston," she said to me as we were introduced.

She was indeed beautiful; a crown of magnificent brown-gold hair set her delicately tinted oval face in a glory of autumnal richness. No photograph could have done her justice, and as I looked at her I did not wonder at my friend's solicitude for the welfare of this beautiful girl.

"Don't you think he's done enough work for to-day, Mr. Duddingston?" she said, turning to me with a smile. "Do put those dreadful, official-looking documents away, Arthur."

Corbin gathered up a heap of closely-written sheets of foolscap, and put them in the safe.

"I see you are already making the fatal mistake of allowing your office to insinuate itself into your home, old fellow," I laughed.

"Well, it's war-time," my friend replied, "These are exceedingly important papers, and,

apart from the fact that I have a great, deal of work to do on them, I like to know that they are safe in the house with me. If those documents got into the hands of the enemy, the result might be an indescribable disaster.'"

So saying, he looked the precious papers away, and then excused himself to so and telephone. As the door closed behind her husband, Mrs. Corbin turned from the window and chatted pleasantly with me. We discussed England and Surrey, and I asked her how she thought she would like living in the Old Country. She was delighted at, the prospect, and I was just coming to the conclusion that Corbin's love must be making him over-zealous for his wife's well-being, and over-anxious about her health, when the footman entered with a latter, which he handed to her. As she picked it up Mrs. Corbin turned away from me to the window, so that I was unable to watch her face as she read the note. Suddenly, however, she gave a short, sharp cry. I sprang forward as she tottered, and caught her in my arms.

The letter fluttered from her hand to the floor. She held her hand to her heart, and she was as pale as death, but she did not faint, and, as I laid her on the Chesterfield, she asked me to ring for her maid. I did as she requested, and then she discovered that she had dropped the paper which had frightened her so, and, with a startled exclamation, she got up to look for it. I anticipated her, however, and, motioning her to remain, I stopped across the room to pick it up. As I did so I could hardly suppress a cry of astonishment. There, in my and, lay a sheet of ordinary notepaper opened out. Stamped across it was the impression of a human hand— with three thumbs! Mrs. Corbin's eyes were on me; I had no time to examine this strange communication, and, folding it up, I returned it to her with an air of complete indifference. She grasped the letter eagerly, and thrust it into her dress without giving it another glance.

"You are sure there is nothing I can do for you?" I asked.

"Nothing whatever, thank you," she replied. "Unless I can. ask you not to worry Arthur about this. He is so busy how that I would rather not worry him. It is really nothing. I am a little tired, that's all. It is just the hot weather, and I walked rather a long way this afternoon."

I recalled the fact that Corbin had said she had gone motoring in the afternoon, but it was obviously wiser to make no comment on the discrepancy. She looked at me inquiringly.

"I should prefer that Arthur knew nothing at all about this," she said, and the tone in which she said it made her statement a request, if not a command. In reply I simply bowed, allowing her to draw what conclusions she liked. I could hardly tell her all I knew, and I certainly did not see my way to make a promise which I should take the first, opportunity to break. Her maid entered, I am thankful to say, before she had time to ask me for verbal corroboration of my implied acquiescence, and I was left to ponder on the mysterious significance of the third thumb.

"Has Muriel gone to dress?" Corbin asked. as he returned.

"Yes," I replied simply, for I had come to the conclusion that it would be wiser to wait until after dinner before I acquainted my friend with the strange, new development.

"I looked into her room," he continued, "because she must have changed her dress since she came in, and the hand-print has been rubbed off. Whether she did it herself, or whether her maid did it, I don't know yet. Well, we must go and dress."

When I came downstairs again Arthur informed me that his wife had sent a message to say that she had a very bad headache and had gone to bed.

"I went up to see her," he added. "She is lying with the light very low, and her head is obviously very bad, poor child. I wish we could find out what it all means. It is absolutely no use questioning her."

"If there is anything to tell," I urged, "you can be assured she will tell you in time."

We made rather a hurried meal, for neither of us felt like dawdling over it, and, as I rose from the table, I strolled idly to the window, pulled back the curtain a little way, and looked out.

Hurrying up the drive I saw the figure of a woman. There could be no doubt about it— it was Mrs. Corbin.

"What's the matter?" my friend asked, as he heard my involuntary exclamation.

"Nothing," I said foolishly. "It is nearly dark. I had no idea it was so late!"

But the truth had dawned upon me. The first, second, and third thumbs were the three degrees of a threat from some mysterious man or society. Mrs. Corbin was being slowly tortured into complying with some strange request, probably criminal. I made a super-human effort to banish the matter from my mind as I followed Corbin into the library, lest he should suspect my thoughts. Seated in a luxurious arm-chair, I toyed with my liqueur to give myself an air of indifference.

"Of course I know these are very exceptional times," I ventured presently. "But you must forgive me for wondering if your wife may not be a little jealous of your work. Is it necessary to bring all those papers down here, and pore over them all the time, when you have a young wife who has not been married a month, and is probably longing for the luxury of a little secluded conversation with you?"

"I'm afraid it is absolutely necessary just now," he replied. "Besides, I am sure it cannot be that. Muriel is so sensible. Those papers are critically important. They contain particulars of the arrangements for the transport of the troops, and the Germans are so ubiquitous and so cunning that I am afraid to leave the documents at the office. You never know what might happen to them there. You can never tell whom you can trust. Now here I can be tolerably certain that no one knows the combination of the safe except myself and Muriel, and few people would think of looking for the documents at my private house. So I feel safer if they are under my own eye all the time. You see, we make very careful arrangements and have them typed out, and all that, in the office, then we alter them. But, of course, it would never do to trust to memory, so we keep an accurate list of the alterations. That is what I have here."

"Well, so long as only you two have the combination it seems the wisest thing to do," I replied listlessly. "But I shouldn't have thought Mrs. Corbin would know it. I always understood women didn't want to he bothered with such things."

"Oh! She teased me into telling her the other day when she was watching me put some things away; said she felt I couldn't trust her, and that sort of thing. So to prove that I do trust her," he smiled in conclusion, "I told her."

After further conversation he went upstairs to see how his wife was feeling, and returned to say that she was still about the same, and that she asked him to apologise to me for her absence. We discussed the whole affair again, played a game of billiards, in which neither of us took the slightest interest, and then went to bed. I had returned from my bath in the morning, and was just finishing my toilet when Arthur burst into my bed-room. He was trembling from head to foot, and his face was livid.

"They've gone, Jack, they've gone!" he cried hoarsely.

"What have gone?" I asked anxiously, as I caught his arm to support him.

"The transport schedules!" he muttered brokenly. "The safe has been opened, and they've been stolen!"

I threw on a jacket and pushed him out of the room. Together we ran downstairs into the library. I looked for signs of violence on the safe, but could see none. I turned to

Corbin, a hideous suspicion in my mind.

"It must have been," he said, reading my thoughts, and, though he did not mention his wife's name, there could be no doubt about whom he was speaking. Hastily I reviewed the evidence in my mind. She had been frightened, blackmailed, by the symbols of the thumbs, into selling her husband's country.

I looked down at the safe. There, before my eyes, lying on the floor behind the open door, was a gold bracelet! I tried to put my foot on it hastily, but Corbin saw it at the same time, and pushing my foot aside, he picked it up, looked at it sadly, and placed it in his pocket without a word. Then he turned to me.

"Jack," he said in a hollow voice. "This is no time for sentiment, but I am glad you are here. My country must come first, and my poor misguided wife afterwards. I must rush up to town, and I want you to do what you can at this end."

I grasped his hand and pressed it warmly.

That the fateful papers should have been stolen was a tragically staggering blow in itself, but that he should have been betrayed by his beautiful wife, whom he adored, was a crueller fate still. Arthur pulled himself together, and, assuming his usual business-like aspect, motored up to town to make a frantic effort to avert the impending catastrophe, a ruined man. Accordingly it will be understood that when he returned at night, puzzled but happy, I was simply dumfounded.

"The plans and schedules were waiting for me in a registered envelope at the office," he explained. "So far as I can see no steps have been taken to make use of the information, but, in any care, I have made the necessary arrangements to counteract any criminal use of them. Where's Muriel?"

"She has been confined to her room all day," I replied, and he left me to see if he could extract any explanation of the strange affair from his wife. Five minutes after, he staggered into the room with a note in his hand and sank, exhausted, into a chair. I took the note from him unceremoniously. It read: —

"Do not look for me. or worry about me. I will write you soon.—Muriel."

Perhaps, I reflected, it was the best thing she could have done. I helped Arthur up to his room, and sat with him. He was quite broken down. His wife's flight confirmed her guilt, of that we neither of us had the slightest doubt. Whether she had actually tried to use the papers by copying them, or whether she had returned them in sudden remorse, we could only conjecture. I was doing my best to persuade my friend to try and get a little sleep, when we heard a revolver shot downstairs. We rushed down into the hall and found the lights in the library full on.

I ran into the room, closely followed by Corbin, and, to my astonishment I saw two men, one of them a chauffeur in Corbin's service, standing with their hands above their heads, and Mrs. Corbin standing over them with a revolver in each hand.

" 'Phone for the police, Arthur," she said quietly, and while he did so I searched the men. In the pocket of the chauffeur I found three pieces of india-rubber, fashioned like a human hand, with facsimile lines and markings. The first had one thumb, the second two, and the third three thumbs.

"That is the trade-mark of a notorious American criminal gang," Mrs. Corbin volunteered. "They represent warnings; the third thumb is the last warning. They threatened me that if I did not get them the plans for the transport of the troops, they would send my step-father to gaol, and ruin my husband. Last night, before dinner, I received the warning of the third thumb. I excused myself from dinner and, while you were in the dining room, I stole the papers and posted them to Arthur at the office. I knew that if I did not comply with their demands they would come here and steal them. I waited for them last night, but they did not come. To-night I left that note in the hope that you would go to London to look for me, so that you would be away from danger here. I could not tell you without putting you in the way of further risk. The papers never left my possession from the time I took them from the safe till I posted them; so that no information can have leaked out. I think that's all."

"Who are the people who use the third thumb?" I asked, while Arthur regarded his wife with a look of abject penitence.

"They are the people who ruined my poor step-father," she replied. "That is enough for me."

And so, when the two men had been taken off to the police station and the inspector had finished his laborious inquiries, I left my remorseful friend and his beautiful young bride together, and slipped quietly up to bed.

____________________

11: The Third Cracker

William Le Queux

Wingham Chronicle and Manning River Observer 28 Aug 1915

THE BARON MONTALTO was, in several ways, a rather remarkable personage. I became acquainted with him a few years ago, at the time when I occupied a flat on the sun-baked Viale, facing the sapphire Mediterranean at Leghorn.

My servant Francesco one day informed me that the "Signor Barone" had for sale a small collection of very fine miniatures.

I therefore went to the furnished villa at the other end of the sea-front, and found a rather short, stout red-faced man of fifty, elegant of dress, and extremely courtly of manner.

In the cool sala di pranzo we sat with the persiennes closed to keep out the noon-day heat while he offered me a cigar and coffee, at the same time declaring that he was most delighted to meet the "English scrittoro," of whom he had already heard.

His easy attitude showed him to be undoubtedly an aristocrat. The thousands of bogus barons, marquises, dukes, and even princes which one encounters within the Kingdom of Italy soon cause the dweller therein to doubt the genuineness of every aristocrat he meets. In England humility and good fellowship are a sign of good breeding; but in Italy it is generally exactly opposite, for the aristocracy are generally loud in manner and dress, and always blatant in their display of wealth. Indeed, the average young count or marquis would be declared a "bounder" in any London club.

Well, the miniatures were brought, carefully unwrapped, and the persiennes opened to allow me to inspect tho treasures minutely. There were eight most beautiful ones by well-known French and Italian painters of the 18th century, all on ivory, and all in their old black frames. I inquired the price. The Baron looked surprised. "But I have no intention of selling them, signore," was his reply.

"Oh! I beg your pardon!" I exclaimed. "My servant told me that you wished to part with them. I apologise."

"And my servant, on his part, told me that you were a collector, and had expressed a wish to see them, signor," the Baron said, smiling pleasantly, and pulling at his long Toscano cigar.

His attitude puzzled me. Was he, I wondered, merely acting a comedy in order to induce me to offer a fancy figure for them? Or was he really what he pretended to be, a man of considerable means?

Very soon I was convinced that he had no intention of selling the neat little collection, for he called Giovanni, the shuffling old servant, and told him to take them away and repack them. Then, leaning back in our chairs, we fell to chatting affably, he explaining that his habit was to travel considerably, and that he often went to Paris and Brussels, and sometimes even to London. Each summer he spent a few weeks at Leghorn, sometimes at that smart, marble-built hotel, the Palace, and at others at the pretty furnished villa he was then occupying.

In the weeks that followed we became rather good friends. He often came and dined with me, and I, too, was frequently his guest. Sometimes we would spend the evening together, dining al fresco at the little cafe out at Antignano, on the old sea-road to Rome, watching the glorious southern after-glow over the tranquil sea, out of which rose the purple islands of Capraia and Gorgona.

In those hours of dreamy laziness he told me a good deal about himself, some facts that were true, and others which I suspected to be imaginary. His estates were at Montalto, near Rimini, and that he was wealthy was undoubted.

All along, however, I was puzzled why I had been invited to inspect those miniatures which, as a collector, I certainly found myself coveting. More than once I closely questioned Francesco. He was a youngish black-haired man who a few years before, had entered the Franciscan Monastery at Sigua, but finding the life unsuited to him, had left the cloisters and had come to me with a splendid letter of recommendation from the Prior.

"Old Giovanni told me in confidence, signor, that the Signor Barone had not sufficient money even to pay his wages, and therefore wished to sell the little pictures," he repeated on the several occasions when I made inquiry.

"But the Baron is rich," I remarked one day, "and he will not even offer them to me. How do you account for that?"

Francesco shrugged his shoulders, exhibited his palms, out made no reply.

I knew well how the hard-up aristocracy in Italy always dispose of their belongings through their servants, for had I not bought more than one precious illuminated manuscript, or object of art without ever making the acquaintance of its owner. The Italian's pride is very easily wounded, and he , has no love for the foreigner, save for the profit he can make out of him.

"Tell me, Francesco," I urged, one day, "Do you think the Baron will ever sell those miniatures to me?"

"Perhaps he will, signor— one day. I know Giovanni quite well, and he has told me something."

"What is that?"

"Nothing, signor— only—"

"Only what, Francesco?" I asked, noticing his strange change of demeanour.

"Well, signor," he blurted forth at last, after some hesitation. "It would be better if you did not see so much of the Barone in future."

"Why?" I inquired in surprise.

"Because there are certain reasons. You are English."

"I admit that. But after fifteen years in Italy I think I know the country and the people pretty well."

"Ah! but you do not know the Barone Montalto."

"What do you mean, Francesco. Be more explicit."

"I cannot, signor, I regret it, but I am risking much in saying what I have done."

"You warn me— eh?" I asked. "But why? I have few friends here beyond the consul. And to tell you the truth, Francesco, I rather like the Baron."

The ex-monk pursed his lips. Yet no amount of questioning would induce him to utter any further word.

THAT NIGHT I dined at the villa, and the Baron seemed in a particularly happy mood as we sat with our rush-covered flask of Chianti between us. It had been a blazing day, and we were dining out in the garden, enjoying the bel fresco of the sundown as we set close to where the waves lazily lapped the pebbly beach. He had been laughing merrily, recounting to me a good joke. His air was one of great prosperity, and I could not believe the story of his poverty. Indeed, upon his gold sleeve links were coronets set in diamonds, and upon his leather cigar-case was his coronet and cipher in gold. He wore a beautiful diamond stud in his dress shift, upon his well manicured hand a fine sapphire ring, while upon the back of his gold watch was enamelled his armorial shield with many quarterings. The Italian is even more proud of his heraldry, than of  his own good name.

I had mentioned casually that I had been offered two miniatures that day by old Graniani, the antique dealer, whereupon he said.

"I've sent mine back to Montalto. I feared that, in travelling about, I might lose them."

My heart sank. I saw that he had no intention whatever of selling them to me.

That same evening, too, I had opportunity of convincing myself of the unreliability of Francesco's information, for after dinner, when the twilight had deepened into night, and the fireflies were flitting in the darkness, we rose and went into the small room which served him as study.

While there old Giovanni announced that a tradesman had called for his account. Thereupon his master drew out a big black deed-box from beneath the table. From it, he drew several hundred-lire notes, but not before my quick eyes had discerned that the box in question contained a number of rolls of notes— many of them thousand-lire ones. There were also English and French notes to a very considerable amount.

I pretended not to have noticed, and turned away much puzzled. A man does not usually keep thousands of pounds in bank-notes like that in a box which anybody might easily carry away.

The open French window led into the garden, and entrance there from the road was quite easy to anybody. When Giovanni had gone out my friend relocked the box, and carelessly kicked it back beneath the table.

As the long summer days went past, and the fashionable season approached its height, I became more than ever mystified. In Leghorn the Baron was most popular! He knew a host of people, and had a peculiar knack of scraping acquaintance with any person to whom he desired to chat. He also had a habit of disappearing suddenly, sometimes for three or four days, sometimes for a week. He returned as suddenly as he went, but never told me where he had been.

His one woman friend was a shabby old lady, a marchioness of ancient lineage, who dwelt in a cheap pension in an unfashionable part of the town. She was, he gave me to understand, a poor relation, who was dependent upon him.

Among the gay giddy women of Italian society, who each year go to Leghorn for the bathing, the Baron Montalto was most popular. In his suit of clean white linen, straw hat, and white shoes, he presented an extremely smart figure as he promenaded each afternoon, or sat gossiping over the tea-cups.

Yet those warning words of Francesco often recurred to me.

What did he know concerning the man who treated his possessions so lightly?

I often looked at that black tin box beneath the table in the study, and wondered deeply. One evening he had promised to dine with me, but though I waited he did not arrive. So I ate my dinner alone, and going out upon the sea-front in the moonlight walked as far as the villa to inquire the reason of his absence. I found the place in darkness. I rang the bell a dozen times, but there was no sound. Next day I again called, with the same result. Without a word of warning or farewell the Baron and faithful old Giovanni had left the town. Ho had, on the day before, paid every soldo he owed, and had left by the midnight train, taking all his belongings with him.

Thus the "Caro Barone," the most popular man at "the Brighton of Italy," disappeared no one knew whither.

To Francesco I expressed surprise that my friend should not hare had the courtesy to at least wish me farewell, whereupon he answered:— "Ah! the signor is English. He does not understand."

IN THE DAYS that followed, several prominent residents whom I knew but slightly, made inquiry of me as to what I knew concerning the Baron. But my reply was that I had only met him casually, and had not known him before that season.

Now that my suspicious were aroused that he was not what he had pretended to be, I recollected one or two curious facts concerning him. The first was that he was ever inquisitive regarding my private affairs, and secondly, he was apparently much interested in what I told him concerning an Italian family named Mancini, who lived at Kensington, and with whom I was on very friendly terms.

Paolo Mancini was partner in a large and wealthy firm of exporters of Genoa, and lived in London to look after the English end of the business. We had been friends for years, and when in London I was a very frequent visitor at their house on Campden Hill.

From the first the Baron had claimed acquaintance with them. He had known Paolo, in Genoa years ago, he said. They had done their military service together, and he was delighted to hear that his old friend was so prosperous. Indeed, he had seemed never tired of inquiring, all details concerning my friend, his wife and his family. It was only after his disappearance that I recollected all this.

I wrote to a friend in Rimini, and from him learnt that the Montalto estates were very profitable indeed, and that the Baron, though considered a little eccentric, was a most generous man. He travelled a great deal and had not been at his castello for the past five years or more.

AND THUS the red-faced, easy-going Baron Montalto passed beyond the ken of that merry circle of fops and flirts who had spent the summer at the gayest of all the Italian watering-places.

September found me making a round of visits in England, and in October I went as usual up to the Highlands for the shooting. Tired of Italy, I had given up my apartment, sold all my household goods, and passed the faithful ex monk Francesco on to an Italian friend.

Curiously enough, at the moment of taking leave of me, Francesco, his hands clasped before him, had said: "Addio, signor. My only consolation is the knowledge that your friendship with the Barone is broken. You were in peril. Poor Giovanni— he is dead."

"Dead!" I exclaimed. "How do you know?"

The face of the man who for four years had led the silent life of the cloister, remained sphinx-like. He merely again shrugged his shoulders.

"Tell me something more, Francesco," I urged.

He sighed. "I regret, signor that it is not permitted to me to explain. The Baron is no longer your friend: therefore, the danger has passed. Addio, signor mio."

I grasped the man's hand and we parted.

What did he mean? To what peril did he refer?

TWO YEARS went by. After many wanderings I had settled down again in dear old London which, notwithstanding its mud and its motor-buses, is the goal of every Englishman, however cosmopolitan he may become. The Londoner can no more change his heart, than the Ethiopian his skin. Since leaving Leghorn my wanderings in search of material for my books had taken me far afield— to the Urals, to Macedonia, to Greece, Tunis, Egypt, and other places, until a fortnight before last Christmas I found myself back in London, sitting smoking and reflecting in the big old time-mellowed smoking-room of the Devonshire, my club in St. James's Street.

My friend Mancini had been dining with me, and as we sat together over our cigars, I felt that somehow he was not his usual bright humorous self.

He was a pleasant man of fifty or so, who had spent most of his life in England, and having married an Englishwoman, was English in all his tastes.

A prominent member of the Italian Chamber of Commerce, he also generously supported the Italian charities in London, and was a member of the Italian Club and one of the best-known members of the Italian colony. Of recent years I had made in point of visiting Campden Hill frequently whenever I chanced to be in London, and only the other day I had accepted his invitation to spend Christmas Day with them.

That night, however, he seemed gloomy and thoughtful, and as we smoked together m the corner of the big club-room I ventured to remark that lie seemed a bit out of sorts. I noticed that when I referred to his unusual demeanour he started. Then, with a forced laugh, he replied:

"I— I really didn't know, caro mio, that I was unusually dull. Indigestion, perhaps."

"No, my dear Mancini," I said. "It's something else. I know it is. You are worried. Tell me the reason, and if I can assist you I'll be only delighted— as you know."

"Ah!" he sighed, "I know you would, my dear friend. Unfortunately, however, it is not in your power to help me."

"But what's the matter?" I inquired suspecting, financial trouble. Indeed, I hinted at that.

"Oh, dear no," he declared, "I'm thankful to say we've had a most excellent year— better than over before. I and my family are perfectly happy, save for one thing," he added hoarsely.

"And what's that? Confide in me, my dear fellow," I urged, looking him straight in the face. He contemplated the end of his cigar for a few moments, then sighing again, replied—

"There are some matters which one would conceal, even from one's family. This is one."

His reply surprised me, causing me to reflect. As sat hack in our big leather chairs in the cosiest corner, I felt confident that my friend had something upon his mind. What was it?

A few evenings later I went down to Campden Hill for dinner and a band at bridge when, after the ladies had left, he rose and took from a little cupboard a small packet, saying—

"I want you to see these, and give your opinion."

And opening the packet he displayed something which caused me to start with surprise. They were the treasured miniatures of the Baron Montalto!

"Where did you obtain them?" I inquired quickly.

"Bought them. A poor Italian sold them to me the other day for fifteen pounds. Are they worth it?"

"Fifteen pounds!" I echoed. "Why, they're worth two hundred at least," I declared. "But who was the man who sold them?"

"Oh, a man named Bondi, from Genoa. I've known him for a long time as a commission agent. He got hard up in London and wanted his fare back."

"Will you describe him?" I asked.

"Well," he inquired, rather puzzled, "he's rather stout and red-faced— a man who has, no doubt, seen better days. But why do you ask that?"

"Because these miniatures were once the property of a friend of mine in Italy, a certain Baron Montalto."

"That's curious. I hope Bondi got them honestly," he said.

Then I explained the circumstances in which, I had once offered to purchase them, at the same time reflecting upon the curious coincidence that Bondi's description should be exactly that of the Baron. Was it possible that Montalto had fallen upon evil days, and was now parting with his most treasured possessions?

That was the most feasible explanation. I had yet another surprise in store for me that night, for when I got back to my chambers in Clifford Street the servant handed me a little parcel with a note. It was from my host, asking me to accept the miniatures as an addition to my collection and a little Christmas gift.

I took them out, and laying them in a row beneath my reading-lamp examined them closely, wondering what had been their history since the last occasion I had had them through my hands.

The Baron had certainly been well aware of the value of at least two of them. If so, why had he parted with them for fifteen pounds?

I wrote a note, thanking my friend for his kind present, when, to my surprise, on the following evening, he visited me and sat beside my fire for quite a long time silent, staring straight before him like a man in a dream.

Having pressed him to tell me the reason, he said at last, speaking in Italian: "I know, my dear friend, that you will regard what I'm about to say as rather foolish, but the fact is I have a grim foreboding of evil."

"Of evil ? What do you mean?" I asked, looking him straight in the face.

"I fear disaster— some disaster which will fall upon myself and my family. I know that I'm a doomed man," he declared in blank despair.

I laughed at his dark apprehensions, declaring that he'd been overworking himself at his office, and urging him to see a doctor and have a change.

But he shook his head mournfully, saying: "If what I surmise be correct I shall not live to see the New Year, my dear friend. For that reason I came here to-night— to ask one favour of you.  If anything happens to me you will find all my affairs in order. I have, in fact, appointed you one of my executors. But— but what I wanted to ask of you is that you will promise me to look after my little daughter, Teresina. She has always called you 'Uncle George,' you know."

"Most willingly, my dear Paolo," I said, "I shall take that charge upon myself as a sacred duty. Yet I can't for the life of me see why you should upset yourself like this, merely because you entertain a grim foreboding. Cheer up, my dear old chap, and spend a happy Christmas," and I clapped him on the shoulder in an endeavour to reassure him.

But he only sat staring into the fire, as though ho were peeling into a hope less future.

"Has a doctor been telling you weird things about yourself?" I asked.

"No," he snapped. "I have hot seen any doctor. What I tell you I know. For me there is no future. I played my cards, as I thought, defiantly and cleverly. But I lost. Therefore only the grave is now open before me."

His refined face was pale and drawn, and in his dark eyes was the look of one haunted by some terrible dread.

Never in all my life have I seen a person so utterly lost to the present and so absolutely without hope as he was that night.

We sat together till late— till the dawn of Christmas Eve. But no matter what I said or what arguments I advanced, he still remained in inert despair.

"My wife!" he murmured in a low voice broken by emotion. "My beloved wife— and my dear little Teresina! Ah! If they only knew— if they only knew. Yet I dare not tell them. They must never know the truth!"

And the strong man, so strangely overcome by the shadow of evil which had fallen upon him, buried his face in his hands.

I was still sorely puzzled.

ON CHRISTMAS DAY I took a taxi-cab down to Kensington to luncheon, for I had promised to lunch and dine with my friends. The Festa of Natale is quite as great a feast with Italians as with us, but Mancini had arranged to spend it quietly, with only myself and his brother as guests.

When he greeted me in the hall wherein was suspended the big bunch of  mistletoe, I recognised, to my surprise and gratification, that he was merry again, his own usual self, for he shook my hand warmly, and with his wife, a very pleasant dark-haired woman, and little Teresina, a sweet little girl of ten, wished me a merry Christmas.

Luncheon proved a cheerful meal, for my host was full of good-humour and we all laughed together happily. That afternoon, though the weather was cheerless and gloomy outside, I was delighted to note that he was quite his usual self again.

Tea in the cosy drawing-room was followed at half-past seven by dinner, to which my host's brother, who chanced to he in England for a few days, was invited.

Though Italian, the Mancinis believed in keeping Christmas in the English style, so we had roast-beef, plum-pudding, and all the rest of it, greatly to the delight of little Teresina who was allowed to remain up and partake of the annual gaiety.

As we sat around the blazing fire, taking our coffee, the little dark-haired child, her face beaming with delight, entered with a big box of crackers under her arm. These she placed upon the table, and, shyly approaching her mother, asked if they might be investigated.

Permission given, the first, a big one covered with crimson gelatine, was pulled by little Teresina and her father, a pretty Japanese doll falling to the ground, causing intense delight.

The second was held by her mother and my host's brother, and pulled, whereupon the little girl cried to her father:

"You pull the next, dad — you and Uncle George." And she handed me the cracker.

It was rather heavy, covered with blue gelatine, and contained something hard within.

The child felt it, and declared, jumping with delight, that there must be another doll concealed there.

"How kind of Uncle George to send you such beautiful crackers, Teresina!" remarked her mother.

I was on the point of declaring that I was not the donor of the box, when we heard voices outside the room. A man's voice was asking loudly and authoritatively for me.

"I must see him at once— this instant!" we heard the stranger cry to the servant.

The door opened, and into our quiet Christmas party walked a tall thin man with a dark brown pointed beard— a man with whom I had been on very friendly terms for the past ten years or so. It was the Cavaliere Enrico Rossi, chief of the Italian Secret Police, and one of the most expert detectives in Europe.

"Stop!" he cried, speaking in Italian. "Don't touch those!" and he pointed to the box of crackers.

I recognised by his countenance that he was greatly alarmed, while my host, not knowing the new-comer, had risen and was, staring at him.

"Forgive this sudden intrusion, signora," said Rossi politely, bowing, before Mrs. Mancini, "but perhaps it is as well that I managed to get here just in the very nick of time. May I ask where you obtained those crackers?"

"They arrived by post this morning," announced my hostess, "with this gentleman's card," and she indicated myself.

Rossi took the cracker from my hand, placed it upon the table, and, seating himself he very carefully and delicately, cut it open with his penknife.

What was disclosed caused us to stare at each other speechless, in blank amazement.

It was a neat little steel cylinder, about four inches long, and beautifully finished.

"This," explained my friend, Rossi, with a smile of triumph, "is filled with one of the most powerful explosives known to science. You had a very narrow escape— all of you— for if you had pulled this cracker, half the street would have been wrecked, and you would have been all blown to atoms!"

Mrs. Mancini shrieked and clung to her child, while Mancini himself turned pale as death.

"Then they actually carried out their threat," he gasped, when I had introduced my friend who bad so suddenly interrupted us.

"Yes," said the great detective, stroking his beard, as was his habit. "By a fortunate circumstance I discovered that our friends of the Camorra had levied tribute upon you as a prosperous merchant, and that you were resisting their outrageous demands. A certain individual came to England— for a nefarious purpose, I felt convinced. Therefore, I had the curiosity to follow him and cause his movements to be watched. The bomb was sent from Milan to him, but with what object I could not discover— not until an hour ago. Then I knew the deadly thing had been sent here— to the little girl— a most cruel and dastardly plot."

"Then the Camorra sought revenge!" I cried, realising tho truth at last.

"Yes," Mancini said in a low voice. "Three months ago I bought those miniatures of Bondi for an old song; but almost immediately afterwards I received an anonymous communication demanding two thousand pounds as their price. Naturally I refused to pay, but soon the terrible truth dawned upon me, that the dreaded Camorra had levied its blood-tax upon me, and that my abrupt refusal and threat of appeal to the police meant my doom. Days, weeks, passed, and nothing occurred. The Festa came, and, reassured, I believed that at least we would be able to enjoy the festa in security. I never dreamed that such a dastardly outrage would be attempted upon us all."

"The man who approached you was a Genoese named Michele Bondi— eh?" asked Rossi.

"Yes."

"He is one of the heads of the Camorra," declared the chief of the secret police of Italy, whose very name strikes terror into the hearts of all connected with secret societies such as the Mafia, the Camorra, or the Mana Nero. "And, my dear friend," he added, turning to me, "I believe you knew him a couple of years ago as the Baron Montalto. At least, I find in one of our reports, that he used to visit you in Leghorn. I have recently been making very diligent inquiries, and two hours ago, at my request, Inspectors Whitwell and Morgan, of your Scotland Yard, arrested him at a house in Hoxton. But on the way to Bow Street, where he was to be brought up at the Extradition Court, he managed to swallow something before we could prevent him, and when he arrived there he was dead. He feared to face the dastardly result of this innocent-looking little cylinder. I tore here in a taxi-cab with all speed," he added, "for it might very easily have been in the first, instead of in the Third Cracker— eh?"

_________________

12: The Baron's Snapdragon

William Le Queux

Australian Town and Country Journal 30 Jan 1907

WE WERE together in the night rapide from Marseilles to Paris and had just left the great echoing station of Dijon with one stop between there and Paris, namely Laroche. Day was breaking.

I had met Julie Rosier under curious circumstances only a few hours before. I was on one of my usual journeys as King's Messenger, and on that particular night had landed from the Royal yacht at Marseilles, and was conveying His Majesty's private correspondence to London with all possible speed. Usually my duties lay in conveying despatches to and fro between the Foreign Office and the various Embassies at. tho European capitals, but on tho occasion in question— namely, ten days before last Christmas— I was engaged in the personal service of His Majesty himself.

At the station at Marseilles, being known to the controller of the Waggon-lit Company, I was at once given a two-berth compartment in the long, dusty sleeping car, those big carriages in which I spend the greater part of my days, and nights too for the matter of that.

"M'sieur is for Paris?" asked the brown-uniformed conductor as I entered, and after flinging In my traps, I descended, went to the buffet and had a mazagran and cigarette until our departure.

I had not sat there more than five minutes when tho conductor, a man with whom I had travelled dozens of times, put his head in at the door, and seeing me, withdrew. Then, a few moments later, he entered with a tall dark-haired, good-looking girl, who stood aside as he approached me cap in hand.

"Excuse me, m'sieur, but a lady wishes to ask a great favor of you."

Glancing at the tall figure in black, I saw that she was not more than 22 at the outside, and that she had the bearing and manner of a lady.

"Well, m'sieur. She will explain herself," the man said, whereupon the fair stranger approached, bowing, and exclaimed

"I trust m'sieur will pardon me for what I am about to ask. I know it is great presumption on my part, a total stranger, but the fact is that I am bound to get to Paris in the morning. It is imperative— most imperative— that I should be there and keep an appointment. I find, however, that all the berths are taken, and that the only vacant one is in your compartment. I thought—" and she  hesitated, with downcast eyes.

At that moment the sleeping-car conductor, standing at the buffet door, called "En voiture, m'sieur. The train is just starting."

"Do take me," implored the girl. "Do, m'sieur. Do."

There was no time for further discussion; therefore, I did as she requested, and a few moments later, with a dressing-case, which was all the baggage she had, she mounted into the waggon-lit, and we moved off northward to the capital.

Together we travelled to Calais, crossed to Dover, and that same evening alighted at Victoria.

On our journey to London she gave me an address in the Vauxhall Bridge road, where, she said, a letter would find her. She refused to tell me her destination, or to allow me to see her into a hansom. This latter fact caused me considerable reflection. Why had she so suddenly made up her mind to come to London, and why should I not know whither she went when she had told me so many details concerning herself?

Of one fact I felt quite convinced— namely, that she had lied to me. She was not a governess, as she pretended. Besides, I had been seized by a suspicion that a tall, thin-faced elderly man, rather shabbily dressed, whom I had noticed on the platform in Paris, had followed us. He had travelled Second-class, and, on alighting at Victoria, had quickly made his way through the crowd until he lingered quite close to us as I wished her farewell.

His reappearance there recalled to me that he had watched us as we walked up and down the platform of the Gare du Nord, and had appeared intensely interested in all our movements. Whether my pretty travelling companion noticed him I do not know. I, however, followed her as she walked out of the station carrying her dressing-bag, and saw the tall man striding after her. Adventurer was written upon the fellow's face. His grey moustache was upturned, and his keen grey eyes looked out from beneath shaggy brows, while his dark threadbare overcoat was tightly buttoned across his chest for greater warmth.

I did not like the aspect of the affair at all. I ought to have warned her against, him, and I now became filled with regret. She was a complete mystery, and as I dogged the footsteps of the unknown foreigner—for  that he undoubtedly was— I became more deeply interested in what was in progress.

He walked to Trafalgar Square, where he hesitated in such a manner as to show that he was not well acquainted with London. He did not know which of the converging thoroughfares to take. At last he enquired of the constable on point-duty, and then went up St. Martin's Lane.

As soon as he had turned I approached the policeman and asked what the stranger wanted, explaining that he was a suspicious character whom I was following.

" 'E's a Frenchman, Sir. 'E wants Burton Crescent."

"Where's that?"

"Why, just off the Euston-road— close to Judd-street. I've told him the way."

I entered a hansom, and drove to the place in question, a semi-circle of dark-looking old-fashioned houses of the Bloomsbury type— most of them let out in apartments.  Then alighting, I loitered for half-an-hour up and down to await the arrival of the stranger.

He came at last, his tall meagre figure looming dark in the lamp-light. Very eagerly he walked round the Crescent, examining the numbers of the houses, until he came to one, rather cleaner than the others, of which he took careful observation. I, too, took note of the number.

The one point I wished to clear up was whether Julie Rosier was actually within that house. But though I watched until I became half frozen in the drizzling rain, all was in vain. So I took a cab, and drove to Downing-street, to deliver my dispatches to the Prime Minister.

That same night, when I got to my hotel, the Cecil, I wrote a line to the address Julie had given me, asking whether she could make an appointment to meet me, as I wished to give her some very important information concerning herself, and to this on the following day I received a reply, asking me to call at the house in Burton Crescent that evening at nine o'clock.

Naturally I went. My surmise was correct that the house watched by the stranger was her abode. The fellow was keeping observation upon it with some evil intent.

The man-servant, on admitting me, showed me into a well-furnished drawing-room on the first-floor, where sat my pretty travelling companion ready to receive me.

In French she greeted me very warmly, bade me be seated, and after some preliminaries. Inquired the nature of the information which I wished to Impart to her.

Very briefly I told her of the shabby watcher, whereupon she sprang to her feet with a cry of mingled terror and surprise.

"Describe him— quickly!" she urged in breathless agitation.

I did so, and she sat back again in her chair, staring straight before her.

"Ah!" she gasped, her countenance pale as death. "Then they mean revenge, after all. Very well! Now that I am forewarned I shall know how to act."

She rose, and pacing the room in agitation pushed back the dark hair from her brow. Then her hands clenched themselves, and her teeth were set, for she was desperate.

The shabby man was an emissary of her enemies. She told me as much. Yet in all she said was mystery. At one moment I was convinced that she had told the truth when she said she was a governess, and at the next I suspected her of trying to deceive.

Presently, after she had handed me a cigarette, the servant tapped at the door, and a well-dressed man entered— the same man I had seen leave the house two nights previously.

"May I Introduce you?" mademoiselle asked. "M'sieur Carrington— M'sieur le Baron de Moret."

"Charmed to make your acquaintance, sir," the baron said, grasping my hand. "Mademoiselle here has already spoken of you."

"The satisfaction is mutual, I assure you, baron," was my reply, and then we re-seated ourselves, and began to chat.

Suddenly mademoiselle made some remark in a language which I did not understand. The effect it had upon the newcomer was almost electrical. He started from his seat, glaring at her. Then he began to question her rapidly In tho unknown tongue.

He was a flashily dressed man, of overbearing manner, with a thick neck and square, determined chin. It was quite evident that the warning I had given them aroused their apprehensions, for they held a rapid consultation, and then Julio went out, returning with another man, a dark-haired, low-bred looking foreigner, who spoke the same tongue as his companions.

They disregarded my presence altogether in their eager consultation, therefore I rose to go, for I saw that I was not wanted.

Julie held my hand, and looked into my eyes in mute appeal. She appeared anxious to say something to me in private. At least that was my impression.

When I left the house I passed at the end of the Crescent a shabby man, idly smoking. Was he one of the watchers?

Four days went by. Soon my rest would be at an end, and I should be sent to the further end of Europe.

ONE EVENING, two days before Christmas, I was passing through the great hall of the Hotel Cecil when a neatly-dressed figure in black rose and greeted me. It was Julie, who had probably been awaiting me an hour or more,

"May I speak to you?" she asked breathlessly, when we had exchanged greetings. "I wish to apologise for the manner in which I treated you the other evening."

I assured her that no apologies were needed, and together we strolled up and down the courtyard between the hotel-entrance and the Strand.

"I really ought not to trouble you with my affairs," she said presently, in an apologetic tone. "But you remember what I told you when you so kindly allowed me to travel by the waggon-lit— I mean of my peril."

"Certainly. But I thought it was all over."

"I foolishly believed that it was. But I am watched— I— I'm a marked woman." Then, after some hesitation she added, "I wonder if you would do me another favor? You could save my life, M'sieur Carrington— if you only would."

"Well, if I can render you such a service, mademoiselle, I shall be only too delighted. As I told you the other day, my next journey is to St. Petersburg, and I may have to start any hour after midnight to-morrow. What can I do?"

"At present my plans are immature," she answered after a pause. "But why not dine with me to-morrow night? We have some friends, but we shall be able to escape them, and discuss the matter alone. Do come. It's Christmas Eve."

I accepted, and she, taking a hansom in the Strand, drove off.

On the following night at eight I entered the comfortable drawing-room in Burton Crescent, where three well-dressed men and three rather smart ladies were assembled, including my hostess. They were all foreigners, and among them was the Baron, who appeared to be the most honored guest. It was now quite plain that, instead of being a governess, as she had asserted, she was a lady of good family, and the Baron's social equal.

The Christmas Eve party was a very pleasant one and there was considerable merriment at the table. My hostess' apprehension of the previous day had all disappeared, while the Baron's demeanor was one of calm security.

I sat at my hostess' left hand, and she was particularly gracious to me, the whole conversation at table being in French.

At last, after dessert, the Baron remarked that, as it was Christmas Eve, we should have snap-dragon, and, with his hostess' permission, left the dining-room, and prepared it. Presently it appeared in a big antique Worcester bowl, and was placed on the table close to me.

Then the electric light was switched off, and the spirit ignited.

Next moment, with shouts and laughter, the blue flames shedding a weird light upon our faces, we were pulling the plums out of the fire— a childish amusement permissible because it was Christmas.

I had placed one in my mouth, and swallowed it, but as I was taking a second from the blue flames I suddenly felt a faintness. At first I put it down to the heat of the room, but a moment later I felt a sharp spasm through my heart, and my brain swelled too large for my skull. My jaws were set. I tried to speak, but was unable to articulate a word!

I saw the fun had stopped, and the face's of all were turned upon me anxiously. The Baron had risen, and his dark countenance peered into mine with a fiendish murderous expression,

"I'm ill!" I gasped. "I— I'm sure I'm poisoned!"

The faces of all smiled again, while the Baron uttered some words which I could not understand, and then there was a dead silence, all still watching me intently— all except a fair-haired young man opposite me who seemed to have fallen back in his chair unconscious.

"You fiends!" I cried with a great effort, as I struggled to rise. "What have I done to you that you should— poison me!"

I know that the Baron grinned in my face, and that I fell forward heavily upon the table, my heart gripped in the spasm of death.

Of what occurred afterwards I have no recollection, for when I slowly regained knowledge of things around me, I found myself lying beneath a bare leafless hedge in a grass field. I managed to struggle to my feet, and discovered myself in a bare, flat, open country.

As far as I could Judge it was mid-day— surely mine was a Merry Christmas! I got to a gate, skirted a hedge, and gained the main road. With difficulty I walked to the nearest town, a distance of about four miles, without meeting a soul, and to my surprise found myself in Hitchin. The spectacle of a man entering the town in evening dress and hatless in broad daylight was, no doubt, curious, but I was anxious to return to London and give information against those who had, without any apparent motive laid an ingenious plot to poison.

At the old "Sun Inn" I learned that the time was eleven in the morning, and that it was Christmas Day. The only manner in which I could account for my presence in Hitchin was that, believed to be dead by the Baron and his accomplices, I had been conveyed in a motorcar to the spot where I was found.

What, I wondered, had become of the fair-haired young man whom I had seen unconscious opposite me?

A few shillings remained in my pocket, and strangely enough, beside me when I recovered consciousness I had found a small fluted phial marked "Prussic acid— poison." The assassins had attempted to make it apparent that I had committed suicide!

Two hours later, after a rest and a wash, I borrowed an overcoat and golf-cap, and took the train to King's Cross. At Judd-street Police Station I made a statement, and with two plain-clothes officers returned to the house in Burton Crescent, only to find that the fair Julie and her friends had flown.

On forcing the door, we found that dining table just as it had been left after the poisoned snap-dragon of the previous night. Nothing had been touched. Only Julie, the Baron, the man-servant, and the guests had all gone, and the place was deserted.

The police wore utterly puzzled at the entire absence of motive.

On my return to the Cecil I found orders awaiting me to pick up dispatches at the Foreign Office, and start at once for St. Petersburg, which I was compelled to do. So I left London full of wonder at my exciting experience, and not until my arrival at Wirballen, the Russian frontier, three days later, did I discover that, though my passport remained in my wallet, a special police permit to enable me to pass in and out of the districts affected by the revolutionary Terror was missing.

Was it possible that Julie and her friends had stolen it? Was it to be believed that the scoundrelly Baron had attempted to take my life by such dastardly trickery in order to secure that all-powerful document?

That it was of great value to any revolutionist I knew quite well, for upon it was the signature of the Czar himself, and its bearer, immune from arrest or interference by the police, might come and go in Russia without let or hindrance.

Were they Russians? Certainly the language they had spoken was not Russian, but it. might have been Polish. Where was the young man who had been my fellow victim?

Loss of this special permit caused me considerable inconvenience, for I had to go to Moscow, and with the Terror raging there, I had to get another permit before I could pass and repass the military cordon.

Yes, Julie Rosier was a mystery. Indeed, the whole affair was a complete enigma.

I duly returned to London, and then learnt that the body of an unknown young man in evening dress had been found in the river Crouch, in Essex, and from the photograph shown me at Scotland Yard, I identified it as that of my fellow-guest.

Through the whole year the adventure has sorely puzzled me, and only the other day light was thrown upon it, in the following manner.

I WAS AGAIN in St. Petersburg with dispatches for the Embassy when I  received a polite note from my friend General Zuroff, the Chief of Police, requesting me to call upon him.

On entering his room at the Ministry, he gave me a cigarette, and commenced to chat. Then suddenly he touched a bell, another door opened, and I was amazed at seeing before me, between two grey-coated police officers, a woman— Julie Rosier.

For an instant she glared at me as though she saw an apparition. Then, with a loud scream, she fainted.

"Ah!" exclaimed Zuroff, when she had regained consciousness. "Then what is reported is correct— eh? You and your friend the Baron enticed M'sieur Carrington in your house in London, knowing that he carried the order of the Emperor allowing the bearer free passage everywhere in Russia or Siberia. You saw that if you merely stole it he would give information, and it would be immediately cancelled. Therefore, you cleverly plotted to take his life, and make it appear as a case of suicide."

Then, with a wave of his hand, he said, "Take the prisoner back to the fortress."

The woman uttered no word. She only fixed her big dark eyes upon me with an expression of abject terror as the guards led her out.

From a drawer Zuroff took the precious document that had been stolen from me, saying,

"Julie Rosier— or Luba Markovitch, as her real name is— was arrested in a house in the Nevski yesterday, while the Baron was discovered at the Hotel d'Angleterre. Both are most violent revolutionists, and to them is due the terrible rioting in Moscow a few months ago. The Baron was hand-in-hand with Gapon and his colleagues, but escaped to England, and has been there for nearly a year, until, as the outcome of the dastardly plot against you, he altered his appearance and returned as Mr. Charles Carrington of His Britannic Majesty's diplomatic service. The arrests yesterday were very smartly made."

"But how do you know the details of the attempt upon me?"

"All men can be bought at a price. They were watched constantly while In London. Besides, one of your fellow-guests of that night— revolutionists all of them— recently turned police spy, and reported the facts. It was he who gave us information regarding the whereabouts of Luba and the Baron."

"But another man— a young follow with fair hair— ate some of the plums from the snapdragon and died."

"Yes— he was young Ivan Kinski— a Pole, who, though a Terrorist, was suspected by his friends of being a spy. You took one plum only, while he probably look more. At any rate, you had a very narrow escape. But you at least have the satisfaction of knowing that Julie will never again fascinate, and the Baron will never again be given an opportunity of preparing his fatal snap-dragon. Have another cigarette?"

__________________

13: The Velvet Hand

William Le Queux

Observer (Adelaide) 10 Sep 1910

IT WAS about 7 o'clock on a wild, wet winter's night that I turned the car from the Great North road and swung into the old courtyard of the George at Stamford.

I had travelled that day from Newcastle-on-Tyne, over two hundred miles of muddy road, and, fagged and half-frozen, I could go no further. I was still eighty miles from London, but I felt so tired out that I knew it would be dangerous to drive further. I might fall asleep at the steering wheel— with fatal result.

So I ran the car into the garage, shut off the lamps, and ordered my bag to be carried into the hotel.

You who motor know the quaint, rambling old place, with its old oak staircase and panelled rooms, an important post house in the olden days, and now much frequented by motorists.

In the cosy dining room, where a big wood fire burned brightly, I thawed myself and then sat down alone to hot soup and cutlets served by a dark-eyed waiting maid.

Apparently I was the only guest in the hotel.

As I sat at my meal I heard another car approaching across the bridge, but next second it roared past on its way to London.

When I threw myself in an armchair before the fire in the lounge, and the maid brought my coffee,. I quickly felt drowsy— fagged out as I was. I remember listening to the rain pelting down outside, and as another car swept by— a Daimler from its sound— I congratulated myself that I had put up in such comfortable quarters.

I must have fallen asleep, for when I awoke the great wood fire was burning low.  I heard a sound behind me, and, turning quickly in my chair, was confronted by the slim, neat figure of a woman in a dark, well-cut gown— a young, brown-haired woman, who smiled at me in recognition, and then, advancing to where I sat, stretched forth her hand, exclaiming in French:—

"Ah! Mon cher, M'sieur Fleming'. How curious that we should, meet here—of all places!"

I rose from my chair and bowed as I took her hand. I am afraid my greeting was somewhat cold, for, truth to tell, this pretty young Frenchwoman was not a person whom I desired to meet.

"You appear displeased, m'sieur," she exclaimed, her pretty mouth parted, displaying even rows of pearly teeth. Gabrielle Fossard was not more than twenty-four, chic to her finger tips, and a well-known figure at Monte Carlo each winter.

"Our last meeting, mademoiselle, was in— well— in somewhat unfortunate circumstances," I remarked rather coldly, as I stood beside her upon the hearthrug.

"Admitted, m'sieur, and had it not been for that letter which came secretly into your hand— that letter of warning— you would to-day have been an inmate of the fortress prison of Toulon," she remarked, looking straight into my eyes.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

Without replying she walked across the room and closed the door. Then, when she returned, she faced me, and raising her big dark eyes to mine, said—

"Surely, m'sieur, you will not easily forget the Ribere affair— eh? As an agent of your British Secret Service you came to France and induced the engineer, Jules Ribere. to prepare for you complete plans of the new submarine being built in secret in Toulon. For those plans you gave one hundred thousand francs, but on the night they passed into your possession you received an anonymous letter telling you to fly to Marseilles in a car waiting outside the town, and embark upon a British ship, if you valued your liberty."

"Well, as you apparently know so much, mademoiselle. I may as well admit that I heeded the warning and succeeded in escaping."

The girl, whom I knew to be a clever agent in the employ of the French Secret Service, smiled.

"It is well that you fled. Within half an hour of your arrival at Marseilles the police of the port were in search of you. But you had gone, carrying your valuable purchase with you. Do you know who gave you warning:

"No, I replied.

"Would you recognise the handwriting of the letter?", she asked.

I nodded in the affirmative.

"It was signed 'A Friend,' " she remarked, and bending for a moment at the little writing table she scribbled some words and banded them to me upon a sheet of paper.

Instantly I recognised the fine angular calligraphy.

"You!" I gasped. "You— mademoiselle Gabrielle— I— why, I always believed you to be my worst enemy!"

"So I am— sometimes," laughed the pretty young Frenchwoman, who had had, I knew, many adventures which were remarkable. She known to her intimates as "The Velvet Hand," on account of her dexterity was one of the chief assistants of the indefatigable Pierron, head of the Secret Service of France.

"Why did you thus act as my friend? I demanded. "Had it not been for that letter I should have remained yet another day, or perhaps two, in Toulon. There were reasons why I should not leave suddenly."

"Jules Ribere was betrayed," she said. "He was given away by an enemy, a woman, and, in turn, confessed to the commandant. I knew this, and warned you in time."

"Why?"

"In return for a service you once performed for me," was her rather hesitating reply." You were not aware, I know, that your action benefited me— but it did. You could have exposed my father, and caused his arrest as a traitor to France. There was every inducement for you to do so. But you hesitated, because you had given your word— the word of an Englishman and a gentleman."

In a second a truth that I had never suspected flashed across my mind. Quite unwittingly I had secured the goodwill of this pretty girl by exercising a leniency for which I had afterwards condemned myself. It was a sign of fear, I thought.

The work of secret agent in a foreign country its ever-fraught with great danger. Men and women who are friends will always turn upon one who is a spy. Little do the British public realize the patriotic heroism of that little band of men who travel to and fro on the Continent learning the secrets of other nations— secrets upon which ambassadors so often act, and even the policies of Governments are formed.

We of the Secret Service have no protection. If we are discovered, our employers, the British Government, disclaim all knowledge of us, and must of necessity stand by and withhold their protection. I could name a dozen gallant and patriotic Englishmen, gentlemen all of them, who have disappeared from the ken of their friends, and who are to-day languishing in foreign prisons, either because of their excess of zeal, or of the jealousy of a woman.

At my request Gabrielle Fossard seated herself beside the fire to chat. Hitherto we had always been the most bitter enemies, but that wild, wet night we became friends.

I knew that, as secret agent of the French Republic, she had effected several daring coups in Berlin. It was she who, by pretence of affection for a certain pompous officer of the German General Staff, had cleverly secured the plans for mobilization along the Moselle on that day when the dash is to be made for our English shores. In a single night these had been copied in a room in the Kaiserhof Hotel in Berlin, and next morning restored to their place, so that none in Germany knew the truth.

For this service the neat-waisted girl before me bad received a grant of 20,000 francs from the secret service fund.

Both of us being agents of different Powers it was but natural that we should be distrustful of each other, notwithstanding the existence of that silly illusion known as the entente cordiale.

"You are alone here, mademoiselle?" I asked, as I puffed at m cigarette in wonder.

"Yes, m'sieur. Alone— in order to meet you. We are the only guests in the hotel."

"To meet me, eh?" I asked, turning to her quickly, and noting the strange intense look in her fine dark eyes. Her gown was of dark woollen stuff, cut with a grace which betrayed the Parisian couturiere. She wore one ornament only, a very thin diamond bangle, half-concealed by the lace at her wrist.

"I— well, I want you to do me a favour," she said in a low voice. "You have your car here, I know. I want you to take me somewhere, I am compelled to make a journey in secret."

I looked her straight in the face.

"Ah!" she said quickly. "Do not think I am here in England for purposes of espionage. If I were I would not ask your aid. I should fear to do so. No. I am here upon purely private business— a matter that concerns myself— my future. Will you not assist me?" she added with an appealing look.

"You wish to go to-night?''

"Yes, now— to Colchester."

'"Colchester! Why that's over a hundred miles from here!"

"I must be there before dawn to-morrow morning," was her answer. "Will you take me there and ask no question?"

I hesitated. Colchester is the chief military centre of the eastern district, and will be of great importance if ever an invader sets foot upon our shore. Foreign spies have of late been detected all over Essex, Suffolk, and Norfolk, plainly showing that minutest details regarding forage, supplies, horses, and transport capabilities are being actively collected in view of the coming raid.

She saw my hesitation, and placed her white hand upon mine, saying:—

"M'sieur Fleming, I assure you that my presence there is of very greatest urgency. To me it is a matter of life—or death."

I saw how deeply in earnest she was, and I forgot my fatigue. I had good head lamps, and my car being a "forty-eight" I calculated that, with tire trouble, I ought to be in Colchester by about half-past five.

"How did you know I was here?" I asked suddenly.

But she evaded my question, and repeated her request to be taken over to the east coast.

So at last I rang for the waitress, paid my bill, and, having had my bag taken back to the car, filled up with petrol, relit the glaring headlights, and awaited Mademoiselle.

In a few moment she came forth, a grey veil tied across her hat. But her coat was not sufficiently thick, to withstand a night of pelting rain. So I made her assume a long black oilskin belonging to Jackson, my chauffeur, whom I had left in London— and with her seated at my side we moved slowly out upon the dark, wet highway.

I had looked out our way upon the big map in the hall of the hotel, and turned the car out towards the cross roads at Wansford. So up the hill past Burghley Park we went, our cut-out roaring in the night.

The car was an open one, and unfortunately I had left the hood in London for sake of lightness.

"I fear you'll have a very uncomfortable journey, mademoiselle," I remarked, for the rain was already cutting our faces as we flew along.

"It does not matter," she laughed snuggling herself closely at my side, "I only regret that I have been forced to take you out again on such a fearful night as this."

"Never mind, mademoiselle," I said cheerily. "We are friends— are we not?"

"Yes," she responded, in a low, intense voice. "You little know what great act of friendship you are performing for me at this moment."

Her words set me wondering; and as, hour after hour, we tore on through Huntingdon and Cambridge, and down through the long High street of Saffron Walden I tried to form some theory regarding the reason she had discovered me in that quiet old town, and the object of her rapid journey.

At last, aw we were passing over a wide moorland the first streak of light showed in the sky away before us, but only for a moment;-then it faded again. But suddenly my little companion, who had been silent for the past hour, and Whom I had believed to be asleep, stirred herself, and said—

"We are quite near Colchester! Why, this is Horkesley Heath!"

"You appear to know the place!" I remarked.

"Yes," she faltered, "I've been here before. Will you pull up yonder, where the road enters the wood? I must get out there."

"What?" I asked. "Do you intend to leave me here, then?"

"For the present, yes," was her answer. "I have to keep an appointment. If you care to wait for me, go to the Cups Hotel down in the town, and I will rejoin you— say, at eight o'clock."

What was the nature of this secret tryst she was keeping? She had assured me that it only concerned herself, and that she was engaged in no act of espionage. Therefore what could I do but pull up at the spot where she indicated, and allow her to alight at the edge of the dark wood.

"Au revoir!" she laughed back at me, as she removed her black oilskin, now that the rain had ceased. "I will try and rejoin you at eight, and we will go on to London together."

And then my handsome little companion turned, and was lost in the shadows.

Much puzzled, I moved along down the road towards the town for nearly a mile. Then I pulled up at the roadside, shut off, and listened. But the silence was complete. I was at the other side of the wood, and it was my intention to wait there and ascertain, if possible, the identity of the person she met.

Slowly, very slowly, the faint red light showed again in the stormy sky over the town of Colchester, this broadening into a- dim, cold grey—the light of the wintry dawn. A few birds began to chatter, a train sounded in the distance, while the wind, ever and anon, swept through the bare trees above my head.

The clock upon the splashboard now pointed to a quarter to nine. Mademoiselle Gabrielle had left me fully an hour. Why was she in that wood—and with whom?

For yet another hour I waited, but she came not. Perhaps she and her companion, whoever it might be, would take a footpath, I thought. Cold and wet, I was at last about to switch on again and run down the hill past the station and into the town when, of a sudden, I saw her hurrying towards me. One hand was pressed to her breast, and she was greatly agitated and breathless.

"Quick!" she cried, as she sprang into her seat. "Let us get away from this place— away— anywhere,''

I started quickly as I looked at her.

"Why!" I gasped. "What has occurred— there is blood upon your hands!"

"Ah! Don't ask me— don't ask me, m'sieur!" she shrieked, wiping her hands upon her gown, and quickly concealing them. "Let us fly! You are my friend—  save me!— save me!"

My heart stood still. What had occurred within that dark wood—what, indeed.?

I drove the car— drove, I think, as I had not driven before through the deserted streets of Colchester, and out upon the London road, never slackening pace until I found myself in Half Moon street, before the door of the smoke-grimed house in which I had bachelor chambers.

She entered with me, climbing the stairs, and passing into my bedroom without a word. I heard her washing her hands. I heard her sighing, and murmuring to herself in French.

But when she came Forth again she was calm as a statue. Her bright eyes had lost all their vivaciousness, and her gaze was fixed and pre-occupied.

I placed my hand tenderly upon her shapely shoulder, and asked in earnestness:—

'What has happened, mademoiselle? Cannot you entrust me with your secret?"

She slowly shook her head in the negative. The traces of blood she had  removed from her hands, but upon the sleeve of her dress, was a dark, ugly stain— a stain which she had not noticed.

I made her some coffee, which she drank with avidity. Then, after a short rest, she resumed her hat and coat, and left me to catch the two-twenty train from Charing Cross for Paris.

Through that afternoon and the next day I remained in wonder. I looked in the papers for the report of any tragedy, but in vain.

ON THE third day, however, I was summoned by messenger to the house of our chief, in Eaton place, and when I entered his cosy library, he said:—

"Listen, Fleming. A very curious affair was reported to me late last night. A man, believed to be a German, and in all probability, a secret agent, has been found murdered "

"In a wood— near Colchester," I added quickly.

"How did you know? I was not aware that the affair had got into the papers yet."

But I made no remark, and allowed him to proceed.

"The commandant at Colchester has reported it, saying that the body was found by some infantrymen during manoeuvres, and identified as a man well known in the camp. If he really is a German agent, you may, perhaps, identify him. You'd better go down there at once."

I went. And that afternoon, in the town mortuary, I gazed upon the dead white face. The chief's suspicion was correct. It was Otto Griesbach, a man who was an habitué of the Cafe Royal, and whom we knew to be a secret agent, though he lived in London in the guise of a foreign journalist.

The local police were busy searching for the assassin. Near the body had been found the marks of a woman's shoes with others, but the identity of the woman in question remained a complete mystery. So, after making a good many enquiries myself, I returned to London, and reported to the chief, who said:—

"An act of revenge, I suppose. Nothing was found upon him, eh?''

"Nothing, was my reply.

I clone was aware of the identity of the assassin. Yet what could have been the motive?

TWO YEARS went by.

I met Gabrielle Fossard on several occasions in France and Germany, but the tragedy was never mentioned between us. We were friends, and more than once I had been greatly indebted to her for confidential information.

Then one day I learned that she was lying very ill at her pretty apartment in the Avenue de Villiers, and I went to Paris to see her. I sat for an hour at her bedside, and though she endeavoured to be gay and entertaining as she always had been, I saw fatality written upon her white, handsome face.

Three days later she was dead— of consumption.

THE MYSTERY remained a mystery until about six months ago. when one night I was at home at Half-Moon street, resting after a long enquiry I had been making in a certain town upon the Baltic shore.

I was smoking in the ease of my own fireside, having just returned from dining at the club, when Peters, my man, brought me the card of a Captain Hugh Palliser, D.S.O., Royal Engineers— a stranger to me.  On entering I found him to be a tall, smart, good-looking man in whose countenance honesty and bonhomie were plain.

Then, after an apology for the intrusion, he seated himself, at my invitation, and said:—

"I have come here to-night, Mr. Fleming, to make an explanation, which I consider due to you, and at the same time to thank you for the great service you rendered to me— and to one who was very dear to me."

I looked at him in blank surprise.

"The latter," he went on, "is now, unfortunately, dead— I refer to Gabrielle Fossard. By her death I am now enabled to reveal to you the truth concerning a certain tragic incident which has no doubt puzzled you."

I sat upright, staring at the speaker.

"Gabrielle, whom I had known and loved in Paris long ago, told me how, while motoring with some friends, she had seen you driving your car towards Stamford. She made an excuse to leave her friends and joined you. Then she induced you to bring her over to Colchester, where I was quartered, for I had that evening by telegram asked her to meet me at the edge of the wood at dawn.  I confess to you that several losses at racing had brought me to the end of my tether, and that, unknown to her, I had entered into negotiations with Otto Griesbach to sell to him copies of certain important documents concerning our secret defences around Weybourne. In my mad despair I had foolishly written him a letter naming my price, and this letter the German declared he would hand to your department if I did not carry out my proposals. I had told Gabrielle of this, and it was in order to discuss my attitude that we had arranged to meet in secret that morning."

Then he paused, looking straight into the fire with a hard, serious expression in his eyes.

"I had reconsidered my position, and resolved to die by my own hand, rather than become a traitor," he went on very slowly. "Well— she came, and while we were discussing my position and the social ruin which would inevitably fall upon me if the fellow sent my letter to the War Office, the German, who had apparently followed me up from the town, suddenly appeared before us. He demanded the documents excitedly, and repeated his threats, for he apparently recognised in Gabrielle a secret agent of France, and he waved my letter triumphantly in our faces. High words followed. The girl— the girl who was herself a spy— defended me from that scoundrel, and—"

"And drew the small revolver she always carried, and shot him through the heart at close quarters," I suggested, in a low, quick voice.

The captain nodded in the affirmative, and at the same time handed me the letter in question, saying—

''She secured this from his pocket, gave it to me, and rushed away. She committed the deed in order to save me from exposure and ruin— because—because— she loved me," he added, in a voice choking with emotion. "I— I only once saw her afterwards," he added, hoarsely, "when she— when she passed away— with her hand clasped in mine."

_________________

14: The Woman Who Hated London

William Le Queux

World's News (Sydney) 1 May 1920

I FIRST met Marya in an open-air cafe in Zimony, that long, straggling town on the Hungarian bank of the Danube.

It was a hot, breathless night in July, 1914, and there, down by the broad river, the soft breezes from across the great Hungarian Plain on the opposite bank were delightful after the stifling heat of the day.

Like some other idlers, I had, after eating my pilaff at the Grand Hotel in Belgrade, crossed by the half-hourly steamer from Servia into Hungary in order to spend the evening at the Cafe Torok. I showed my passport to the little Hungarian officer in a peaked cap at the wooden shanty on the pier, and. recognising me. he saluted, and stamped it with his cheap rubber stamp, leaving me free to enter Hungary.

First I went along to the Poste Restante, where letters awaited me in a name not my own. Being in the confidential service of Downing Street, I may add that I was frequently known by an assumed name. There were three letters.

One was from a firm of toy importers in Aldgate— a business letter upon business note-paper. But as I read it I found my secret instructions given as though to their commercial traveller. I was to go to Constantinople instead of back home to England, from which I had been absent for nearly a year. I sighed, crumpled up the letter in my pocket to be burned in my room later, and then set out to make the best of the evening.

Torok's is always a merry place. One wanders about its pleasant gardens by the Danube, beneath the strings of colored lights, drinks nine in one of the fifty or so little summerhouses discreetly set by the river, or has supper in the parish restaurant, where a red-coated gipsy band, led by a long-haired violinist, with huge silver filigree buttons upon his coat, plays that weird Tsigane music.

While wandering along one of those gravelled paths I met Marya Tchernine. She was tall and dark, with very black eyes: well, though neatly, dressed. At first I thought her to be Hungarian, but when we spoke, quite accidentally, I found she knew no German. So I addressed her in English.

She replied in French. Five minutes later we were sauntering together beside the broad river, which there, at its junction with the Fave, is like a huge lake.

Later she strolled into the restaurant and took toffee with me— that delicious black coffee with clotted cream upon the surface which one only gets in Hungary.

"No." she said. "I am not Hungarian. I am Russian— from Kiev."

It happened that, cosmopolitan as I am by birth and by profession, I knew Kiev, and we began to chat. Kopteff, the procureur, was a friend of mine, so was Wolkoff, the President of the Tribunal of the Arrondissement.

"Wolkoff!" she cried, in a voice of hatred. "The beast! We call him the Wolf of Kiev."

"Why?"

"Because he is so terribly hard upon all of who believe in Freedom!"

"Oh! So you are a Socialist, mademoiselle?" I remarked.

"I am a revolutionist, m'sieur," was her quiet reply. "I am one of the hundreds who are ever working and looking forward for the freedom of my dear country from the camarilla, Sturmer the puppet, Protopopoff the spy, and the dirty priest Rasputin, the trio who surround our poor Sovereign, and will, before long, press him into war with Germany."

"War! My dear mademoiselle, how ridiculous!" I exclaimed.

She sipped her melange, and looked across at me with wide-open, serious eyes.

"Ah! You are English!" she said. "Though you may know our country. you cannot know us. You cannot understand how, ever since the days of the Czar Alexander, thousands of us have been striving for liberation, for a clean and honest Government, and for our dear Russia for the Russians. To-day it is— just as in your country, you have Britain for the foreign exploiter, we have Russia for the German. We have a German Czarina— a woman who— bah!" and she put down her cup in disgust. and then begged my pardon.

I saw that the young lady was a political enthusiast. Curious, indeed, it was to find her there, amid that gay, irresponsible crowd of summer idlers. Personally, I am not in sympathy with extremists of any nation, of any creed. Her words rather repelled me. But we chatted on.

She told me her name, and I learnt that she was in Hungary idling away a fortnight, waiting for her uncle to come from Budapest. Afterwards they were returning to Russia. Why they were in Hungary she did not inform me.

We spent a couple of hours together, but the whole tenor of her conversation was that of a wild-haired revolutionist. She hated Czarism in all its forms, and she made allegations against the Russian Ministers of the Crown which, at the time, seemed purely fictitious, yet in the light of the events of the two years which followed I realised that every word the handsome girl had said was, indeed, too true.

Constantly, during our conversation, as we trod the gravelled paths of that illuminated open-air establishment, she referred to somebody called Peter.

"Peter!" I echoed at last. "He is your lover, eh?"

"Yes, m'sieur. He is my Peter— Peter Koubiline. But he is in prison in Moscow. He is a journalist, and he dared to oppose the censor."

"For how long is he in prison?"

"He will be released in September— and then!" And then she drew a long breath and set her teeth. Suddenly she said: "He was innocent! It was only because the police knew that I was his friend. I escaped— but he was arrested."

The fierceness of her manner attracted me. She told me appalling stories of life in Little Russia, of the oppression of the bureaucracy, and the immorality of the Imperial Court. I confess I took it all with the proverbial grain of salt, but at last, after I had taken my leave and was on board the boat crossing in the moonlight back to the distant lights of Belgrade, I began to reflect that she was a girl of outstanding ability and remarkable intelligence.

Within three weeks of that evening spent at Torok's the world was convulsed by war. It then struck me, as I was journeying home from Turkey, where I had fulfilled my secret mission, that the girl had been possessed of much exclusive information concerning current affairs.

She had told me exactly what was about to happen, though at the time I had derided her.

The war progressed. Hither and thither I went to various points on the Continent upon different missions. No doubt, on her return to Russia, she had been arrested, as her lover had been.

The war ended. Peace was signed, and Russia, alas, fell beneath the Red regime. The extremist views, much as she had explained them to me, had spread into every part of the world. Labor had risen to fight Capital, and Bolshevism, as they called it in Russia, was gradually spreading across both Europe and Asia.

ONE DAY, about six months ago, I chanced to be seated in the bureau of a friend of mine, Steffensen, the prefet of police in Copenhagen. I had some business with him regarding an alleged spy, when, upon his table, I saw a police photograph of a somewhat dishevelled young woman in a cheap blouse.

In an instant I recognised the face. It was my friend of the Café Torok.

"Halloa!" I exclaimed, taking it up. "Who is she?"

"Ah! she's a mystery, my dear friend," was his reply. "Yesterday I sent the picture out to the police of the Allied, and neutral countries for identification. We arrested her here a fortnight ago, because of her visit to the house of a Russian anarchist."

I smiled, but kept my own counsel. It was not for me to betray her.

"What shall you do with her?" I asked.

"Do? What can we do without evidence?" he queried. "Probably we shall get some, for we have decided upon a plan."

"A plan! What's that?"

He smiled mysteriously, and replied:

"I'll tell you later on, whether we are successful, or if we fail."

TEN DAYS later, when I saw him again, he said:

"The plan succeeded! I gave that girl, Marya Tchernine, permission to receive visitors in prison. Her uncle came, an elderly, long-haired, long-bearded man who looked like a priest of the Greek Church without his black habit. She asked for him to be allowed to see her, and I at once agreed. They met alone, and the moment they did so the girl slipped her handkerchief into his hand. When the man went out he was detained. Here is the handkerchief!"

He spread it out before me. It was a cheap cotton one, but upon it there was traced faintly a jumble of letters

"Well, what do you make of It?" I asked.

"The fact is. we can't make anything intelligible out of it." he replied in English. "We've tried over and over again, but we can discover nothing."

I took the somewhat soiled handkerchief in my hand, and I saw that the jumble of letters traced upon it were:

VT/ OSEQA / UL/ LOPGS/ EVTU/ SEORO.

I scribbled them upon a piece of paper, while Steffensen, a fair-bearded official I have known for years, said:

"Try and work it out, mon cher Le Queux. Your people at Whitehall are adepts in deciphering codes."

"All right, I will," I promised him, but I had to leave Copenhagen two days later and return to London. There I copied out the code message given by the girl prisoner to her visitor, and handed it to a certain gentleman who lives at Crouch Hill, and who is perhaps the most adept decipherer of codes in all the world.

He has made a life study of secret communications, and during the war his knowledge was of greatest use to us. True, he got an O.B.E. for it, but he indeed deserved a baronetcy.

The day after I gave it to him he rang me up on the telephone, and said:

"That code: The clumsiest possible. Eliminate the letters A.G.Q.S.U.V.O. and you have the message 'Tell Peter.' Does that convey anything to your friends?"

"Yes. Lots of things." I said.

It was a warning to her lover, Peter?

I, however, left the Danish police to deal with the problem. She had not expressed to me any hatred of Britain. Indeed, as we had walked together beneath the trees at Torok's. she had expressed her high appreciation of us. All she said was:

"Ah! I fear your people are far too slow. You do not realise what is coming or what war will mean in Europe "

Such words falling from the lips of a handsome girl did not then impress me. In the course of my cosmopolitan, ever-travelling life, I have met many people of strange ideas and stranger ideals, from the celibate monk to the Mormon elder, and from the demure miss— by the way, so often a camouflage— to the merriest cocotte of the Cafe de Paris at Monte Carlo.

Our post-war world! I smile when I think of some of the press-fed stay-at-homes who form their conclusions and their lives upon the ten-and-sixpenny copyright photographs of people of both sexes, mostly of a certain class who pose before the camera before they scramble for "honors," because they have chanced to make money out of war-profits. And, alas! as the prefet of Police of Paris remarked quite recently to me: " 'Honors' are as cheap to-day in all our countries as herrings."

ABOUT a month later I was called by Whitehall to go abroad again.

In greatest secrecy I was told that a most insidious and desperate plot was afoot against us. I was ordered to cross the Channel, investigate, and report.

In Paris I had a long chat with Armand Mejan, of the Sûreté Generale, but he confessed his ignorance of the plot.

I was at a loose end in Paris, when suddenly I recollected the dark-eyed Marya, and at once I travelled back to Copenhagen, where again I sought Steffensen.

I made no mention of the young Russian girl under arrest. He, however, referred to her.

"Do you recollect the message that young revolutionary girl wrote on her handkerchief when you were here last time?" he asked.

"Well, we've been able to decipher it. The message was in English. 'Tell Peter' were the words. Now we are searching for Peter."

"Are you? Have you found him?" I asked.

"Not yet, but we have a clue. At least they have one in Paris. I only had a report in yesterday, in response to my urgent inquiry. Here it is!" And he passed over one of those official documents upon the pale yellow paper of the Paris Sûreté so familiar to me. Translated into English it read as follows:

"Reference to Photograph No. 36,809. Marya Tchernine, Russian subject, lately resident at Kiev. This has been identified by the agents Charles Lenoir and Henri Menard as that of Mademoiselle Juvanon, recently in Paris, and a friend of a young Russian named Peter Koubiline, a schoolmaster and journalist.

"Koubiline is known as an anarchist, and the woman has been heard to express the most advanced views.

"She was for three months the centre of a very active revolutionary group in Paris, and was constantly watched. Koubiline, it was known, had been in prison in Russia for a political offence.

"As far as the Sûreté Generale are concerned, both have conducted themselves well, and there was not sufficient evidence to justify arrest. It was plain, however, that both the girl and the man— who is probably her lover— were desperate revolutionists, though they took no active part in the political life of the Republic.

"About three months ago, both disappeared suddenly from Paris, the girl going to Holland, while the man went, it is believed, to Spain. All traces of both are lost, though the two agents named above, who were employed in the surveillance of the pair, have had no difficulty in recognising the portrait of the young woman in question."

Having read the report, I replaced it upon the table.

"Well?" asked my friend. "The warning she gave to her lover is evidently not without meaning, eh?"

I agreed.

"The Italian Pubblica Sicurezza have evidently something in view!" he said.

"Oh!" I ejaculated. "That's of interest. What is it?"

"Well, I have a report by telegram this morning to the effect that the Questore of Pavia has under observation a certain individual who answers to the description of the fugitive Peter Koubiline. He pretends that he is a British subject— but of Russian parentage— born in London, and he speaks English well."

My Danish friend took from his littered table, with its rows of telephones, a slip of paper, and from it read:

"From P.S. Ministry of Interior, Roma

To Prefet Police, Copenhagen:

"Peter Koubiline pretends to be English, but is probably wholly Russian. Was a schoolmaster at West Ham, London. Rented a country villa at Stradella a month ago. Has been visited by several foreigners from Bologna and Milan. He has as servant an old woman, evidently Russian, though speaking French well, who passes as French. Strict observation is being kept upon them by order of the Investigation Department. Further inquiries will be answered by the Questura in Pavia."

"So he's living at Stradella!" I said. "I was once there-about four years ago. I had a motor breakdown. A poor little place, remote and far away under the north spur the Appenines. A good-sized village with a very decent albergo."

"Well," said Steffensen. "That is all we know. The man whom the Russian girl wanted to warn is apparently in Stradella."

"Then I suppose I must go there!" I said inwardly with a sigh. It was a far cry, right across Europe, and I had my writing engagements at home to attend to.

I went, and duly arrived at the Croce Bianca, that old-world but excellent hotel in Pavia, and an hour later sat in the sombre room of Pietro Rocchi, the Questore, or chief of police, of the district.

"Yes, my dear Signor Commendatore," he said, "we are keeping observation upon that villa out at Stradella. Curious people come and go, and further, they have had of late quite a number of mysterious packages from  Switzerland."

"But the man Peter Koubiline? What of him? What are the suspicions?"

"He is a Russian, and without doubt an Extremist. As you know, the Chamber of Deputies passed a law last month that no Russian subject can enter Italy without a  special permit from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs at Rome. None of our Consuls abroad can visa a Russian passport. But it seems  that this man arrived here before the new law was passed."

"Hence he is suspect," I remarked, and, smiling, he nodded assent.

I told him frankly my mission, and I remained at the Croce Bianca— the White Cross —for the next few days. Indeed, I went out to Stradella and saw the suspected man— a good-looking young fellow, who on that day was taking a big black dog out for exercise.

But the Italian police are ever watchful. Many tributes have been paid to the Paris Sûreté for their expert tracking of criminals, but my experience has shown me that the Pubblica Sicurezza of Italy, with their wonderful underground organisation, can beat their French confreres every time.

Here was a case in point. The slow-speaking, bald-headed Questore of Pavia pretended to know but little, yet, when a few days later I tackled him he put before me a report of the result of his agent's inquiries which staggered me.

I sat back in the chair, utterly amazed.

"Well," I asked, "and when will you make the arrest?"

"Not yet. There are still a few other points which I wish to clear up."

"But the plot!" I gasped. "Is it not a diabolical one?"

"Diavolo! It is a very neat conspiracy— truly," he laughed. "Your people at Whitehall evidently got wind of something, but they haven't the slightest idea of the desperate game that is to be played if we do not prevent it."

"What's that?" I asked.

"Well, caro mio," he laughed. "Wait, and watch. We are making a raid at the Villa Luisa at Stradella on Thursday night."

"Excellent!" I replied. "May I go?"

"If you wish. I'll take you in my car," replied the Questore. "We will start at nine on Thursday. We shall pay a domiciliary visit, which, I hope, will reveal something of interest to your people in London."

At nine o'clock on the night in question I went to the Questura, where the big grey car was in waiting. As I arrived, two other cars, each containing four agents of police in plain clothes, drove off down the road. Ten minutes later I was seated beside the Questore Rocelli, and we were following them.

That night was truly an eventful one.

I was present when, armed with heavy service revolvers, the police made a raid upon the lonely villa, and arrested seven men and three women— all of them Russian.

They were placed in cars— two empty ones— and sent back at once under escort to the police bureau at Pavia.

Rocchi, with two of his assistants and myself, made diligent search of the place, and what we found was certainly an astounding discovery.

In a drawer in the little salon of the villa where the secret meeting had been in progress when we had raided the place, we discovered a number of papers thrust into a big old Chinese ginger-jar.

The documents were written in a long, angular, and very regular handwriting which was quickly proved to be that of my dark-eyed friend, Marya Tchernine. They were addressed to Peter Koubiline, and consisted of plans  whereby the Tube Railways of London were to be blown up on a certain date— on September 16, 1919. The documents were in French. I will quote a portion of one of them:—

"The best way to wreck the traffic of the London Tube Railways will be three explosions simultaneously, at Piccadilly Circus station at a quarter past eleven o'clock on the night of September 16, at the hour when people are returning from the theatres and the trains are crowded. At the same time , the plan can be put into operation at the generating station at Golder's Green, where our friend X—— is ready.

"Other explosions at the same hour should be effected at Earl's Court station. Charing Cross— both Tube and Underground stations— and at Leicester Square. With the electric current cut off there would be panic and disaster— a warning of what we Extremists intend to do."

I read the document, and, looking Rocchi straight in the face, drew a long breath.

"By Jove! You've saved London from a most terrible disaster, my dear friend!" I said.

"Yes," was his reply. "And all designed by a woman— eh?"

Truly it was a diabolical plot to advance the cause of the Extremists, and. though we allowed nothing to leak out to the press concerning it. We took good care that my handsome, dark-eyed girl friend of Zimony, and her Russian lover, were placed where they are secure from any further attempts to kill innocent Londoners.

__________________

The reminiscences of famous authors should always be taken with a grain of salt. Le Queux was not averse to a little added colour in his past.  He was born in England of French father and English mother, who were well enough off to finance his art studies in Paris. He enjoyed having it believed that he had close links with the British Secret Service and the Diplomatic Service, but these links are highly doubtful. An interesting contemporary view of the author of over 150 novels and countless short stories.

15: A Chat With William Le Queux

R. A. J. Walling

1869-1949

Queenslander 27 Jan 1912

WHEN I READ the other day that Mr. William Le Queux had done a certain three things, I made up my mind to invent some pretext for seeing the man and talking to mm about the things.

The tripartite phenomenon was this:

(1) He wrote a novel in Italian for publication in the "Tribuna" at Rome.

(2) He translated it into French to be used as a feuilleton in a Paris paper.

(3) He rendered it into English, and issued it in book form with Mr. Eveleigh Nash.

This was obviously the masculine counterpart of Charley's Aunt; it was no ordinary man. Forthwith I demanded a day of his time that he might explain to me how it was done.

In Mr. Le Queux's library, surrounded by souvenirs of his trafficking and adventures in two Continents, with the counterfeit presentments of monarchs and princelets looking at me over their signatures from innumerable frames, and serried rows of my victim's novels shining from the bookcases, I got him to tell me the story of his life.

"You know," he said, "I cannot live without the telephone. How could I? I should be cut off from the world. When I came here to live eighteen months ago— a delightful spot, I love the scenery of Devonshire— the first thing I had to do was to get the telephone brought out the three miles from Buckfastleigh. It is very restful here, with the hills and the woods all round. You shall see the rustic seat I have made down in my favourite coppice. Devonshire is glorious after the rush and scurry of travel, and the dust of business in various cities of Europe."

"Of course, you spend most of your time in a charming place like this," I ventured.

"M— well, not exactly. You see, I was born a wanderer, and I have been wandering all my life. I have cosmopolitan tastes— as much at home in Italy or in the Slav countries or in France as in England. I have so many friends abroad. But a month or two in Devonshire is exceedingly good, the most revivifying tonic that a man could desire. I don't go to London more than once a week, and generally not more than once in ten days. What I specially enjoy is the perfect quietude of this retreat."

Mr. Le Queux has been writing novels for some twenty years. How many he has to his tally nobody has yet been found to compute; but he believes himself that there are about forty.

Like most of our successful artists in fiction, he did not set up novel writing to begin with, he wanted to be an artist, and for some time as a youth had his atelier in the Quartier Latin in Paris. No doubt he would have been able to paint it passable picture if he had pursued his artistic ideals long enough; but the Latin Quarter was to be of more use to him later on for other purposes than colouring canvas. Indeed, it was not long before he same to the conclusion that he had not in him the making of a Corot or a Millet, and it is characteristic of the man that when he had arrived thus far he made no bones about following his argument to its logical sequel.

"So one hot night in August, I left my lodgings, went down to the Seine, pitched in my palette and my brushes, and renounced the Mistress, Art, who was so coy to me. Next morning, I set out in search of adventure and wandered all over the Continent, accumulating great stores of unconsidered trifles of knowledge and experience, which have served me well in the years between."

It would take too long to follow this modern Autolycus on his travels; suffice it to say that they were more extended than Oliver Goldsmith's, more exciting than Roderick Random's, and stranger than Marco Polo's.

He was in Siberia before the railway, he was in Turkey when Noury Pasha was all powerful, and made him his friend; there is not a corner of all the little Balkan States that he does not know, and not a famous outlaw or notorious brigand in those wildly romantic regions with whom he has not hobnobbed.

"Stories were always teeming in my head. When I got back to Paris, I wrote one in French— yes, it is almost as much my mother-tongue as English; so is Italian— and got it accepted by Le Petit Journal, where it appeared as a feuilleton. For some reason or other that tale attracted the attention of Emile Zola. He found me out, and urged me to go on writing; it is to him that I owe the fact that I have become by profession a writer of romances. What a man he was! A splendid man. He is very much misjudged (I mean as an artist) by the English public— though it is true they paid him tribute in that great crisis of his life when he risked everything for the truth. And the end,— what a tragedy!  I was away in the East when it happened, and it was not till two months ; afterwards that I was able to see Madame Zola and offer her my sympathy. She is a noble woman, Madame Zola.

"So I became a writer of sensational romance, and worked in journalism between. After working for some time in Paris, I came to London and joined the staff of The Globe as their Parliamentary representative. Phew! I suffocated. Then I turned to a more congenial field and accepted the post of foreign editor. But my feet itched. I wanted to be off. There was all Europe to be explored while I was stewing in London. So I threw it up and went off again. Spain first, then Italy, then Siberia and its prisons, then Egypt, then Norway and Sweden. I sought out life everywhere— amid the fashionable crowds in gay cities, in the hills of Bulgaria, in the cafes of Vienna, in the village inns, high life and low life everywhere, and wrote about it as I went. I made a particular  point of becoming acquainted with the police and their systems in every country I visited. There is this to be said for my stories— that there is not a spot of local colour in them which cannot be verified by anybody who takes the trouble to inquire. I received a letter last week from a gentleman in Glasgow enclosing a little book. He told me that he was I much interested in my stories, had read 30 of them, and had recently taken a holiday on the Continent in order to visit the places described therein! He had found all the descriptions true, and he had written a little brochure about the tour, which he begged to send to me."

"You study your subjects and your scenes on the spot, like Zola."

"Yes, with a difference, of course— not piling up mountains of facts as Zola did in his great works, but never dealing with a place I do not know, or with a subject I have not studied. Look here—  I am deep in this now."

"This" was a portentous volume on a scientific subject which plays a part in the novel upon which Mr. Le Queux is engaged.

"When I wrote the Invasion story a few years ago, it was largely a question of topography; I did 10,000 miles in a motor car over English roads to write that story, interviewed hundreds of people, consulted all kinds of naval and military authorities, and received great help from Lord Roberts."

"Now, we all know all about your successes, and needn't talk of them, and I'll be the last man in the world to ask you about your personal habits, the size of your collars, or whether you eat celery with your cheese; but tell me which of all your books you like best yourself."

"No!" he said, with determination. "I won't. But I'll tell you about the book I should best like to write. It's a book about monastic seals. You know I'm deeply fond of archaeology, and I'm intensely interested in ancient monastic seals. I've a collection, which I've been making for 20 years. Like to see them? Here you are," and he fished out from a cupboard an old cigar-box. It was full of seals, some of them just recognisable, others of the daintiest cutting, and all very ancient.

"They are seals from the monasteries picked up in various parts of Europe. Here's a lovely little thing; how beautifully sculptured are the figures! Here's another curious one, a seal and counterseal. The British Museum three years ago asked me to allow them to take sulphur casts of them, and they did so, as well as a set for Fitzwilliam Museum at Cambridge. They're all before the year 1500."

I looked reproachfully at the old cigar box and the seals higgledy-piggledy in them.

"Yes," said Mr. Le Queux, in answer to my glance, "I stand reproved. I think I'd better have a cabinet made for them. But that's the book I should like to write, a book about Monastic Seals."

Mr. Le Queux, who had family connections in the diplomatic service, and has himself seen not a little of diplomatic adventure, had many stories to till of that world; but, of course, they cannot be set down here. He has a special corner in his heart for Servia, whose King and Ministers are his personal friends, and a strong belief in the prosperity of that country ; it has made rapid strides since the coup d'etat, a period about which he had a thrilling tale to unfold. He has also lived much in Italy, if it can be said that a bird on the wing lives anywhere. He was a witness at the marriage of the Princess Louise and Signor Toscelli. He has ridden with Bulgarian bands in Macedonia, and been a suspect in many a country; his skill as a revolver shot is the outcome of much necessary practice. He has friends everywhere, and is everywhere at home. His literary diligence in the midst of a life which seems like a "continuance performance" at a kinematograph show is extraordinary.

__________________

A satirical novelette by the author of Main Street and Babbit

16: Seven Million Dollars

Sinclair Lewis

This Week, 24 Feb 1935 to 17 March 1935

THERE WAS unrest in Austria, arrest in Germany, and in Japan a plaintive desire to do good to all of Asia. Jugoslavia, Siam, and Bolivia were trying to remember the address of the League of Nations, that June in 1933. The most respectable bootleggers in Maine were worried about Repeal, and in the Golden West every worker was striking except the makers of buggy whips, and there were no makers of buggy whips. In all the world, there was peace only in Scandinavia, Marie Byrd Land, and the heart of Cordwood McGash.

Cordwood was christened— except that he probably never was christened— Sylvester Goodwillie McGash, in the State of Vermont. As a true Yankee, when he went West he tried every known indigenous trade except being Governor, and he even thought about that, one night, after acquiring much popularity and applause by singing "Bill the Sailor" in O'Toole's sample room. But the next morning his landlady had words with him regarding the rent and the discovery of his shoes and a deceased pickerel left hanging on the chandelier downstairs, and so he went still farther west that morning— by freight.

He was variously a sewing-machine salesman, a carpenter, capper in a medicine show, a gold-prospector, a hard-rock man, a drygoods clerk, a newspaper editor and, for one happy month— which he somewhat hastily terminated by the back window as the police came in the front door— the voice of the Zoroastrian Seeress's favorite Control, Big Chief Wampum. He was always merry, occasionally drunk, and he was a celebrated wrestler. But he was not the lanky Yankee of tradition.

He was a small man, curly-headed, bright-eyed, and he bounced around a good deal, and to his friends he lent money without remembering it. Not till he was twenty-nine did he settle down, as time-keeper and store-keeper in a lumber camp twenty miles north of the village of Jackrabbit Creek. He liked the combination of warm office, frozen drifts among the pines, and evenings in the bunkhouse, where he jigged in competition with Nova Scotian Bluenose lumberjacks. He studied book-keeping and trees.

After two years, he started a general store in Jackrabbit Creek. He dealt in everything from muskrats to threshing machines. He lent money and wrote insurance. He speculated in land. Jackrabbit Creek is on the line between northern forest and fuelless prairie, and McGash began to sell cordwood by the trainload to the prairie farms, then to the Twin Cities and Chicago whence his invariable nickname, Cordwood. He bought and leased forty thousand acres of land before he was done.

When the trees had been— no doubt disgracefully— slashed down, and he could not sell the cutover land for even five dollars an acre, it looked as though Cordwood's fortune of $60,000 would go in taxes. Then they dug up iron. His poor domain of sand and brushwood was discovered to be as rich in surface iron ore, to be mined with scoop-shovel and railroad car, as the Mesaba Range itself, and every inch of the deposit near Jackrabbit was on Cordwood's land alone. The steel companies bought him out, handsomely.

So it happened that at the age of fifty-five, a bachelor because he had always loved all the ladies too generously to pick on any one of them, this little man with the hard hands of a workman, this cheerful dancer in saloons, this busy speculator to whom business was not money but a game, found himself with $7,000,000 to his credit, no job any longer, and no notion whatever as to how he could use all that incalculable pile.

And it found him the one rich man in Jackrabbit Creek, with its twelve hundred inhabitants, of whom no man aside from Cordwood McGash could afford two simultaneous pairs of suspenders. It found him a millionaire sitting tilted back in a cane-seated chair in front of the Sunset Trail Hotel, piping to Manny Ilgenfritz, the grocer, "Say, devertellyuh about the time I was prospectin' in Colorado—"

For years, Cordwood had roomed with the Widow Tinkerbun, and he didn't see how he could hurt her feelings by leaving her, now that he was suddenly rich.

Sister Tinkerbun had no suites in her boarding house. (Neither did the Sunset Trail Hotel, for that matter, nor the National House, where the tin-can tourists stayed.) So Cordwood solemnly engaged the row of six unconnected bedrooms— all exactly alike and equally uncomfortable— on both sides of the upper hall, and by sitting and smoking in them in tum, he felt that he was doing his duty by his wealth.

He also brought home to Sister Tinkerbun and the boarding house table such delicacies as caviar, especially imported from Minneapolis, ten pounds of peanut brittle, and an enormous tub of mackerel, very spoiled.

He bought, from Cohen and Cabot, five suits of ready-made clothes, in checks, plaids, and orange stripes, with six pairs of shoes and seventeen neckties. It is true that he went on wearing the familiar flapping grey oversized suit in which Jackrabbit had known him for five years and the same comfortable old shoes and Stetson, but he did once in a while venture on the reddest of his new ties.

Yet even with such Fifth Avenue display, he did not feel that he was getting his money's worth. Seven million dollars to spend. That, brooded the once-happy speculator, was a task.

He gave every child in town a bag of candy. Mostly, they got sick, and for days he was unpopular with every one in town except the doctor.

He built a vast, $500,000 Community Hall, and was atrociously bored by having to sit on the platform at the dedication ceremonies and listen to the local congressman and three varieties of bishops.

He sent the local music genius, Les Doggins, to Paris, to study the violin. And Les really was a genius, Jackrabbit Creek was certain, because while most musicians can play only one or two instruments. Les was master of the fiddle, the piano, the parlor organ, the mouth-organ, the saxophone, the comet, the banjo-guitar, and the snare-drum, and he could even, during idle moments between giving shaves and haircuts at Oley Tengbom's Elite Barber Shop, make very interesting melody on a comb.

But even out of this flight into the higher arts Cordwood got little satisfaction, because for months he received no word from % Les except picture postcards, usually depicting the Eiffel Tower.

Not but that Cordwood had plenty of generous advice about spending his seven million. From the Twin Cities and even from Chicago, by train, motor, and plane, came genial gentlemen who loved to give away cigars and who were willing to let Cordwood in on annuities, Brazilian gold mines. Long Island real estate, and— latest and most refined and intellectual racket of all— Little Magazines which were going to revolutionize both Capitalism and Poetry.

But to these missionaries of good will Cordwood was curt, with a snarling curtness which surprised the friendly citizenry of Jackrabbit Creek. They who remembered him listening to an impoverished farmer and paying up his mortgage were astonished to see him, armed with an ice-water pitcher from the Sunset Trail Hotel lobby, chase a New York bond-salesman from Main Street clear out to the Mile Bridge.

These alien experts did not understand Cordwood. They told him how to make money. And what he wanted to do was to get rid of his money— and to get some fun out of doing it. And to get rid, painlessly, of $7,000,000 is not easy for a man whose idea of a perfect dinner, these fifty and more years, has been pork and beans, pickles, lemon murang pie, and cuppa-coffee.

He thought of travel, and probably if he had had an energetic wife, he would have gone out to view the Taj Mahal, and the lark, oyster, and kidney pie at the Cheshire Cheese. But he had been credibly informed that in New York you had to bathe every day, which certainly meant pneumonia; that in London you met nothing but lords, who addressed you "Hy sye, old chappie;" and that in Paris they spoke a funny language and danced in the street.

One satisfactory thing he did do. He bought the Sunset Trail Hotel, so that he would not feel guilty of loafing about it all day long in this time of depressing freedom, when it was his civic duty, as the possessor, or the possessed, of $7,000,000 to be free whether he liked it or not.

Cordwood McGash, gently scratching, was sitting in front of the Sunset Trail Hotel with Manny Ugenfritz, the grocer, and Oley Tengbom, the barber, that comfortable afternoon of June, 1933. They were all smoking ten-cent cigars— as presented by Mr. Cordwood McGash. It was an amiable scene, though not exhilarating. Doc Berklund's English setter, Dick, slept in the dust in the middle of the street. Τwo flivvers were parked across the way in front of Cohen & Cabot's, and Cordwood, Manny, and Oley argued as to their owners.

An hour later, they were rather stirred at seeing a complete stranger, in an eight-cylinder 1933 model Paracelsus with an Iowa license, stop for gas at the filling station, but that Thracian ship and the foreign faces passed on, and there was nothing much to see in Jackrabbit Creek, not even for a man who could write his check for $7,000,000.

"Well, nice day," said Mr. llgenfrits.

"Yump, nice day," said Mr. Tengbom.

"Pretty warm— even for this time of year, " said Mr. McGash.

Presently there were events of interest. Up Main Street drove another flivver, containing— as the three men confidentially explained to one another— Mart Klaupschnagel from south of town. Repeal had not come yet, and they knew, and firmly stated, that he was in town for the regular every-ten-day pint.

They watched him go into Doc Berklund's office, come out hiding small papers in his hand, enter the Bendelari Drug Store, reappear with an oblong package on which he gazed with pious fervor.

"Old Lady Klaupechnagel'll get her ears beat off tonight. Mart certainly can handle the dames when he's full of bug-juice," said Manny Ugenfritz, enviously.

Then, unannounced by either Gabriel's trumpet or an A.P. flash, the crack of doom happened to Cordwood McGash and to the respectable hamlet of Jackrabbit Creek.

From the front entrance of the Sunset Trail Hotel came a youngish gentleman in such garments as were known to Jackrabbit only in advertisements: a belted jacket and plus fours the color of dried grass, a cap to match, rimless eye-glasses on a black silk cord, a blue pullover with canary-yellow buttons, black and blue checked stockings, and low shoes of white buckskin and golden yellow uppers. The apparition removed its cap to rub its head, and it was to be seen that he had a sound, dependable baldness that suggested ledgers and adding-machines and a bank account.

"By golly, if it ain't another of those philanthropists come to let me in on a chance to make forty percent," snarled Cordwood, rage ruffling his calm like a squall on a mountain lake.

"Naw— forgot to tell you about him— dunno how I forgot," said Oley, the barber. "That's Percy Willoughby. Born here. Fine family. His dad was perfessor in the school here— they left town before you boys ever come— twenty-five years ago— guess Perce is about forty. Oh, no, he's a real financier. Been working in a bank in Milwaukee— cashier or president or something. Driving out to Seattle, and just stopped over a day to see the old town... Hey, Perce!"

Mr. Percy Willoughby sauntered over. His smile was benign, yet it hinted of a mystic knowledge of bills of exchange. His voice was a silver bell.

"Hello, Oley— want to shave a bum like me?"

"Sure. But say, Perce, here's a couple gennelmen you never knew as a kid— Manny Ilgenfritz and Syl McGash— Cordwood McGash."

Mr. Willoughby became swiftly grave; he became reverent; he caroled, "Mr. McGash, I've heard of your magnificent success. It's an honor to all of Jackrabbit."

But even as they shook hands, Cordwood said doubtfully, "You don't handle insurance?"

"No, indeed."

"Or any real estate that'll pay forty per cent?"

"Be glad to know of any that would pay a mere five!"

"Sit down!" begged Cordwood, with incredulous relief. "Say, just passing through like you are, come have supper with me at Sister Tinkerbun's tonight— six sharp."

"Delighted," said Mr. Percy Willoughby, in the manner of one man of the world recognizing another— two English public schoolmen meeting in the mountain fastnesses of Kipling... two Chicago bankers meeting in Athens.

After persuading the Widow Tinkerbun that he wasn't really criticizing her catering, after getting her to dry her tears and shut up and listen, Cordwood arranged for his exotic guest, Mr. Willoughby, a really sumptuous supper: cream of tomato soup, chicken fricassee with dumplings, German fried potatoes, canned com, and apple pie à la mode.

Cordwood was rather silent throughout the repast itself, listening sharply, his pale blue eyes steady, to Mr. Willoughby's entertainment of Mrs. Τinkerbun and the four other boarders. Percy— enough of this Willoughby, this mistering! Is Percy not to be our friend, our very deus ex machina as he became to Cordwood?

Percy talked very well and listened fairly well. Of Milwaukee banking he discoursed and all the strange, enchanted ways of country rube on the North Shore of Chicago. He explained all the fallacies of the La Follette family and of Franklin Roosevelt. He had been everywhere and done everything. He had graduated at Beloit. He had met Samuel Insull and warned him of the danger of public utilities. He had given Miss Katharine Cornell considerable praise— along with some valuable adverse criticism— for her playing in "The Barretts of Wimpole Street." He had told Al Smith how to fill up the Empire State Building. He had practically played polo at Del Monte— he would have played except that he had wrenched his ankle. He had even been in Europe— none of your ordinary four-week tours, but six entire weeks, exclusive of steamer passage, covering England, Scotland, Ireland, France. Italy, Spain, Switzerland, Germany. Austria. Scandinavia, Holland, Belgium, and Luxemburg— which Cordwood had always supposed to be either a city, a prime minister, or a drink, but which proved to be a country.

But it was not Percy's educated and frequent words which convinced Cordwood of his virtue as a man of the world, but his garments. For, though he was motoring and presumably not carrying a trunk. Percy had for the fiesta at Sister Tinkerbun's changed from his tweeds to a natty double-breasted blue suit with a white stripe faint as a maiden's dream, a button-on stiff linen collar, an Old Etonian tie, black shoes, and cream-colored spats.

"That's class!" reflected Cord wood. "But I wonder why he wears the gaiters. Maybe he catches cold easy in the ankles."

Supper done. Cordwood invited Percy to smoke with him in his suite, and a wink hinted that, safe from the piety of Widow Τinkerbun, there might be something stronger than a cigar with which to joy themselves. He wished that he could really utilize the splendor of his six-room suite, but unless he sat in one bedroom and Percy in another, he could see no way, and that would not be very convenient for conversation.

They sat in his principal bedroom, Cord on the bed and Percy in the slightly lopsided 1901 Morris chair. (The room also contained a golden oak bureau, a pine kitchen table covered with pansy-embroidered brocade, and a depiction of a stag at bay.) Cordwood poured out two bolts of forty-rod corn, and hinted, "Well, I suppose you're going to have another big job, bank cashier or something, in Seattle."

Percy coughed, looked at the glass of corn in hurt surprise that it could do such a thing to him, then laughed with a gallant show of frankness.

"I have no idea, Mr. McGash. Pure spec. Look here. The hometown boys like to believe that I've been at least vice-president in Milwaukee. I wasn't. I was private secretary and date-fixer and general cook and bottle-washer to the president. And I was let out. No fault of mine they were cutting expenses— I'm a good secretary. I can run anything from a conference of directors to a charity bazaar or a trip to China. But I'm no coming Andy Mellon!"

Cordwood liked that. If he had a guide and counsellor like Percy! The $7,000,000 that he had swallowed churned yeastily within him.

"Ha. Suppose —if you got another secretary job, what would you expect?"

"Eleven thousand five hundred dollars a year."

Now if Percy had said $3,000, Cordwood would have dismissed him as not really touched with the magic gold of Milwaukee, New York, and Paris. If it had been $20,000, he would have rejected such excess.

"Suh— uh— 'spose you were to kind of stay around here for a while and kind of steer me a little," he said, with what he felt to be tremendous craftiness.

Little fish, struggle no longer! On his third day as secretary to Mr. Cordwood McGash. Percy suggested, "Look, sir, I've been thinking: You're not really comfortable here. Why not take the McMullen Mansion!"

"Too big! Couldn't face furnishing it."

"I'll furnish it for you. Did the Big Chief's flat, in Milwaukee."

"Couldn't desert Μrs. Τinkerbun. She depends—"

"Take her along as housekeeper. And we'll get a good cook and two maids and a chauffeur."

"Three hired girls? Besides Sister Tinkerbun?"

"Then you can have parties every night. Private bar. Play cards. Open house for all your friends. And have the chaps you knew in the lumber country come stay with you — weeks at a time if you feel like it"

"That wouldn't be so bad," mused the victim of freedom and of Sister Tinkerbun's geologic mattresses. He felt like a child who has just been asked whether he could conveniently try some ice cream.

The McMullen Mansion was the largest house in town. It had been built by the owner of lumber mills, now gone with the passing of lumbering, and it had been deserted for ten years. It had sixteen rooms, which made it, for Jackrabbit Creek, rather larger than Windsor Castle. Cordwood rented it. He wanted to buy it, but Percy said, laughing merrily, "Try it first. Who knows? Year from now, we may be on the Riviera!"

And such was Percy's power, already, that Cordwood snarled only a little as he retorted, "Yes, and we may be in hell!"

Percy led him then to Minneapolis for furniture, but before they sneaked away, Mrs. Maybelle Benner firmly entered the scene.

Now among all the dignitaries of Jackrabbit Creek, including even Mr. Scallion, the banker, the Reverend Mr. Mitch, and the fortuitously important Cordwood, none was more significant than Mrs. Benner. She was, at forty, widow of the redoubtable Henry Simkins Benner, editor of The Star and Tidings. She was principal of the Junior High School, town librarian, president and chairman of the program committee of the Sorosis Club, and past Grand Matron of the Order of the Eastern Star. She represented Music, Literature. Scholarship, and Respectability and, what made her most esteemed of all, she had a family income of twelve hundred dollars a year. She came from Hartford, Connecticut, and it was frequently staled in Jackrabbit that she was related to all the aristocracy of Hartford and Farmingham.

Mrs. Maybelle Benner's lips were a little thin, but she had perfect teeth and behind the glare of her eyeglasses her eyes were cheerful. Cordwood McGash regarded her as a combination of Queen Mary and a lady baseball player. He admired her as he admired the North Pole or the international credit system, reverently but platonically.

Mrs. Benner firmly called upon him at Mrs. Tinkerbun's and observed, "Mr. McGash—" only twenty-six persons in Jackrabbit called him anything but "Cordwood," and the other twenty-five were infants under two years of age— "Mr. McGash, I feel it my duty as a fellow citizen to warn you that this Willoughby fellow is going to lead you into ways of recklessness— not that, I imagine, you need much leading. He is taking you to Minneapolis with all its dens of vice and pool rooms. You will return carrying a cane, and maybe a silk hat."

Then all the manhood of Jackrabbit's best wrestler and horseshoe pitcher arose within him.

"Ma'am, Perce is my friend, as I hope you are, too. and I don't never let nobody jump on none of my friends, never!"

He looked at her coldly, and for the first time Maybelle seemed to discover that he was something more than a case history. She actually blushed a little, and her voice was considerably softer as she murmured,

"Well, I just wanted to warn you. You know we all look up to you as our leader here."

For hours Cordwood went around swelling at the totally new notion that he was the leader of the community. And now that it had been suggested to him, by golly, he would come back with a cane and a silk hat! But in Minneapolis Percy Willoughby wouldn't let him. He also forbade spats, a monocle, and a stock.

"I," said Percy, "can wear all the agony I want to. I'm nothing but a secretary. But you're a man of property and you've got to look conservative— and then you won't have to worry about being conservative."

Between spasms of buying furniture for the McMullen Mansion, he led Cordwood to a tailor and had made for him four suits of soft greys and browns and blues.

"Me with seven millions, and neither Maybelle or Perce will let me wear anything really nice and swell," lamented Cordwood.

But Cordwood admitted that Percy made over the McMullen house into the pleasantest house he had ever seen. He particularly liked the private bar and the electric range, though he continued to be jumpy in his bathroom, which had a pink marble tub with gilded taps, black marble floors and walls, a gilt ceiling, and an enormous full length mirror, which caused Cordwood to blush and itch every time he saw the immodest spectacle of himself with a bath towel. And the bills came to $30,000.

One of the smaller downstairs rooms Percy had made into an office for himself. It was so much simpler than the rest of the house that Cordwood liked to hang out there, though be felt guilty about it— a bum like himself interrupting a business man like Percy Willoughby.

While Percy was out interviewing bootleggers one day just after the house was furnished, Cordwood sat in the office admiringly leafing through the bills for the house. And among them he found a letter for Percy stating that Messrs. Wombat was pleased to send Percy herewith their check for his commission of ten per cent on his purchases for S. G. McGash, Esq.

It wasn't that he had been cheated of about $3,000 that sickened Cordwood. It was that he would have to fire Percy and again be an orphan in the horrible forest of seven million, even now minus only thirty or forty thousand. He sat a long while, close to weeping.

Percy marched in, whistling softly, looked once at Cordwood and the bills before him, and said cheerily, "I've rounded up ten cases of Bourbon that's pretty nearly drinkable, at a hundred a case— shall I pay him the thousand? Oh, that reminds me, I owe you about three thousand dollars, Chief."

"Heh?"

"Yes, I stuck all these furniture people and decorators a commission of ten per cent— with the agreement, though, that they weren't to raise the price. My graft has about all come in now, and of course I've always intended to hand it back to you."

"Bless you, my boy!" said Cordwood."You keep it! I'm glad you stung 'em. the pirates! But it's all yours. You made it."

Now that he saw that Percy was almost fantastically honest, Cordwood's heart was again a little singing bird. He began to live. There were magnificent parties at the mansion till four in the morning, lumbermen in black and red checked shirts could be heard, with that dolorousness which is the fine flavor of ecstasy, assuring the world that "We shall meet but we shall missum, there will be one vacant chair," or demanding, "And w'en I die, don' bury me tall, jus' pickle my bones in al-co-HOL."

The mansion would probably have had a bad name and even Cordwood— or rather, even $6,900,000— would have been boycotted by all the pious of Jackrabbit except that, without even asking Cordwood about it, Percy invited both the Sorosis Club and the Ladies' Musical Guild to meet at the mansion, and for these meetings he provided tea and cocoa and such sandwiches as Jackrabbit had never seen— with anchovy paste, with chutney, with ginger, with salmon and lobster.

And Percy bullied Cordwood into addressing the Men's Bible Class at the Rev. Mr. Mitch's church on "The Principles of Success."

Percy also wrote the speech, in which Cordwood was made to say that he attributed all his success to frugality, to having, singularly, had a mother, and to having attended Sunday School back in Vermont. It concluded, "I am proud to say, I have a university degree. Most of you didn't know that, did you? Well, I have— but it came from the University of Hard Knocks!"

No one could believe that so good and pious a man ever served hard licker, so that Cordwood both had the baba au rhum and ate it, till the gods in conclave muttered, "What? There is a happy mortal? Wait, we'll do something about that!"

All that winter of 1933-34, Cordwood had only one real woe— in the embarrassing matter of the chauffeurs.

With Percy's consent, even encouragement, he had bought a sixteen cylinder limousine, along with a smaller sedan, and a neat $4.000 "job" for Percy's private use. Cordwood longed for the most beautiful possession he had noted in Minneapolis: a uniformed chauffeur, and the Percy who had forbidden him spats generously approved Cordwood's having a chauffeur.

The first one was a frosty Britisher who had, he admitted, driven for the Best Families. On the first night of his servitude, he was offended by Cordwood's jovially nicknaming him "Limey." The second night, at Manny Ilgenfritz's, the chauffeur was horrified by having his employer stand out on the porch and bellow to the midnight quiet of Jackrabbit, "Hey Limey, old socks, come on in and sit in on this poker game. We need another hand." The Britisher took the nine o'clock train next morning.

His successor was different.

On his second night, when he was driving Cordwood and Percy back from a stylish and unalcoholic evening at the residence of Mr. Scallion, the banker, this successor seemed to have difficulty in starting the car; there was a scent about the street as though too much alcohol had been poured into the radiator, and when Cordwood hinted that he drive more slowly, the driver turned and said affectionately, "Sure, Cordy, if you and Perce want to go like a hay wagon, it's all right by me. Rail friends together, heh?"

And he took the next morning's nine o'clock train, and after that Cordwood solemnly sat up in front and drove his own limousine, frequently with Percy in the back.

But by spring Cordwood was too used to his fine house and fine communal drank to be excited by them, and he still had $6,880,000. He wanted to do something entirety new, and he dared not ask Percy for suggestions. Percy might yank him off to a New York apartment, or a stately villa at Coney Island— which spot Cordwood assumed to be, along with Atlantic City and Newport, the most resplendent but starchily correct of all summer resorts.

Then Les Doggins, whom Cordwood had sent to Paris, theoretically to study the violin, began to write extensive letters, instead of mere post cards. It is true that the fifth letter gave a hint that something besides affection for Cordwood inspired him, that he wanted to put over the message that it would be a good idea for Cordwood to double his allowance. But his first four effusions positively glowed, and warmed Cordwood's imagination by their descriptions of Paris.

It seemed that all portions of Paris— though it was true, explained Les, that he himself was practising eighteen hours a day and rarely saw them personally— were jammed with beautiful cafés, where champagne cost two cent a glass, where ravishingly beautiful maidens, called cocottes, yearned for a chance to talk to True Americans like Cordwood, and where celebrated English explorers and lords and business magnates were flattered to tears when addressed by a man like Cordwood and filled with longing to tell him even better stories than he had ever heard in a lumber camp.

"Why don't you come over, with some of your buddies? I'll show you the town," suggested Les Doggins.

Cordwood meditated that he'd kinda like to do that. But he also meditated that he couldn't desert Jackrabbit, when all his friends depended on him for a good time. Then, like Keats conceiving "The Eve of St. Agnes," he had his one sudden, sun-smitten stroke of genius.

Why not go to Paris and take the whole town with him?

That was something no other millionaire had ever thought of! He was afraid at first to risk his one dear jewel of imagination to the acid of Percy Willoughby, often and firmly though he assured himself, "That's my business. I'm not asking Perce's permission. Who does he think he is? Maybelle Banter or somebody?"

It took him four days to raise the courage and tell his inspiration to Percy; his plan to hire private trains, hire an entire steamer, and take as many of the inhabitants of Jackrabbit as could get away to Paris, Rome, and London. Percy listened patiently, and patiently he reasoned.

"Yes. it sounds like a great shindig. Chief, but I’m afraid it would be impossible— so many people—"

"I know, I know, Perce. And of course there'd be the handling of an awful lot of money every day, and I couldn't ask you to take all that responsibility. I thought you might stay here, and I’d hire a kind of treasurer—”

"Yes.” Into Percy’s eyes came a cloudy dream of poetry. "Yes, there would have to be a lot of ready cash. I’d better go along. I don't quite trust anybody else. Yes. Shall we start in June?”

As easy as that.

ii

WHEN he went out, all innocence and glee, to inform his fellow townsmen what he was going to do for them, Cordwood was bewildered to find that they weren't as excited about suddenly picking up and going to Paris as he was. He was a wanderer, chickless and childless, even if not Percyless, while they had familiar homes, wives, children, jobs. They liked to be able to find their slippers or the bathroom in the dark.

He had to argue with them, to persuade them that they really would like it. But he was not altogether without craft. He explained to Mrs. Maybelle Benner that they would all enjoy the treasures of Art and Architecture for which Paris was, and justly, so celebrated; he warmly pictured the entire expedition, particularly himself, as spending all its Parisian afternoons and evenings in following professors about and being lectured at about painters and the Helmet of Navarre. (He remembered that there had been some Frog named Navarre— quite a long while ago. he believed— and that he had had a helmet, for some fool reason or other.)

Maybelle Benner seemed very much pleased about Navarre and his helmet. Then Cordwood convinced Oley Tengbom, Manny Ilgenfritz, Sime Bendelari, and Milt Cohen that they would spend all their afternoons and evenings, under the inspiriting guidance of Les Doggins, in lapping up strange and peculiarly excellent sorts of licker— arrack and akivit and vodka. To Mr. Scallion, the banker, and Mr. Mitch he hinted that his dearest desire was to make a serious study of the financial, religious, and educational systems of France— if there were any such systems in so barbarous a land.

Now there were but few persons in Jackrabbit who had ever been abroad. Oh, of course there were three or four hundred who had been born in Europe, and lived there from five to thirty years, but they were merely foreigners, and didn't count as people who could go over and understand Europe. The real Americans, the people who had some right to travel and investigate, began to ponder gravely on Cordwood's offer, and after a week he held a mass-meeting to which every inhabitant of Jackrabbit was invited.

Cordwood ruggedly gave the invitation to his proprietary crusade, but it was Percy Willoughby who, with elegance, anecdotes, a dinner jacket, and tasteful references to the American Eagle, the Pilgrim Fathers, and Lafayette, really outlined the plan.

Special trains. Chartered steamer. Sightseeing in New York. Respectable hotels in Paris— i.e., those in which all servants spoke American.

To go in summer, when the children would be out of school— the children, God bless them, whose little prattling voices were the sweetest music this side o' Paradise. (It is probable that Percy forgot that, as far as was known, neither he nor Cordwood had any children to prattle. )

Experts to be brought from the Twin Cities to care for the town and all necessary business while the citizenry were away.

The noble Mr. McGash to pay all expenses, including tips— no one need spend a cent except for such presents as he might care to bring home. Office now established downstairs, under the expert guidance of Miss Minnie Berklund, and all who wished to take the trip please hurry and register with her,  first come to get best accommodations on trains and steamer, and he wished to thank them one and all and to express—

He was interrupted by Ben Pilshaw of the feed store, who wanted them to give three cheers for good ole Cordwood McGash. They did, even the Reverend Mr. Mitch. Some were sick, some could not leave their posts, as doctors or powerhouse engineers or post-office employees or railroaders, some were afraid, some plain did not want to go, but out of the 1231 permanent inhabitants of Jackrabbit Creek, 887 persons did actually register for this gaudy chance of a lifetime, and accompany Cordwood— and Perce— on the European spree.

As commandant and general fixer of the town while the inhabitants were away, Percy brought in a man for whom, he admitted, he had an almost prayerful respect; one Colonel Blight, who had been a soldier, a policeman, a banker, a stock broker, and the city manager of Septemia, Ohio. Cordwood was vaguely astonished that a colonel could look so much like a colonel as Colonel Blight did. He had it all— the broad shoulders and slim waist, the white hair and small white mustache, the port complexion, the hearty voice, the ability, and extreme willingness, to tell what he had said to Pershing and Lady Astor.

After the good colonel, came an entire corps of persons skilled to guard property, extinguish fires, answer mail, forward mail. They were needed even before the caravan took the golden road to Samarkand.

Now that they had committed themselves to helping Cordwood spend his money, most of the citizenry felt that he was thereby obligated to heal all their troubles, spiritual and temporal, so that they might start off blithely.

He was expected to pay up all mortgage interest for at least two years ahead— and most of the mortgagees thought it would be all right if he paid off the mortgages entirely and, if he wanted to, he could burn the documents up and forget them.

Three persons wanted to have slight operations— to be arranged and paid for by Cordwood— and sixteen wanted their teeth put in shape, and they spoke to Cordwood, sadly or angrily, as though he might just as well admit that it was he who had done dirt to their teeth in the first place.

One lady wanted to know if he would mind, personally, escorting her seven grandchildren to an aunt's, in Waco, Texas— which, she said brightly smiling, would make her ever so much more free on the junket— and one wanted him to telephone over to Paris to arrange for her taking a complete course in voice culture during the three weeks there.

Percy and Colonel Blight and their aides perspiringly did their best to handle these details for Cordwood but, curiously, most of the suppliants wanted to see Cordwood himself. They complained that Perce and the colonel viciously denied such reasonable complaints as sending to the poor farm at Tallahassee, Florida, for poor Aunt Ethelberta, so that (though the dear old thing had never seen Jackrabbit Creek) she might go along on the tour.

"Now, Mr. Willoughby, that's do thoughtless of you! It would give Aunty so much pleasure."

Cordwood was learning, as Percy had long since learned, that when any one says to you, "Oh, do that— it would give her so much pleasure." then that is something most vigorously not to do.

It was surprising how much of the current $6,870,000 Cordwood was going to get rid of. He had, before inviting the town, neglected to learn how much it would cost to charter a de luxe liner. It would cost, he found, about $25,000 a day, six days to the crossing and landing included, for a steamer like Dipsomania, aside from tips, drinks, and the entertainers whom he was determined to hire in New York.

Four hundred thousand dollars might see the ocean part of the journey, both ways, paid for, but Perce reminded him that he must not be optimistic.

And so Cordwood signed checks, and signed, and signed, and from 7 a.m. till after midnight daily he listened to neighbors who wanted him to settle their brother-in-laws' debts or their wives' tempers or their digestions before the sailing— and Cordwood had considerably less fun out of being a millionaire and a public benefactor than he had ever had in his life.

But things got settled. Perce was a pattern of energy and precision. Colonel Blight a master of diplomacy and executiveness, and Cordwood too much of a kind-hearted damned fool to believe it even when he knew he was miserable, and two weeks before sailing, practically every one of the crusaders seemed satisfied.

And just then Trouble personified staggered down from the hills. A year before, Mr. Bat Badger, lumberjack and teamster, had been incomparably the highest-ranking Town Drunk in Jackrabbit Creek. In a lively, unmalicious way, he had gone fishing in the courthouse fountain, chased the night policeman with an unloaded revolver and, during a particularly durable hangover, tried to lead the singing in Mr. Mitch's church, with the misconception that the congregation were caroling "Little Brown Gal" instead of "The Little Brown Church in the Wildwood."

Cordwood had raised— that is. had contributed— a handsome purse to assist his friend Bat Badger to get out of town, quick, and go live with his farmer son-in-law. Now he was suddenly returned— you needed no newspaper to learn of it— and he was announcing to gratified throngs in the town's one saloon that he was delighted to join Cordwood's party and show the Frogs and Dagoes what a real two-fisted He-American could do in the way of serious drinking.

He had always wanted to go to sea, he explained, and he was planning to bunk with the captain of the liner. Sure he could, if he wanted to, couldn't he? Wasn't he 'nole friend of Cordwood's and didn't Cordwood own the boat? Let any high-toned captain try to get fresh with him! And now would all the boys join him in lil drink, to be charged to his friend Cordwood? The bartender wearily requested Bat to go out and soak his head or, preferably, go climb a tree.

Bat was hurt. He was shocked. He threw at the bartender a glass which broke the mirror.

He awoke in an alley, muttering in a youthful, plaintive way. "Well I'll be dog-gone!" and arose to waver, slantwise, toward his friend Cordwood, to tell him of this cruel misunderstanding. Already, Maybelle Benner, Mr. Scallion, and Mr. Mitch had come, as one man. to Cordwood's office, and squealed, "If that horrible scoundrel Badger goes on this tour, neither we nor any other respectable person in town will go!"

Cordwood looked weary. There had been a time when he had shared a blanket and a pint with Bat Badger.

Percy warbled. "It's all arranged. Mrs. Benner. Of course Mr. Badger is not to go. Mr. McGash and I were conferring about that, just as you came in."

The reformers marched beamingly out, in time to meet Bat Badger on the steps.

"You bad man, you get right out of town! And you're not going to Europe with us!" rejoiced Mrs. Benner.

"Three jackasses, all in a row. 'Tain't true. Jus' 'nother mirage! Visyums like this hard on pore lone prospector!" said Mr. Badger.

He entered the office, after some difficulty in finding on which side of the door post the door was. Cordwood hailed him with dubious heartiness.

"Well, well, if it ain't old Bat! Well, well— well!"

Mr. Badger fumblingly sank into a chair. He said not a word. He merely shook his wicked old head— his greasy cap and sunset nose and brushwood-scattered chin— shook it slowly and rebukingly, and wagged a knowing but smeary forefinger.

"Come up to the house and have a drink, old fella!" said Cordwood, hollowly.

Mr. Badger went on shaking his head and his forefinger in saddened disillusion, looking at this viper he had now thrust forth from his bosom.

"How's your daughter and your son-in-law? Folks all fine?" croaked Cordwood.

Then Mr. Badger gloomily gave voice: "Phar'see!"

"Who's a Pharisee?"

"Who's Phar'see? You're Phar'see!"

"Me? A Pharisee!"

"Yes. you! Whaz Good Book say? Proggle Son comes home. Whaz he get? Gets fatted leg of lamb. I'm Proggle Son. What do I get? Get Maybelle Benner! Phar'see. Quit drinking, that's what you done. Snooty to old friend Bat. Pore old Bat Badger!"

And Mr. Badger shook his palsied head again, gently weeping.

"No, no. Bat ! That's a dog-gone lie. I'm just as good a drinker as I ever was. Come on up home. I'll prove it. I'm no Pharisee. I'm a good drinking man."

He got Bat into the back of the limousine, where Bat lighted the butt of a cigar and looked loftily out at the canaille, winking at the girls, while Cordwood meekly drove in front.

At the mansion. Bat suddenly exhibited the most offensive trick in all his amiably contrary career. He wouldn't, no, no matter how much his host begged him, he wouldn't take a single drink of Cordwood's excellent whisky. This was as unexpected as Hitler's refusing an Imperial crown, and the not unresourceful Cordwood was helpless. In the style of a small boy running to his mother with a hurt finger, Cordwood thought of telephoning for Percy, for good old Colonel Blight. But he felt too helpless, under the spell of Bat, who was slumped in a leather armchair accusingly shaking his head and muttering, "Phar'see! Never drink Phar'see's ticker. Not if I starve!"

"Look, old man! I'll show you how much of a Pharisee I am! Lookit, the way I drink!"

Cordwood poured out half a tumblerful of rye and tossed it off. "See? Now come on! Drink up! And I got a swell new story for you. Mrs. Benner? Why, she hates me like rat poison. Come on now, drink up!"

"Phar'see!"

"Oh. come on! I— uh— I been too busy lately to do much drinking, but with an old buddy like you— Look, I'm taking another!"

So it was that Percy returned, with Colonel Blight, to find Cordwood completely passed out, while Bat still sat soberly croaking at the near corpse, "Phar'see! Benners! All Phar' sees!"

Percy and the colonel gently led Bat outside. Expertly frisking him, the colonel found that Bat had not carried his prejudice against the false wine cups of the Pharisee too far. He removed two bottles of rye and one of gin from Bat's outer coat pockets, a bottle of Scotch from his inside pocket, and eight Corona Coronas and three miniature bottles of cordials from his vest.

Colonel Blight murmured something then to Percy, and Percy laughed.

When Cordwood struggled into an agonised wakefulness, in his own bed, with Percy beside him ready with the aspirin and wet towel, he groaned, "Not a Pharisee! Where's Bat?"

"Sir, I took the liberty of— I think Mr. Badger will be quite happy; probably much happier than in Paris. I have arranged with young Mr. Knute Tieplowitz to take Mr. Badger on a somewhat extensive tour— in fact, to San Diego. I ventured to entrust Knute with enough money to keep Mr. Badger quite drunk and happy the entire way. They have been gone now for some hours. I do not think Mr. Badger will change his mind. Tieplowitz is a charming companion, and he will be glad to sing duets with Mr. Badger, but also he was boxing champion in the Agricultural College."

"Say, couldn't you grab the whole six million or whatever there is left now, and take this whole business over? I guess I could still get a job clerking."

"Well, not the whole of it," said Percy, with a curious meditativeness.

Such was the innocence of Mr. Cordwood McGash that he was astonished when the reporters began to drop into town— from Duluth, from St. Paul and Minneapolis, the nearest A. P. and U. P. correspondents and even one roving reporter from Chicago. They found it odd and a little unbelievable that a millionaire should want to take a whole town to Europe, and with pleasant cynicism they wanted to know— not necessarily for publication— just what he was really up to. They found it odder that apparently he really wasn't hunting publicity and that he should be astonished, and considerably pleased, at having his picture in the papers.

They were a cheerful party. Cordwood put them all up at the mansion, and kept a bartender on duty all night, and probably not since the arrival of Wilson in Paris had quite such a flock of adulatory stories burned the wires.

Cordwood was a Modest Man of Millions. A Mystery Millionaire, a Rival to Death Valley Scotty. And after a certain night during which Cordwood had enthusiastically led them in the rendition of "Frankie and Johnny"— standing on the huge limestone mantelpiece, to which willing journalistic hands had helped him— it was also communicated that in his youth he had longed to study music, that he had gone forth into the world only to help his family, all orphans, that in music he was the equal of the late Secretary Woodin, and that his purpose in taking his neighbors to Europe was to enable them to listen to the best music.

That same night the local Jackrabbit reporter asked about Cordwood's willingness to become governor of the state.

Well, that would be all right, thought Cordwood. The Duluth reporter— and quite seriously, because by now Cordwood really had very good Scotch— asked about his going on to the presidency.

No, Cordwood didn't think he was fitted for that. And he understood that in Washington you had to wear a dress suit every evening. Here he tiptoed to the hall door, looked about cautiously, made sure that his secretary was not in sight, motioned the reporters to gather close and croaked. "Gotta dresh shuit. Perce gommedresh shuit. Minn'ap'lus. Don't like it!"

Neither did they, they all assured him. and at last he felt happy again: felt that it was a line thing to have so many millions and so many friends.

Especially was it comforting to have so loyal a supporter as Percy Willoughby. For the actual journey it would be necessary to carry some tens of thousands of dollars in cash. Cordwood had begged Percy to take charge of this. Percy had hesitated— after all, he put it, how could Mr. McGash know that he would not pocket most of it?

When Cordwood had got over being shocked by the hint that a friend of his could do such a thing, Percy reluctantly took the enormous pile of new bills and slipped them into his bureau drawer. But, he insisted, he would give the Chief an accounting of every penny he spent give it to him just as soon as the crusade was over.

Naturally, to the authentic inhabitants of Jackrabbit, Cordwood had added a few dozen old friends from the lumber camps, and all adventurers finally filled the two-section special train for the journey to New York and the R. M. S. Dipsomania. Practically all the three hundred odd people who were left behind, with hundreds of farmers from the neighborhood, jammed the station and all the railroad yards. No departure of a troop train ever saw more weeping, more blanching of cheeks, more piling of suit-cases upon Gladstone bags, nor half so much of screaming, "Oh, I've lost my baby's go-cart" and "That's nothing! We've lost our baby!"

A hundred times a minute, people screamed. "Now be sure and write!" and, "Don't take any wooden money!" and "Bring me back one of them French chorus girls!"

Veteran conductors of the G.N.P.R.R. grew hoarse and helpless as they begged, "All aboard, please! All aboard!"

A strange swarthy man with a peanut roaster did enormous business. For some reason almost every one except Percy Willoughby seemed to feel that peanuts were exactly the thing to ward off the perils of the journey.

On the roof of the station, Colonel Blight suddenly appeared, and in a voice which would have routed a considerable enemy he bellowed. "Come on now, everybody, three cheers and a tiger for good old Cordwood McGash!"

They massed on the platform and beyond.

But through the bee-swarm of hysterical exiles cleaved first a bugle note, then a rank of men in uniforms of plumed brass helmets, red tunics with gilded Sam Brown belts, yellow breeches with green stripes, cavalry boots — the Jackrabbit Creek band and Bugle Corps, playing "Happy Days Are Here Again." They marched gravely the length of the platform, back again, then into the first section of the train. Percy, standing beside Cordwood, protested.

"You're not taking the band along—to Europe?"

"Sure!" beamed Cordwood.

"I didn't— I didn't know—"

"No, it's a little surprise for you and all the folks. I guess the band'll show the folks in New York and Paris— Hope I can fix it so we can have a parade up Fifth Avenue— the whole bunch of us marching behind the band!"

Percy sighed. Then, as his fingers touched a bundle of hundred dollar bills in his pocket, he brightened.

It was Cordwood who was a little sad as the two sections of the train did actually get into motion and he looked at the outskirts of Jackrabbit, at the well-beloved loafing places— the gasoline tanks, the stock pens, the lumber yard, the wholesale grocery warehouse, the beaten earth before tarpaper shacks, where year on year he had squatted in the dust with Old Timers and told tall lies and passed pints of corn from lip to lip. Would he ever see them again? Paris might be prettier, but he bet himself that it wouldn't have any kindlier a glow to it than this rusty-red wheat elevator in the prairie sunshine.

Percy, in a drawing-room decorated with check-books, portable typewriters, and bottles of champagne, was in charge of the second section of the train; Cordwood in charge of the first. And into Cordwood's car he had somewhat guiltily sneaked his best friends and drinking-companions: Emmanuel Ilgenfritz and his family, Oley Tengbom and what Jackrabbit suspected to be somebody else's family; Doc Berklund, Sime Bendelari.

He would have liked the Minervan radiance of Maybelle Benner, but he felt that she would not really understand, in the matter of Scotch.

Cordwood had assigned to himself an upper berth, explaining to Percy that he didn't want any one to feel slighted.

In Drawing Room A, he had put his housekeeper, Sister Tinkerbun, and one of his three "hired girls." All the way to New York there was quivering scandal about this, and the only question was whether Cordwood was criminally carrying on with sister Tinkerbun, who was nine years his senior, or the hired girl, who was twenty-two years his junior. Whichever it might be, the entire caravan felt with a not unpleasing horror that already, with their own host, they were beginning to sniff the wickedness if Paris.

In Drawing Room Β were Sime Bendelari, apothecarian bachelor and man-about-village, and the reporter from Duluth. It seemed that on one particularly white night at the mansion, Cordwood had invited the Duluth reporter to go along. Cordwood didn't remember the invitation, but he had learned many years before that on the morning after, it was better not to inquire too curiously into what he might have said after midnight. Anyway, the Duluth reporter was a lovely fellow, and it was a good thing to have a contact man for the press. He did not know, and he never afterward learned, that the young gentleman from Duluth had been fired by wire, after ignoring four commands from his paper to come home.

This Drawing Room Β was Cordwood's refuge all the way to New York. He was very happy there. He lost $116.50 at poker, and he was often allowed to sing. He was the gladder of the refuge when, within an hour after the train had left Jackrabbit, he learned the real characters of little Irving Berklund, and of Magnolia Ilgenfritz, the hell-child. No one knows the nature of the Little Ones until he has seen them relieving the tedium of a train journey. After he has seen them thus, he realizes that Calvin was absolutely right: that infant damnation is not only just but highly agreeable.

Cordwood had beheld Irving and Magnolia as normal children, who were prettily grateful for bags of candy and who had no disagreeable traits whatever, except perhaps yelping a good deal, throwing stones at windshields, and secreting dead kittens in one's overcoat pockets.

But the magic of travel was upon them now, and it revealed the Little Ones as complete demons. They chased each other through the aisle. They had a game of tag in which the goals were the shrinking knees of the older passengers. Irving brought from the observation car a ponderous brass ash-tray, and with this Magnolia and he played catch, while the adults, their faces furrowed with agony, crouched in their seats, and the cowardly Cordwood. though he admitted that he was responsible for these horrors, fled into Drawing Room Β and demanded a drink.

At St. Paul and Minneapolis, there were hundreds of spectators, with reporters ranging from the financial editors, who desired to know Cordwood's views on the Latvian bond situation, to the religious editors, who demanded of the frightened Rev. Mr. Mitch whether it was true that he was going to hold services in Notre Dame de Paris.

But it was in Chicago that Cordwood really got into the news. The trains were met by eighteen reporters, nineteen press-camera and movie-camera and sound-picture men, and more than a thousand laymen. Percy had, at Cordwood's insistence, rather sulkily telegraphed ahead to get police permission for a parade up State Street, during the six hours when the Jackrabbitites were to study the economics, ethnology, art treasures, and bars of Chicago.

Gleefully the drum major whirled and caught his stick, at the head of the procession. Gleefully the troubadours of Jackrabbit whammed the drum and tootled the fife and blared on the cornet, as they crashed into such novelties as "The Washington Post" and "There'll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight."

Gleefully Cordwood and a hundred other male stalwarts trudged at the rear, waving large pennants painted with pink wild roses and the valiant words. "Jackrabbit Creek. Biggest Small Town in U. S. A."

And gleefully the simple citizenry of Chicago received them.

The Chicagoans filled the sidewalks, snickering. Small boys by the hundred stalked beside the parade or followed it, imitating the marchers. Press photographers snapped it at each corner. And. starting nowhere in particular, rising along each block, increasing to a thunder-storm, rose the derisive cheer. "Hurray for the Jackrabbits!"

Cordwood was enchanted— for three blocks. He wished that his friend Percy had not, poor fellow, had to remain at the train; that Percy might have seen this rare, lovely tribute to true American democracy.

He began then to wonder if the small boys marching beside them weren't, as they stuck out their little bellies and arched their arms and waggled their heads, just a little making mock of the procession.

A quick, nauseating suspicion swamped him. He stared, then he glared at the crowds on the sidewalk.

"My God, they're not cheering us— they're kidding us! They think we're goats!" he trembled.

All the dreadful twenty blocks up State Street and back to the station, he marched sturdily, shoulders back, not once looking at the jeerers. But at the station he called the bandleader to him and said softly, "Pete, I'm sorrier 'n the dickens, but these big-town hellions think we're just hicks. They think we're funny. We won't have no more parades, nowhere, and no more band music. You boys just put up your instruments and enjoy yourselves, rest of the trip."

Pete Klopot— by vocation a paperhanger but spiritually a brother of Mozart— snapped, "Hey? What's that? You mean we ain't to march up Fifth Avenue, like you promised, and not in Paris, France?"

"Nope. No can do." Cordwood's lips were unwontedly thinned. "Then by God — you've cheated us! You'll pay our fares back to Jackrabbit, and you'll pay for our time—"

"I certainly will! Here, you, Red Cap. Bring me Mr. Percy Willoughby from section two of my train, with his check book."

Pete Klopot capitulated with speed. He consented to go take a look at Paris, and so did the rest of the band. But it was altogether a sad business. Throughout the journey, from hotel rooms and from behind lifeboats late at night, on deck, you could hear the wailing of the unwanted zylophone and the moaning of unappreciated drums.

iii

CORDWOOD was so embarrassed, so hurt by the guffaws of Chicago at his brave pilgrimage, that on the way to New York, he deserted the manly joys of Drawing Room Β for whole moments at a time, and sat in the next car with Maybelle Benner, sagely collaborating with her in a deep study of Ohio and Upper New York State.

They noticed and recorded that there were many factories along the way. They agreed that the apple trees were apple trees and that many of the denizens of Jackrabbit would not have known that the apple trees were apple trees but as to themselves, coming as they did from Vermont and Connecticut, they could tell at the briefest glance that apple trees, at least in season, bore apples. And together, fellow highbrows, they persuaded the others to turn the radio— Cordwood had had one installed in each car — from Hot Cha Cha to Walter Damrosch. Cordwood noticed that Maybelle had so china-smooth a complexion that it made his own cheeks feel like a heap of sawdust. He felt exhilarated when Maybelle breathed, "I didn't know you had such a taste for classical music, Mr. McGash."

He was even fortified to face the reporters and cameras in New York. For several minutes, on the June day of their metropolitan arrival, there was no other news.

No one had been purging any European country.

Douglas and America's sweetheart were neither being reconciled nor disreconciled.

The N.R.A. was neither very Bolshevik nor taken over by Morgan.

Anthony Adverse had slackened to a sale of less than ten thousand a day.

The baseball teams were plain ornery.

But the press associations had sent on sufficiently colored pictures of Cordwood and his private circus in Chicago to make him news, and he was going to be news, whether he liked it or not. He was ringed with reporters who, with the silky reverence which has led many a more sophisticated man into the folly of saying something he really thought, besought him to enlighten them about the drought, Gertrude Stein, rainbow trout, the future of China, and whether, when he got there, he would let Paris go on acting that way, or take it over and run it like Jackrabbit Creek.

So it came to pass that, when he had seen merely the headlines in the evening paper, Cordwood fled to the R.M.S. Dipsomania, and hid there, though they were not to sail for three more days.

He was so irritated that he hoofed the absent banker Scallion out of the Royal Suite, and irascibly took it for himself. Percy and he had admitted that in New York they would have to do some fancy planning to content every one with their accommodations on the Dipsomania, since for over nine hundred pilgrims, there were only seven hundred and eighty first-class beds, and some hundred and twenty-one would have to be content with tourist-third. (That was according to official figures, though actually, before they left New York, the number was lessened by eleven, who went to Harlem and were not found till three days after the sailing. )

Cordwood had modestly planned to be one of the third-class, along with the young people, but now he irritably tore the Scallion card from the dainty violet door of the Royal Suite, put his own card up, entered, threw his hat on the grand piano and his shoes on a Neo-Gothic desk, and rang for a drink. He had settled into calmness the next evening and was sitting on the boat deck watching the skyscrapers against an applegreen sky, feeling that perhaps, after all, he really would enjoy Paris, when Maybelle Benner came up to him, her heels a pleasant tapping on the deck boards, drew over a deck chair, patted his hand, and intelligently said, "There! I know!"

"But," snarled Cordwood, "they made me say I was going to rent some dog-gone street they call the Champs Élysées"— he made it rhyme with damps pleases, "and grow potatoes on it. Those newspapers! And they made me ask whether Napoleon was a fruit or a drink. And one of 'em had a phony photograph of me— my head pasted onto a fake business, so it looked like I was riding in a chariot at the head of the band!"

"I know, Mr. McGash. but now it's all forgotten. New York wouldn't remember it for more than two days if Bishop Cannon were arrested for bootlegging—"

"Has he been? Hurray!"

"No, no, no! I just mean that as an example."

"How'd you find me, Maybelle? Good of you to take the trouble."

"I made Mr. Willoughby tell me Cordwood."

"How? That's a tight-mouthed lad—"

"Oh, I just told him I'd go to the newspapers and say he'd been arrested for embezzling the funds of the tour."

"He hasn't been, has he?" sighed Cordwood.

"No, not yet," sighed Maybelle.

Like Mr. Swinburne, then, they were full of the sunset and sad, if at all, with the fullness of joy. Cordwood dared to touch the fleecy end of her scarf, but she did not know it. He sighed. She sighed. They sighed together— then sat up and giggled.

"Listen to us two old things getting homesick. My! I know we'll love Paris, but what do you bet we're just as pleased as can be when we get back to Jackrabbit! My! that's a sweet town! Do you remember how nice the box-elders are in the courthouse square?" "And I haven't seen one show-window slicker or tastier dressed than Cohen & Cabot's!" "And the creek isn't awfully big but my, such big cottonwood trees."

And she sighed, and he. Then, briskly.

"Mr. McGash— Cordwood— I do think you ought to seize your opportunities and all, and I'm hungry, and what say we slip off somewhere ashore and have dinner?"

"An elegant idea, Maybelle."

They inquired of a taxi-driver as to a really good place to dine. He looked at them sharply, and decided on a chop-suey joint. Cordwood handed him five dollars and, with an appearance of shocked awe, the taxi-driver instantly took them to Park Avenue.

Cordwood was, as Maybelle flouncingly was not, rather awed by the quantities of chromium and murals by Mexican communists in the place, but the head-waiter, who had once been a poor boy himself, was so sympathetic and kind that almost without a struggle Cordwood was able to make a sensible and satisfying and wholesome twenty-five dollar order, ending with strawberries from Labrador.

For any good restaurant can have strawberries out of season, say in January, but this establishment, the Chameau d'Or, had devised a ravishing new feature— it imported viands from places where it was almost impossible to grow them: Southdown mutton from vacant lots in the Bronx, salmon from the Amazon, and moosemeat from Kansas. The wine-waiter handed Cordwood the vast sacred volume.

"Just a minute. I'll look it over," fretted Cordwood. "Look," he pleaded with Maybelle. "I know you never drink a drop, but it's our one night in New York—"

"I have drank a half-bottle of claret every night since the day Prohibition began— and ended. Friends sent it to me from California, in candied-fruit boxes. The fact that I don't care for gasoline and ginger ale or for your friend, Mr. Bat Badger, does not keep me from following the example of most of the saints," said Maybelle, with complete calmness.

Cordwood was too dazed to speak. There was something he ought to say, something that you always said at crises when you were traveling, but he couldn't in this dizzy moment of revelation remember whether it was, "Well, well, it's a pretty small world after all," or, "Travel certainly does broaden a fellow."

"There's Chambertin. I've heard that's quite a nice wine," suggested Maybelle.

Since to him it tasted rather sour and without any authority in it, Cordwood wasn't sure whether it was really quite a nice wine or not— till he saw how much it cost.

Meantime he had been confiding to Maybelle that, as a child in Vermont, he had wanted to be president and to reform politics, and that he had thought vigorously about being a poet. None of this was true, but after beginning the second bottle of Chambertin, he believed that it was, and he noted that Maybelle listened to the pathetic tale of what a misunderstood boy he had been, with notably more interest in the subject than Oley Tengbom had ever shown.

"My!" she said, frequently and eloquently.

He was in disgrace only once— when he said that the artichokes tasted like solidified whisk-brooms.

In the Royal Suite of the Dipsomania that night. Cordwood reflected, "Golly, Maybelle's the finest lady I ever met. So cultured and everything. And elegant ankles. But I'd never dare even shake hands with her. Golly, how she'd bawl me out if I ever dared stroke her shoulder."

Oh, Sylvester! The pilgrims had lived in scattered houses in Jackrabbit; they had been together for but two days on the train. It was only when they were inescapably at sea that they had a chance to examine and hate one another.

They divided swiftly and sharply into four groups: they who were not going to let anything interfere with drinking and quartettes; they who had read a book but still liked a drink; they who were so determined to hogtie Culture and bring it back that they frowned on all dissipation; they who liked neither Culture nor Booze nor anything else in particular and who seemed to have come along only for the pleasure of concentrated disapproval of everything.

And none in any of these four could endure the others.

Grievously enough, husbands and wives frequently were divided as to groups, and few spectacles in history have been so savagely dramatic as the sight of eleven members of the W.C.T.U. looking down from the promenade deck at their husbands boisterously shooting craps on a forward hatchway, while relays of stewards galloped up with clinking trays... and then, most anti-social of all, the stewards laid down the trays and joined the game!

Cordwood and Percy grew gray as they panted about the boat trying to make everybody love everybody else. In Jackrabbit, variations of wealth had not been so irritatingly evident. But jammed together on shipboard, the women without a single evening frock hated and gabbled about the women with one evening frock, and the women with one evening frock abominated and rebuked the women with a whole wardrobe; and as to Mrs. Scallion, who had a diamond bracelet and let you know it, the entire feminine party became violently socialistic.

They were jealous of people who had better staterooms, and people who had the handsomest stewards, and people who had got ahead of them in drawing the best detective stories out of the library.

In fact, the whole joyous journey to enchantment was just one orgy of sitting and hating. They had all forgotten that on the train Cordwood had taken an upper berth, and now they were very bitter about his occupancy of the Royal Suite.

"Well! I do think he might have made some effort to look after his guests before he took care of his own selfish desires," said lady to lovely lady.

What made it worse was that the selfish millionaire and— could you beat it!— his housekeeper, Sister Tinkerbun, and that stuck-up New England school-teacher, Maybelle Benner, all sat at the captain's table, had exclusive access to the conversation of that stalwart and romantic four-striper.

Like most first voyagers, they believed that there was something especially exhilarating about all stories told by sea-captains, and the entire nine hundred of them felt that if there were any justice in the world, they would be sitting beside the skipper. They glared upon his table and gloomily imagined that they were missing a hair-curling tale of shipwreck, at the very least, when actually the good captain was saying:

"I'll tell you, as I look at it, and after a good many years of experience, bicarbonate of soda is about the best remedy there is for gas on the stomach."

Cordwood himself had been mildly surprised and pleased at being invited to the captain's table. It did not occur to him that he had any superior rights on the boat. And when he was furthermore invited to a cocktail party in the captain's cabin, when he learned that J. Pierpont Morgan, and John D. Rockefeller, Jr., and Edsel Ford and even Gene Tunney had sat right there in that same chair, Cordwood wiggled with the embarrassment of being honored beyond his merit.

The captain's cabin was a refuge to him from the rest of the boat, where he could not go ten feet without one of his guest's seizing his sleeve to complain— to complain about the food, the fog, Mrs. Benner's eastern accent, smoking in the dining-salon, poker in Mr. Cabot's cabin, kissing on the boat deck, and the Polish question.

He had entirely given up walking on the promenade deck since Magnolia Ilgenfritz and Irving Berklund had recruited all the children aboard into a gang who happily, all day long, hurled shuffle-board discs at one another, and turned on the fire-hoses, and tried to crawl into ventilators.

When Cordwood wasn't escaping the children, he was escaping either infuriated guests, who wanted him to throw the children overboard, or the children's parents, who sniffed that apparently there were some people who were just so cranky and so selfish that they didn't want the kiddies to have any fun at all.

Percy and he kept on desperately getting up entertainments— horse races, swimming pool cocktail parties, movies, concerts, and always dances, which to Cordwood were the major catastrophes of the trip, because his poor old feet did hurt so in his dancing slippers, and because he was expected to dance with every woman over and above twelve years of age and, as there were over two hundred of them aboard and his capacity was about three dances an evening, he was always quailing before the brightly smiling rebuke of some almost unknown female who shook a coy finger at him and gurgled. "Well! Of course you wouldn't ask poor me to dance!"

"Sometimes I almost wish I hadn't never got up this trip," reflected Cordwood. "Maybe it'd of been more fun to collect stamps."

It was fortunate that they were met at Cherbourg by practically the entire French staffs of the American Express Company and Thomas Cook & Sons— as Cordwood understood it, indeed one of the fabulous sons himself was there, surrounded by his staff and gazing at the battlefield through quite a long telescope.

For warlike was the scene, and heart-rending. Their baggage was heaped on the low counters of the customs house like the piled dead on a battlefield. Aged females, never hitherto outside America, were shrieking at the cynicism with which black-bearded douaniers held up their respectable woollen union suits. Sporty youths were arguing that half a dozen cartons of cigarettes didn't mean a thing, not between friendly nations. Portly merchants, who not an hour before had been jeering, "No dog-gone foreigner can faze John R. Stipple!" were now bounding through the customs house wailing, "My God! I can't find the black suit case! And it's got my razor and my Sunday pants in it!"

And the facteurs stood stolidly with their several piles of luggage. They knew.

By and by these howling barbarians, who for reasons perfectly incomprehensible and probably improper had come clear across the ocean, would find their bags and get on the train and blessedly get the hell out of there and leave the place to quiet. They did and, with the sound of a man who has just escaped being run over, Cordwood looked out of his train window, and was considerably amazed to find that most of France consisted of fields and trees and roads, all in colors that would have been considered quite normal even in Jackrabbit Creek.

There was less confusion in Paris than might have been expected. Percy and the express company and the son had engaged a fleet of buses; whole floors had been taken in three hotels within one block on the Rue Saint Honoré; and aside from the loss of Magnolia Ugenfritz, who was later found playing steamship with the children of the Portuguese consul, in the Parc Monceau, the disconsolate culture-hunters were safely housed.

In one of the hotels Percy established an office, staffed from an American tourist agency, to arrange for the party whatever diversion they might prefer— buses to Fontainebleau, guides to the Night Life of Montmartre, lists of the best onion soups at Les Halles, addresses of dressmakers guaranteed to furnish Augustabernard fashions at S. Klein prices.

So Cordwood sighed and at last prepared to be happy.

And at that moment Mrs. Berklund nipped at him, in the manner of a dog snapping up a fly, and demanded. "I hate to bother you, but they just won't give the slightest bit of help in the tourist office, and I must find out the address of my second cousin that's studying art, or maybe it's music, here in Paris, from Iowa, Mary Daedal Smith her name is—"

Then Cordwood blew up. "Listen! I've brought you all here. I've arranged for autos to take you anywhere you want to go. I've had a Baedeker Guide and a Gideon Bible and the latest number of "Screen Scrapings" put in every single dern bedroom. And now I quit being nurse maid. I'm going to enjoy myself a little, now!"

Mrs. Berklund gasped. She panted, "I have never been so insulted in all my— when I just asked a civil question!"

She marched away. And Cordwood, intending to dash after her and apologize, heard a gentle snicker behind him, and turned to view Maybelle Benner.

"I don't know what came over me! I've never talked to nobody like that before!" he lamented.

"I thought you were very sound on the subject. I've been waiting to see when you'd show maybe about half as much sense as it takes to mow a lawn." said Maybelle. "Come to the Louvre with me — just the two of us — tomorrow morning."

"I don't know what a Louvre is—it sounds like some kind of a cat-disease— our Twinkie has got the loove— but whatever it is, I'll go."

"Do you happen to know that Mr. Willoughby is getting a commission on all the rooms here?"

"Rats! Don't believe a word uh— what makes you think so?"

"I heard him talking to the manager—"

"You mean to say, Maybelle, that you've been sneaking and snooping and following after that poor young fella?"

"Certainly not. I didn't follow him one bit. I just sort of made it my business to be around where he was."

"Oh. Well. Thunder. I don't suppose he'll graft more 'n a few hundred. He deserves it. 'T'adn't been for him, I'd be dead by now."

"Very well. Here in the lobby, ten-thirty tomorrow morning."

"Betcha. And then again, it kind of sounds like a musical instrument he played 'Old Black Joe' on his loove."

His first evening in Paris Cordwood spent with Lester Doggins, whom he had sent there to study the violin. Cordwood had been embarrassed by the fear that Les would show up in a black beard and a wine-colored velvet jacket which he had learned from a veracious movie was the required uniform of all artists in Paris.

He was relieved to see that Les was smooth-shaven, wearing the same gray suit in which he had left Jackrabbit, and whooping with unrefined Jackrabbitan heartiness; relieved equally when Les— frequently emitting, "Well, by jiminy! it's grand to see you again!" led him not to a questionable den of art and the vices but to a sound, wholesome American saloon, called "Eddie's Chicago Bar."

It was filled with American agents for sewing machines, automobiles, and machine guns; it was adorned with rye highballs, portraits of Coolidge and Harding, genuine hot dogs, college youths on vacation, cigarette advertisements, and all the other native American works of art for which Cordwood was already homesick. He sighed with happiness, and joined Les in an old-fashioned.

" Where'll we go to dinner?" hinted Les.

"You name it. Take you to the best joint in this man's town." Les sighed with happiness and joined him in a second old-fashioned. This was at 6:30 p.m. At 7:30 Cordwood delicately noted that Les looked rather shabby. Les wept and said, yes, he had worked like a dog, he had saved every nickle he could, but what with the enormous cost of music lessons and resin— At 8:30 Cordwood also wept, and pressed— after some difficulty in writing it— a check for a thousand dollars into Les's hand.

Les said he was unworthy of it, but he would try to show his appreciation by becoming one of the best dog-gone radio fiddlers in America and then, rather quickly drying his tears, suggested, "Hadn't we better go feed now?"

"You bet. But let's have an old-fashioned first."

At 9:30 things seemed to Cordwood a little confused. He would have sworn that a newspaper correspondent, a canned-corn beef salesman, and two congressmen who were successfully investigating the Evils of Drink in Europe had been at the table with them, but they seemed, though he looked all over for them, to have gone away.

At 4:30 a.m. he awoke, abed in his room at the hotel, completely undressed except perhaps for his hat and shoes and socks. He stared around the room. There was, apparently, no Les, no newspaperman, no canned-beef salesman, not even a congressman in sight, nor anything reminiscent of a party except a large wrapping-paper sign on which was written, apparently with lipstick.

"Thanks for the Shetland pony— Les and Lily."

Never in his life to the present date— March 10, 1935— has Cordwood learned anything more about Lily or the Shetland pony.

By a judicious regimen of bromides, ice water— the one English phrase which the night floor-waiter completely understood— and walking two hours before breakfast, Cordwood was in reasonably good shape when Maybelle joined him, for what he now realized would be a nerve-wrenching attack on the Louvre.

She led him rapidly past a bewildering World's Fair of sculpture, of mosaics, of enamels, to the Grande Galerie, and he flinched as he guessed that he was expected to enjoy the paintings of Carpaccio, Bugiardini, Mantegna, Cosimo.

He peered at them cautiously. Nobody was going to catch him saying the wrong thing.

Then he was shocked.

He actually liked them! They weren't as slick as magazine covers maybe or as the silken ankles which, for unknown reasons, advertise motor-car bodies, but they were— oh— homelike, these kind-faced madonnas and saints in gold and scarlet robes— just such old boys, really, as he had known and yarned with in lumbercamps and workshops and farmhouses.

He had a second's dreadful suspicion. Maybe, since he actually liked them, they weren't the real goods, and Maybelle had led him in here as a practical joke, so that he'd show his ignorance. But no, she too— he cautiously sneaked in a look over his shoulder— seemed to appreciate 'em. Gosh! Suppose he, Cordwood McGash of Jackrabbit Creek, really was all okay on this good taste and highbrow stuff. Wouldn't that knock Perce's eye out. if he ever learned it! Wouldn't Reverend Mitch have a fit if that happened to be true. Gee!

In half an hour Maybelle said, as though she were forgiving him for something, "Well, shall we go on to another room?"

"Heh? Oh. Oh, no. let's see some more of these."

And it was she, not Cordwood, who finally shifted tired feet and rubbed smarting eyes, and squeaked in a small exhausted voice. "Let's go now and come back another day. I do love these Old Masters— well, I guess I do— but an hour and a half, that's all I can stand at a time."

"Heh? Oh— oh, all right. Let's come back this afternoon."

He could not understand it but it seemed to him that Maybelle Benner was looking at him with an admiration she had never exhibited before. In the Tuileries he hesitated, "Lookit— uh— we may never be in Paris again and— uh— take a chance for once and come sit with me at one of these sidewalk cafés. You know. Interesting to watch the crowds and—"

"Well, uh," she said intelligently. She seemed to like the small marble topped tables, the blue siphons, the early July sun through the striped yellow awnings. She sighed, not unhappily, and she almost made Cordwood blush by boldly taking off her eye-glasses, when suddenly her naked eyes seemed quite human. To the waiter she murmured, "Coffee." Cordwood ventured, "Say I'd kind of — got a little indigestion this morning and —" "Oh, have your brandy and soda." She sounded a little weary. "You'll have it sooner or later, anyway, so you might as well indulge your carnal tastes openly." "You bet your life I'm going to indulge my carnal tastes! Waiter!" "Yessir." "Brandy and soda, and make it carnal!"

"Yessir, carnal brandy soda — three star carnal, sir?"

"Cordwood!"

"Yessum."

"You would be an atrocious person to try to handle. You'd be so meek and so conscious of your general plumb low-down worthlessness nine-tenths of the time, and then just when some one had your feet all nicely planted on the straight and narrow, you'd jump off it and go scooting off through the sagebrush, snickering. I don't know what I'm going to do with you!"

He could hear it— no doubt about it, no illusion at all— he could hear his own voice saying, with a ghastly hollow mirth, "Well, you might marry me."

But he didn't quite say it, though he knew that he was probably doing a dirty trick in failing to do what was so clearly expected. He choked it down. He stopped his mouth with revivifying brandy and soda and when he had done coughing, he said hastily:

"Didn't know if I'd like those old pictures or not but, by golly, they're kind of interesting. Don't suppose the French Government would sell some of 'em, do you? Be nice to take 'em back to Jackrabbit. That would cer'nly make Blizzard Junction jealous!"

"Yes, I should think they'd be about as willing to sell them as to sell Napoleon's tomb."

"Oh, now, rats. Maybelle, you're kidding me. They'd never sell Napoleon's tomb. Or would they? That would be something to have in Jackrabbit!" As they trudged back to the hotel, he felt that the trusting companionship in which they had sat down at the café had somehow been frosted over.

iv

THE SECOND time that Les Doggins took him out, he almost fulfilled Cordwood's first panic fears about artiness. Les had not, in two days, grown a spade beard, but he had put his Jackrabbit Creek suit back into the mothballs— Cordwood felt suspicious about that, somehow and he appeared in a ballooning belted suit of corduroys, a blue flannel shirt with an orange tie of crinkly raw silk, and a vast and flapping black hat. And he took Cordwood not to a dependable place like Eddie's Bar, where you could meet catsup-salesmen and congressmen, but to a dismal stone floored cellar on the Left Bank.

"Now I'll show you a real, genuine French place, tonight, and if Madame Mogador likes you. you'll be right in with the real inner set. And incidentally, what food! Ah!" Les kissed his finger tips.

Cordwood restrained himself from homicide, not yet having looked up in Baedeker the French laws on the subject. Madame Mogador s establishment was indeed French, except for perhaps one hundred per cent of its patrons. It had a magpie in a cage, menus written in what looked like indelible pencil that had been exposed to the rain, damp napkins, and a poster of the P.L.M. railway, advocating a journey to Roman ruins which pleasingly resembled a partly consumed cheese.

Madame Mogador herself had a wig and she had not shaved that morning. She sat at a cashier's desk that was reminiscent of a pulpit and she nodded, but coldly, to Les Doggin's perfervid "B'soir, M'dame."

"We're great friends, the Madame and me. I tell you, Cordwood, there's folks from the Right Bank, dukes and cabinet ministers and American bankers and everybody, that've been coming here for years, trying to get chummy with her. but she don't care who you are— she's just as likely to take in some little painter you never heard of as she is the Prince of Wales," said Les.

"I see." Cordwood did not sound his usual sunny, May morning, wildrose self. "I've heard about folks like her. I heard in New York that if you can get one of these fancy Wop hair-dressers to okay you, that just fixes you up socially for life. Wouldn't it be hell— wouldn't it just about ruin my sojourn in Paris, if the Madame didn't like me! Say! I know now— she looks like the cook I had once on my ranch."

"Who was she?''

"She? Hell! He was a he. But he didn't have as good a moustache as the Madame. Well say, my boy, d' you think your influence with the Madame is strong enough to get that waiter to quit picking his teeth and come take an order?"

But, Cordwood admitted, the minestrone Mogador was really good— as good as any canned soup he had ever opened. They wound up at the Écrevisse Internationale, where exiled white Russians sang negro spirituals, and Alabama negroes sang Cossack folk-songs, very depressing and beautiful, and Les Doggins who, for a Jackrabbit Creek boy, seemed to know a lot of Parisian girls, brought any number of monkey-chattering young females to the table and signified that they were broad-minded and would be willing to have Cordwood buy for them, if he was nice about it.

But Cordwood himself, since he was again going to the Louvre with Maybelle next morning, stuck to Italian vermouth. He went home at eleven.

It was on the next night, after he had gone to a motion-picture (American) with the Tengboms and Mrs. Tinkerbun, when he was respectably retiring at midnight, that Les clamored at his bedroom door, leapt in, bolted the door, and gasped, "My God, you've got to hide me!"

In slippers, cotton undershirt, and trousers with suspenders wreathed about his middle, Cordwood was in no costume nor mood to play melodrama with this Bohemian figure with blue shirt, orange tie, desperately waving hat, and disordered hair. He growled, "What the—"

"I've killed a man!"

"Whaaaaat!"

"Just now! I was crossing the Luxembourg Gardens when a man came up to me, a perfect stranger, he was an Italian count, and he said —"

"How juh know he was an Italian count?"

"Oh, how? Oh, I knew. He was drunk."

"This count, or you?"

"He was. I was perfectly sober."

"You're not now."

"I know it. I had a drink. Would you stay sober if you'd just killed a man?"

"Not if he was an Italian count, I wouldn't I'd be drinking myself. But there, boy. I'll watch out for you. What really happened?"

"He come up— came up to me, and he said, 'All Americans are sons of inferior animals—' "

("Not all," muttered Cordwood, thinking of his caravan, but it was not loud enough to interrupt Les's agony.)

"—and I said to him, 'You take that back,' and he sneered at me, and I hit him, and he fell and cracked his skull open on a bench— oh, will I ever forget that sight?— and I sneaked away, and you've got to hide me from the police!"

Sobbing, Les fell upon the bed, and slipped instantly into a happy dreamless sleep, smiling with such sweet boyishness that his mother would have remembered his babyhood and crooned above his slumbers.

Cordwood remembered nothing of the kind. He remembered only the time when Les had with scholarly patience punched holes in a dozen costly muskmellons in Cordwood's general store, and poured kerosene into them. Still and all, the chump had obviously done something careless.

Not that it seemed to the Cordwood who had lived in gold-rush camps and oil boom-towns important to have killed a count, especially a count who didn't owe you any recoverable money, but Europeans were, he reflected, pernickety about things like that. So he turned in, most uncomfortably, on the settee in his salon, and slid off it all night long.

Les was gone in the morning, and when Cordwood got him on the telephone at the Café Pourquoi— Les had explained that he used the café merely as a handy address, as there was no telephone at his violin instructor's— Les grumbled rather sourly, "Heard nothing about it. Guess it'll be all right."

Cordwood had reason to think of Les that evening, for he had invited the young genius to a dinner which he was giving at the Hotel Splendide et de la Sibérie, the entire nine hundred pilgrims; he had assumed that Les would spring with joy at seeing all his old neighbors. But Les did not spring to the extent of showing up at the dinner.

The affair proceeded magnificently through green turtle soup, with sherry and invocation by the Reverend Mr. Mitch, sole Marguéry, with Brauneberger Hasenlaufer and thanks to our host by Mr. Scallion, caneton pressé, with Moulin à Vent and apt remarks, also humor, by Professor Thrig of the Jackrabbit schools, through roast and salad and sweet.

At eleven-thirty it was really getting down to the speeches, with a patriotic address by Judge Stubber, to the effect that however wicked Paris might be, we in America could be proud of the tact that New York and Chicago were just as wicked any day or night, when the assistant manager wriggled up to Cord wood and whispered, "Surr, there is a man outside, he says he is a friend of you, he must see you— a Monsieur Doughgins."

"——" stated Cordwood, but he went.

Les Doggins was crouched on the edge of a chair in the anteroom, still in the blue shirt and orange tie, and with a really promising sign of the black beard. He sprang up. He hissed— no matter if there weren't any s's in the words, he contrived to hiss them just the same:

"You've got to help me. You've got to hide me from the police. I've killed a man— an Italian count. I fought a duel with him—"

"In the Luxembourg Gardens?"

"How did you know? Have the police been here—"

"Les! Do you know what's the trouble with you? Somebody's bought you some liquor."

Wearily then, to the assistant manager:

"Take this man up to a bedroom. Remove anything that's easily busted. Leave a pitcher of ice water and some aspirin— yes, and I think a good hymn book, if you've got one handy and then lock him up. and don't let him out till eight tomorrow morning, and send me the bill."

And the next night, precisely at midnight again, when Cordwood was going to bed happy in the thought that his bedroom and salon doors were bolted and safe against all Les Dogginses whatever, he was terrified at seeing a ghost on the ledge outside his window, and to have Les part the drapes and tumble in, mumbling.

"Gotta hide me from the police. I just killed—"

"An Italian count in Luxembourg Gardens?" With hurt dignity, with wide and senatorial gestures, Les remonstrated, "It was not! It was a Spanish duke. In Blizzard Junction. Killed urn. Duel!"

Cordwood, as he unlocked the door, was brief.

"Doggins, who's your music teacher?"

Les smiled cunningly. "You can't fool me. I haven't got any! I'm studying to be a sculptor now!"

"When d' you quit the violin?"

"Months ago. Aley-aley, aleeeee-hoooooi Old Cordwood, the pore ole soak. Come have a drink!"

"Doggins, I've got a nice secretary. Percy Willoughby is his name. Tomorrow morning, just before you kill your first count. Percy will call on you with your ticket to America— third-class— and help you pack and take you to the boat train."

"And supposin' I won't go, you old doublefaced, lumber stealin', claim-jumpin' pirate? What'll happen then? Aley-aley-hoooooo!"

"Oh, nothing. You'll just starve here in Paris, after my thousand is gone. Your allowance stopped promptly at midnight, tonight. But I might have Perce find out how many creditors you have, and tip 'em off that you're in funds just now."

Then for once, perhaps for the first time in his life, Les Doggins ceased looking calf-like and, much fortified within, became ferocious. He picked up a chair; he swung it aloft, shrieking,

"All right! Good! I don't want your dirty money, that you stole. But meanwhile. I'm going to have a little fun with you!"

It did not occur to Cordwood to be afraid of this drunk, thirty years his junior. He had known when lumberjacks had given up stamping the faces of their opponents with spiked hoots, as being too effeminate a gesture, and had taken to gouging out eyes. He moved catwise. But he didn't like it. The furniture would get a good deal broken up and that wasn't really nice. The hotel manager might not care for it.

He reached behind him for a heavy pottery bowl on a console. Les screamed in pure imbecile rage and came on, swinging the chair.

The door opened and Maybelle Benner, in a quilted lavender dressing-gown and an awful black rubber cap on her nose, marched in, took one look, and snapped,

"Lester O'Ginnis Doggins! You put that chair down, right away!"

Les drooped; the chair drooped; Les turned humbly toward Mrs. Benner.

"To think I taught you for two years in Sunday School— and a nasty little boy you were, too. and you always gambled your penny away, instead of putting it in the collection. And to this day you don't know your Golden Texts! Hey? What book of the Bible does 'Hadad died also. And the dukes of Edom were: duke Timnah, duke Aliah, duke Jetheth,' come from? Hey?"

"I forget," whimpered Lee.

"You would! And I still owe you one for putting turpentine in my kitten's milk, and I have half a mind to warm your jacket right here and now but— you get out of here, quick, and don't you dare come back!"

"Yessum," moaned Les Doggins, and fled, never again to adorn these pages.

As Cordwood was about to take the most daring chance of his life and embrace Maybelle, dressing-gown and nose-mask and all, they realized that Les had left the door open and that gathered outside were a score of the weightiest citizens of Jackrabbit Creek. The choir-soprano voice of Mrs. Mitch lilted, "And him in his shirt-sleeves, too! No wonder Mr. Doggins couldn't stand such goin's-on— sensitive poet-soul like him!"

The nine-hundred-odd pilgrims had worked faithfully at enjoying themselves, but they hadn't been successful. They had done their duty by all of the thirty-seven churches worth seeing. They had faithfully chipped pieces of stone out of the palace at Fontainebleau to take home as souvenirs. They had eaten snails and Breton tripe when they wanted buckwheats and hash. And now they were forlorn and given to audible wonder as to why the dickens anybody who had a nice home with his own pet rocking chair would ever leave it. The scandal of discovering Cordwood and Mrs. Benner in such intimacy brought their rebellion to the barricades.

Mr. Mitch and Mr. Scallion and Mrs. Berklund assembled some eighty of the really significant pilgrims in secret conclave in the dining-room of the Hotel Minauderie. Few meetings since the granting of the Magna Carta have been more filled with indignation and whereases. Mr. Scallion, as chairman, was in magnificent form. He was as gentle as though he were back home, refusing a loan on a quarter-section. He had a voice, did Mr. Scallion. It rang like the ice beneath December skates upon Jackrabbit Slew, it moaned like the wind in the cot ton woods, it blared like the Jackrabbit Band, as he read the demands of the steering committee:

"Whereas we, the undersigned, had not got any desire to come to Europe till we were so invited to do so by Mr. S. G. McGash, Esq., and whereas said McGash, unmindful of his duties as an American citizen and paying no attention to the rest of us, has been bumming around Paris all the time with Mrs. Maybelle Benner and we all wish to go on record right here and now as being opposed to her being reappointed to her job as principal of the Junior High—

"Therefore we demand of the said Mr McGash, Esq., that he not keep us penned and imprisoned here in Paris but since it was his idea in the first place anyway that we should go abroad and he talked a lot about us enjoying ourselves like we liked, that he accede to our demands as follows, viz:

"Mr. Scallion to go to England and to be provided with letters to American ambassador and to Governor of Bank of England, with several Lords, etc.. to study financial conditions. etc.. etc., also suite in high-class hotel. With Mrs. Scallion and Mervyn.

"Rev. and Mrs. Mitch and family to investigate missions in Turkey, India, China, Japan.

"Mr. Cohen and Mr. Cabot to investigate questionable morale in Monte Carlo.

"Dr. Berklund to take two-year course in surgery, psychoanalysis, German skiing in Vienna — P.S. he is willing to pay fifty dollars ($50.00) per month toward salary of substitute doc to hold his practise during said period, rest of salary to be met by said McGash.

"Miss Benicia Axelbrod is willing to remain in Paris, to study as beautician, but requires flat, hired girl, and letters of introduction, otherwise willing to get along on two hundred fifty ($250.00) a month during said term of study."

There were only seventy-four other demands, because one of the council, Mrs. Pandora Gittle, wailed, "All I want to do is to go home to Jackrabbit — quick. I just know I left the light on in the cellar!"

They appointed a delegation of three to call on Cordwood and quietly make him see the light, but just as the meeting was adjourning, Cordwood walked in on it, swiftly, followed by Percy Willoughby. He knew all about it Sister Tinkerbun had been listening to the whole affair from the service door of the dining-room and she had run sputtering to Cordwood.

Cordwood banged a table with a noise surprising from so small a hand, and announced, "I hear you folks have decided to go off on your own. Fine! I'd planned to take you to London and Italy and a lot of places. But as you've all took over charge of this circus, I won't have to bother. By tomorrow noon, your steamer tickets will all be ready— call at my travel office for them.

"We sail on the Dolorous day after tomorrow. She's a one-class ship, and we won't be able to give single gents and ladies no cabins to themselves. also by golly, you buy your own booze. Them as doesn't claim tickets by six tomorrow afternoon pays their own way back to Jackrabbit."

The rebels were too dazed to realise much save that from the dining-room door Maybelle Benner was pouring upon Cordwood an admiration that was a bit embarrassing, and that she even gave to Percy Willoughby such an amiable glance as she might have given to a dish of waffles on a winter morning, and that arm in arm with her was the Sister Τinkerbun whom once they had looked upon as a pot-walloper and a yes-woman.

The voyage of the S.S Dolorous was not very inspiriting. She was a strictly business-like vessel, an old-fashioned craft, which attended only to getting people across the ocean, and provided neither gilded ballrooms, swimming-pools, private baths, red tissue-paper gala caps, nor in any other manner tried to emulate Atlantic City or Yom Kippur.

The disconsolate pilgrims (only seventeen had angrily remained behind in Paris, on their own) had all evening long the spectacle of Cordwood, Percy, Maybelle, Sister Tinkerbun. Manny Ilgenfritz, Oley Tengbom, and Sime Bendelari being jocular around a large smoking-room table weedy with glasses, but as for themselves, they could dance to a phonograph— or not dance to a phonograph. Worst of all, the now displaced Cordwood seemed much happier than he had coming over on the Dipsomania.

But on the third day out, Cordwood's cheerfulness vanished with a great and terrible vanishment. He received— collect— from Jackrabbit, from Sheriff Pimbury, a radiogram:

"Whole town Jackrabbit burning up, doubt if we can save anything except memorial fountain."

He had scarcely finished groaning over the message when he had a second:

"Looks like Colonel Blight and gang got away with all cash in bank vaults county treasury post office before fire started stop probably set fire stop wire instructions Bert Pimbury."

The third was: "Rescued marble top table seven cocktail shakers lawnmower bronze statue seems be heathen goddess from your home what want done with these."

Before he dared tell his once friendly neighbors that they had lost all their goods. Cordwood worked for hours with Percy. He would have spent about a million dollars, out of his seven, before he got his lambs all home. They estimated that it would take about three million to rebuild the town and get it started.

"By golly, that still leaves me three million, and even this travelling didn't pan out so good. I don't see any way of getting rid of the rest," sighed Cordwood. Then he brightened, in memory of 1929:

"Except maybe by getting the very best advice from the soundest kind of brokers and bankers and investing in absolutely safe securities on their advice."

When the news of the conflagration was made known to the ship, Mr. Scallion tried to jump overboard. Mrs. Ben Pilshaw, wife of the hay and feed store, went about moaning, "My lovely new overstuffed davenport!"

Irving Berklund wailed. "My radio— just when I thought I'd gotten Kalamazoo."

But whatever their griefs individually, they joined as one man in blaming Cord wood. Except for him, they would never have left their homes unguarded. Within an hour, there was among all of them a confused but passionate feeling that Cordwood had slipped over to America, probably by aeroplane, and started the fire himself. Indignation meetings were held in every stateroom, in the smoking-room, even in the bathrooms where miserable bather called to bather from his tub.

Percy gathered them all into the dining-room after dinner, and Cordwood announced that he would, if possible, make it good to all of them They jabbered at him. You bet he'd make it good to them or they'd—

When they stopped for a second to try to think just what they would do, if he failed them, Maybelle Benner shot up and addressed the meeting, uninvited by either party in this war:

"I call it real good of Mr. McGash. And just kindly remember that he's under no necessity of doing a single thing. And if he does rebuild for you, out of the goodness of his heart, you'll have new houses, and clean ones, which is more than a lot of you had when we started off! Now I advise you to all quiet right down and go make lists of what you think you've lost, or are going to say you've lost, and bring 'em to Mr. Willoughby, and maybe he'll get Mr. McGash to allow them."

"I don't think I like that woman, Mrs. Benner, any more." whispered Mrs. Berklund to Mrs. Mitch.

With considerable speed they scattered to their several cabins and began frantically to scribble lists on very, very large sheets of paper; and to gallop toward Cordwood's cabin with the lists, to get in first.

They must have had exceptional memories— perhaps due to the superior air and water of Jackrabbit County. Among two hundred other items, old Mrs. Peasewak recalled and described in detail sixteen patchwork quilts, a noble antique clock perfect in every way except that since the second battle of Bull Run no one had been able to make it go, twelve hemstitched towels none of which had been used far mare than a generation, and a library of nineteen books, including five by Harold Bell Wright.

The stocks-in-trade of the various stores and small factories made an impressive showing. Sime Bendelari— though privately he was fond of Cordwood, or at least of Cordwood's poker and liquor— estimated a stock which would have made a handsome showing in a chain of twenty urban drug-stores, and Cohen & Cabot claimed a loss of such imperial, such fabulous wares as would have set up a New York— even a Chicago— department store.

Cordwood received all these claims with scarcely a whimper. He muttered only, "I never noticed any fifty-dollar pajamas in Cohen & Cabot's!"

He would have paid every claim, but Percy and Maybelle were firm.

They clamored about things like insurance, inventories, appraisers. They kept him up all one night, jabbing at him, till he agreed to set up a court composed of Percy, Mr. Scallion— a crank of the first water but an honest crank— and Judge Kilgore to pass on the claims and to pay what seemed just, receiving from each claimant a receipt and a promise to pay back whatever the experts should later pronounce to have been an excess.

Night and day, till they landed, this court sat wearily at its foul task, arguing with indignant suitors who explained that in a two-thousand dollar house they had cunningly concealed a grand piano, $10,000 in bills, and a couple of tiaras from the smuggled Russian court-jewels.

The court allowed Cordwood to come around, now and then, and he sat back looking drab and shabby and insignificant in his supposedly new wardrobe. Not again did he tell happy stories of homicide in lumber-camps to lively parties in the smoking-room.

The judges paid out nearly three million, of which, they estimated, Cordwood might get back half a million. Some day. That, felt Cordwood lugubriously, still left him rather too rich— three million he still had on his books.

The night before they landed, Percy came to him with a glorious suggestion. Cordwood should stay in New York— if he went back to Jackrabbit with the clamorous refugees, they would badger him to death. He, the good Percy, would conduct them back. Cordwood would better give him a little personal check, say five hundred thousand or so, and with this Percy would meet all their first needs, in cash.... being careful always, he explained, to get legal receipts from them.

"Fine! I never did get to see New York. I'll stay couple of weeks or so. Five hundred thousand— that be enough?" said Cordwood gratefully. "Maybe I can get Mrs. Benner to stay— with Sister Tinkerbun for chaperon."

Maybelle and Mrs. Tinkerbun were graciously willing to stay, after he had spoken with hoarse eloquence of night clubs and the wonders of Grant's tomb, and the three of them saw off at the station the now more nearly forgiving nine hundred.

They really had a very good time, in New York. They drank non-alcoholic cocktails in Rockefeller Center. They viewed Roy Chapman Andrews and Will Beebe at the Natural History Museum.

But they were not altogether dissipated. Came a night when Maybelle demanded: "Cordwood, dear."

"Yes," said Cordwood.

"I want a check for $900,000."

Now that was very nearly a blow. Maybelle had been the only person in America who hadn't tried to touch him. It made him feel lonely. Then hastily, she said:

"Oh, no, no, no! Not for myself! To rebuild the Community House in Jackrabbit! We mustn't let that lovely thing gο! " she maintained earnestly.

"I see!" said Cordwood, happily signing.

Next morning, as Maybelle and Sister Tinkerbun were letting permanent wave— and where they ever learned that there were such things as permanent waves this chronicler has been unable to discover— Cordwood thought it might be well to drop in and see his New York lawyers.

They greeted him, he thought, with some coldness. The head of the firm. Mr. Guidelpop, making a brave show with his eye-glasses, demanded, "Mr. McGash, I am, if I may say so, a bit worried about your investments. They seem to me, if I may say so. to be diminishing at a dangerous rate. Now this two million dollars that your agent, Colonel Blight, withdrew—"

"Blight? Two million?"

"Why yes— on your power of attorney."

"Could I see that there power of attorney?"

It was forged.

And so it came to pass that Cordwood McGash, a simple and quite decent fellow who had recently been worrying about the spending of his exorbitant fortune, walked out on the street penniless. He had supposed that he would like it, but in truth, when he thought of again batching it, in a tarpaper shack, with greasy tin dishes, he wasn't entirely happy.

Then— to the alarm of the traffic cop at Thirty-fourth and Fifth Avenue— he stopped on the corner and laughed. Idiot! Of course! What foolishness! Didn't good old Percy Willoughby have $500,000 of his? So, happily, he came into his hotel, to find a telegram from Mr. Scallion:

"Do you know where Willoughby is? Seems to have disappeared. Got off train at Newark and has not been seen since."

Now Cordwood had been the joy of the hotel. He had always tipped the bell boys a dollar each and the slightest smile from the elevator starter had been good for a five. They were all a little hurt this morning when, after receiving his telegram, he strode to the elevator without tipping anybody on the way. But in the elevator, he laughed again.

"Well, anyway," he chuckled, "there is no chance that Maybelle will marry me. I dunno that it'll be to bad to be batching it again. Beans are pretty damn good when you cook 'em right."

He opened the door to his suite. Maybelle was sitting there. "Five hundred thousand dollars, at five per cent is twenty-five thousand dollars a year— and that is more than anybody deserves to have in the world," she said. "You see, the Community House that I was thinking about is our Community House in Paris."

"I see," said Cordwood. "But isn't it necessary to get a marriage license and a steamer ticket?"

Maybelle laughed. "I have them all ready," she said.

__________________

17: How The Lone Star Went Down

Mrs. May Agnes Fleming

1840-1880

Armidale Express (NSW) 19 June 1874

THE PICTURE hung over the fireplace, and had a fascination for me for which I could never account. It wasn't by any means a work of art. Bertie Carrington, late major of Her Majesty's ——th, had painted it with his own hand, and Bertie at best was only a second-rate amateur. It wasn't, then, its artistic merits, you perceive, and yet I never entered Carrington's rooms without drawing my chair in front of that crude production in oil, and staring at it through the smoke of my meerschaum by the hour together.

The picture was this:—

A WIDE, sunlit sea, lying like gilded glass beneath a sky of cloudless ultramarine. A huge, black ship grounded on a reef, so filled and sunken that the oily, slippery waves were just softly gliding over the decks. Around the doomed vessel dozens of dark objects moved, stealthily waiting. Sharks! On the deck a long file of men, drawn up as if on parade, in the shadow. And out where the brilliant light of the sun fell fullest, a man and woman together.

It was the face of the woman, I think, that had the fascination for me. The face of a girl in her first youth, and beautiful beyond the ordinary beauty of girlhood or else idealised by the artist. Her loose hair blew back in the gale. Her face lay on the man's shoulder, uplifted to the sky, and on that face lay an unearthly expression of joy and peace, such as no words of mine can describe. Death was at her side, but love had robbed death of its sting. That was what that radiant, transfigured gaze said to you. One arm of the man held her close, the other lay on the ship's side, his head bowed thereon.

That was the picture.

"I LIKE pictures that tell a story," I said, the first time I saw it, to Garrington. "This one does. It's the best thing you've done yet, old man."

And Garrington, usually the freest and most genial of good fellows, had turned away, his face changing and darkening so suddenly that I saw at once I was on for bidden ground.

The picture had a story, then— a painful one to him, and though I took my station before it every time I visited him, I never tried praise or criticism more.

But one Christmas Eve, as we sat alone together, the tragic story at my earnest entreaty was told.

It was a wild and snowy December evening, I remember, a high gale ahead, and black London lying all white and frozen under the Christmas stars, as I made my way to Carrington's house.

I found him alone, as I expected to find him; his Livonian wolfhound curled at his feet, lying back in an easy chair, before a huge fire, smoking, and gazing, as he was wont to do, at his picture over the mantelshelf. In the strong red light of the fire, the beautiful face of the girl shone out weirdly lifelike from the canvas.

" Admiring your own handiwork, Bertie, my boy?" I said, as I flung myself into the opposite chair, and fell to gazing too.

"Not exactly," Carrington answered, gruffly. " I've never done anything in the paint-brush line worth admiring that I know of. Whatever merit that may have— and I suppose it has some, or you wouldn't stare at it as you do— is owing to its truth. Hamilton, I tell you I often wake at night and see that girl's face before me, with just that expression, as I saw it last, poor child, before it went down for ever!"

"I should like to hear the story, Carrington, if you don't mind," said I, while the red flames leaped and glowed, lighting up the lovely pictured face.

"IT IS twenty years ago," said Carrington. "It seems only yesterday as I sit here and think of it. Twenty years ago, and before your time, youngster, the Lone Star, a transport vessel, employed to take out detachments to various regiments in India, with the wives and children, sailed from Southampton. I was an ensign at the time, my commission as new as my uniform, my zeal as burning as the fiery climate to which we were ordered. Our commanding officer was Colonel Beresford, his second in command Captain Hawley, one of the bravest and best-looking fellows in the service, of good family, but without a rap in the world except his pay, and not a single shadow of expectations. He was the best of good fellows in every way, ready to tell you a capital story, a good joke, or troll you off a song in his rich tenor, and before we were out a week the pet of all the women on board. There were some hundreds of 'em and heaps of children. Hawley was a favourite with the little 'uns in the steerage, as well as the ladies in the cabin— prime favourite, in short, with officers, men, and all; and so, when pretty Miss Rainsbrooke took it into her bewitching head to fall in love with him almost at sight, nobody was the least in the world surprised. Only, it wouldn't do, and so Hawley knew as well as any of us.

"She was, I think, Hamilton, without exception, the prettiest girl I ever saw, and I've seen some pretty girls in my forty odd years of life, mind you. She was exceptionally pretty, in fact. No, you needn't look at that daub; it does her no sort of justice. She had your real golden hair— none of the copper-coloured stuff they pile mountainously on their heads now— eyes sapphire blue to their very depths, laughing and lovely, a complexion of pearl, and a mouth the sweetest that ever was kissed. She was tall and graceful, accomplished beyond all telling, and just nineteen. The previous season she had 'come out,' been presented, ran the round of Vanity Fair, and the best men of the day had been at her feet as suitors; but she had laughed back 'No' to one and all, come out of the ordeal unscathed, and now, under the protecting wing of Mrs. Colonel Beresford, was going out to join her 'dear papa' in India.

"Dear papa was General Rainsbrooke, K.C.B., next heir to an earldom, and with the pride of Lucifer incarnate. The man who won the fair Alexia, with her birth and her beauty, and her dowry, must write his name high in the peerage indeed. Royalty itself would not have been one whit too high for Miss Alexia Rainsbrooke in the eyes of the sternest, haughtiest martinet of the service. And with Frank Hawley she had fallen in love, as I say, almost at sight, and he with her.

" And it was love, Hamilton— none of your modern, silver-gilt shams, but the pure gold. They loved each other, and if ever two were made for each other they were— that was the unanimous verdict on board.

" 'But it won't do, Hawley, my lad,' said Colonel Beresford, soft-hearted him self as a woman. 'You don't know old Rainsbrooke—I do. He'd see her dead, first. And you're too fine a fellow to have your life spoiled by any woman, were she Venus herself. Alexia's an angel, but angels with flinty feathers don't marry young men whose fortune lies in their sword blade. She's an angel, but she's not for you, so give it up before it s too late.'

"Frank Hawley looked at him with a smile.

" 'Too late,' he said. 'It's that now, colonel. Come what may, I shall love Alexia to the last day of my life, and she will love me. All the fathers in the world cannot alter that. My wife she can never be; that I know; but she does love me, and come what will I have been truly blessed.'

"She knew it, too— knew that the end of the voyage would be the end of her life's romance— and yet in the present they could still be happy. If he had asked her, she would have promised to brave all things, and go with him to beggary, but it would have been easier for him to have died than have asked it.

"The weeks went by, and our voyage was drawing to an end, the pretty ocean idyll to its close, and of late the lovely face of Alexia Rainsbrooke had saddened and grown pale. The lifelong parting was I near. She was realising its bitterness already.

"I was awakened one morning just as day was breaking by an odd crashing sound beneath, then all at once motion ceased, and the ship stood still. Immediately there followed wild uproar and tumult, shrieks of women, and shouts of men. I sprang up, dressed, rushed on deck, and in one minute knew what had happened. We had got out of our latitude, and had struck.

"The sun rose as I stood there the sun of Christmas Day— and showed us our danger fully. We were near Simoon Bay, and far off in the horizon the land line was visible, but we might as well have been a thousand miles off, for already the ship was tilting and sinking fast. Before noon of this gallant Christmas morning, the Lone Star would be at the bottom.

"Out of the confusion order came at last. The soldiers were drawn up on deck by Colonel Beresford, standing firmly as if on parade, the boats were lowered and manned, the women and children put in, and sent safely to the land. I see it all— the brilliant tropic sun in the cloudless ; morning sky, the soft breeze blowing, the sea a sea of glass, the long line of men standing firmly erect awaiting their doom, the sobbing, heart-breaking cries of the wives who would never see their husbands more, the ship sinking, sinking inch by inch, and the black devils of sharks swimming slowly round and round, knowing in some horrible way what had happened, and waiting for their prey. Brave men, I tell you, lad, stood on that deck, but the bravest there flinched as they looked at their deadly maws. Before night the women and children would safely reach the land— before noon the Lone Star would go down.

"Captain Hawley was one of the men who helped the women into the boats. As Mrs. Beresford descended he asked after Miss Rainsbrooke. Only once since the accident had he caught sight of her. But the colonel's wife, terrified and hysterical, knew nothing.

"Alexia was in one of the other boats —she couldn't tell which. She had come and wished her good bye. And then, incoherent and wild, Mrs. Beresford was in her place. He could not leave his post. No doubt  she was in one of the other boats, only she might have come to say good bye. A deeper sadness than any sadness death could produce lay on his face. To part like this for ever—without a word!

"Then the order was given, and the boats pushed off. One long, last wailing cry of farewell from the widowed wives, and we stood to wait for death on the deck of the Lone Star.

"Frank Hawley stood with set lips a little apart, gazing after the boats, growing mere specks now on the sunny sea, when a low and inexpressible cry from every man on board, simultaneously, made him turn round. And up from the cabin, and gliding forward, a smile on her face, came the general's daughter, straight into the arms of Hawley.

" 'Did you think I had gone, Frank?' she asked, with that smile. 'Did you think I had left you?'

"He gazed at her— we all did— in horror.

" 'Great heaven, Alexia! You here?" It was all he could say.

"She put her arms around his neck, laid her golden head on his shoulder, and looked up in his agonised face.

" 'With you, Frank— never to part more now. I am not afraid to die like this. It is so much easier than to say good bye for ever; and to-morrow it must have been. Now it need never be, and death is more merciful than life.'

"He sank down, and drew her to him, as you see him there, his face bowed, with out a word. The loving, wistful eyes sought his.

" 'Frank, love, you are not angry? Dear, believe me, it is the happiest Christmas of my life.'

"Only she heard his answer, as he held her close ; but her face took that trans figured look of love and joy, and kept it to the end.

"The slow, sunlit hours wore on. Without word or motion we stood there, our colonel at our head, faster and faster our fated ship sinking beneath us. Still slowly round and round the black fiendish sharks swam. Oh, heaven! what a death for her!

"She did not fear it!

"I stood watching her— I could watch nothing else— all thought of my own fate lost in unutterable pity for her. As the ship gave its last tremendous heave and death-throe— as the cold, glassy waters came running over the deck, I saw him clasp her in an embrace that death itself might not sever— saw her bury her face in his bosom, then we were all in the tumultuous ocean together, and I saw no more.

"Ten men from the Lone Star reached the shore and were saved. I was one. Clinging to a portion of the wreck, how I never knew, I reached it. For yards around the blue water was crimson with blood, and the frenzied shrieks of our poor fellows, as the savage jaws of the sharks closed upon them, ring in my ears yet.

"Her face has haunted me all those years like a ghost. To exorcise it I painted that picture. And every Christmas there comes back to me that Christmas, and the angelic face of Alexia Rainsbrooke, as she went down in her lover's arms on the deck of the Lone Star."

_________________

18: Trooper Jenkins

Harold Bindloss

1866-1945

Queensland Times 28 Dec 1912

JENKINS, the irrepressible, was a trooper of the mounted police, a fine force of irregular cavalry, responsible for the peace and order of much of our dominions in Southern Africa. He was a reckless specimen of a somewhat reckless force, and, only that on occasion he rode hard and well, would not have been tolerated even there, because, as his comrades said, for downright, useless devilry, there was not his equal.

So the somewhat easy-going officer in charge of that detachment, despairing of his reformation by any means at all, for the sake of the few times he did gallant service bore with Jenkins' vagaries, until at last he sinned past forgiveness.

Rather too many cases of armed robbery had occurred in that district latterly, as well as the mysterious abstraction of precious stones, and Jenkins' squadron was ordered to the neighbourhood of a certain town to investigate. It was more than suspected of sheltering shady characters connected with the I.D.B., which is translated "Illicit Diamond Buying" industry. They camped in white-washed quarters on the bare veldt some short distance outside it, and it was there the trouble began.

One hot evening Jenkins, lately arrived from a 300-mile horse-back journey, and a comrade of similar tastes, who, endeavouring to copy the other without being gifted with equal genius, generally came to grief, lounged in the compound glancing wistfully across the plain towards the distant town. The bare brown levels were flooded with a dazzling glare that tried their aching eyes. Grey dust moved across them in eddying spirals with silvery plume on top, and something in the mingled essence of dryness, dust and heat afflicted Jenkins with a thirst which he knew the water tubs could by no means assuage.

Then away behind the cool blue-green eucalyptus which rose in shadowy masses out of the hot waste like islands of rest, he caught the glimmer of roofs where men sold cooling nectars, and there was music, such as he longed for after a weary sojourn in the wilderness with the blue lift for sole covering, and the dew-drenched veldt for a bed.

"I was thinking, Charlie, a night's amusement would be very nice," he said, "and we might come back in by the poose picket, you and me together, and no one the wiser."

"It would," said the comrade sadly, "but we can't get leave, you how, and this uniform is so blamed conspicuous. Besides, I heard the great I.O. is going there, too."

Then Jenkins, the inventive, laughed as he answered:

"Charlie, you should never let little obstacles daunt you. There's our friend and protector, Hudson, the surveyor. He's away, I saw him go, and I know he'd lend us his clothes— if we didn't ask him. Don't talk no more difficulties, but come along with me."

So presently in a contemplative mood, the pair strolled quietly through the gate, and when a sergeant said, "Where are you two rascals going to?"

Jenkins answered, angrily, "Admirin' the beauties of nature on the sunsetty veldt. It's too peaceful and lovely an evening to waste time here on idle talking."

Then the sergeant laughed softly to himself, as he watched the two dark objects grow smaller across the plain, until they dipped behind a ridge. Then the ostentatious tranquility was shaken off, and at a sharp pace they doubled on their tracks, and presently entered Hudson's house, whose coolie servants, knowing their master sometimes amused himself with the two troopers' company, admitted them.

Staightaway they overhauled his wardrobe, left a badly written note with their uniforms behind, and departed to the admiration of the puzzled coolie. Jenkins tastefully arrayed in spotless linen, and garments of thin dark tweed considerably too small for him, while Robertson's feet were sadly tried by Hudson's patent leather shoes.

Next, under cover of the friendly darkness, the former walked jauntily towards the town, and Robertson limped beside him, trying to expand the surveyor's hat to fit his ample crown, and anathematising the maker of the shoes.

Here it must be explained in parentheses that the leading inhabitants of that small but flourishing city, where hitherto no man had concerned himself greatly about his neighbour's character, had been rudely wakened to a sense of their responsibilities by something which happened shortly before. So at the instigation of two clergymen, an indignation meeting was held, when the more sober townsfolk determined to purge the place of all loose characters, even if they crippled the mine-stock business by doing it. Therefore the civil police were warned to make an example of the next offender.

Also it happened that an official of some importance came up to report upon that section of mounted police, and improve their methods. He did not do it gracefully, and the troopers, who considered his comments upon them and demand for extra drills quite superfluous, cordially hated him, the more so that he said unpleasant things to their own admired leader.

Therefore, disregarding his proper title, some called him briefly the I.O., which means "inspecting officer" with an adjective in front; and others The Bounder.

Now the night that Jenkins and Robertson honored that city with their presence, he also visited its leading hotel, to meet one or two mine-stock gamblers, who had promised to give him a clue to the doings of several I.D.B. desperadoes, and, perhaps with malice prepense, they entertained him royally.

He was afterwards of opinion someone must have tampered with the wine, for he had a hazy notion of talking at length, but could not remember clearly anything that was said to him. In any case, it was midnight when, with his hat on one side, and a half-unrolled cigar in his mouth, he somewhat unsteadily descended the steps of the hotel, determined then and there to follow up a hint they had given him.

"No good making useless fuss, and spoiling things," he said. "Police only frightensh criminals away; do the detective business all myself. Awful thanksh, good-bye-bless you."

The informers grinned at one another as they watched him depart zigzagging, and then returned to sleep the sleep of the just, not knowing that fate had delivered the unfortunate officer into the hands of the Philistines.

With the whole of Jenkins' proceedings we have nothing to do, though subsequently many stories were told about them. He professed love at first sight for a golden-haired barmaid, and later divided with Robertson several choice cigars he had obtained without money or price. Next he somehow insinuated himself without a ticket into the town assembly, and gracefully carried chairs and refreshments to the wives of leading citizens, who admired the big handsome stranger, though they wondered why he did not wear garments a little larger.

Then, while the other wondered at his friend's capabilities, he made friends with a waitress, and, though Robertson did not know what he said to her, there were two bottles under his jacket when he departed. Next it happened that, strolling down the main street towards midnight with a contented mind, they saw the I.O's horse in charge of a Kaffir servant, who lay fast asleep, when it was an easy matter to loose the bridle and lead the beast away, after which they met a sable teamster.

Then Jenkins, who was perfectly sober, speaking very thickly, gave him the horse, and when the Kaffir, stand wondering, said: "Take him with my blessing. I'm a British officer rolling in wealth. Look out he doesn't bite you, and take him. away-at onsh."

"'What on earth did you do that for? Have you quite 'gone mad?" asked Robertson when the bewildered Kaffir vanished: and Jenkins answered with a knowing grin:

"When you see an opportunity always take it, but you haven't a spark of genius in you. I'm inclined to fancy we are building up the I.O.'s character."

Presently, as they sat for a short space under the whispering eucalyptus in a leaf-fringed avenue, where Robertson recklessly cut out the toes of Hudson's patent shoes to enable him to walk home, they saw a figure proceeding unevenly towards them. Its hat was slouched forward rakishly over one eye; there were other details the reverse of military, but for all that Robertson's' first impulse was to rise and fly.

"The I.O.!" he gasped. "The sooner we get out of this the better; but with a strong hand Jenkins detained him, and said: "Never do things rashly, Charlie. That's the way mistakes are made. You are not in uniform, and I don't think he knows our faces. Besides, judging from appearances, he has been enjoying himself, and won't remember anything," and, stepping forward, he added: "Can I be of assistance, sir? Perhaps you are a stranger."

"Thanksh," was the answer, and the other tried to draw himself up. "I feelish very sleepy, can't find my horse, can't find hotelsh, must have gone somewhere. It's my impression thish very wicked town."

"It's the eucalyptus," said Jenkins, gravely. "It always has that effect upon strangers. Take his other arm, Charlie: we'll help you home, sir."

So in triumphant procession they proceeded down the silent street, and the only answer Robertson got to his whispered question, "Where are you taking him to: this isn't the way to the Tugela House," was a brief, "Have patience. If no one meets us you'll see presently."

Then he laughed aloud when Jenkins halted the party in front of the civic police office, where, holding on with one arm round his comrade's neck, the unfortunate I.O. beat furiously on the door.

"Wheresh my horse, you villain? No business to try to bury thish hotel," he said to the wrathful sergeant who opened, and Jenkins added sternly:

"This is a disgraceful state of things, and the reform committee will pull your leg for you. We found this man crawling incapable on his hands and knees. Take care of his— he's dangerous. Got a mad delusion, too; he's a Colonial officer."

"No delushions. Only distreshed victim of public duty," said the object, beaming on the group; and with a brief, "You come in here; we'll take that out of you," the sergeant jerked him into the passage, and dropped him on to a wooden bench, where he lay down, snoring heavily.

"Haven't brought a card," said Jenkins, lightly.  "You'll find me at the Tugela House any time to-morrow. Besides, I'm going to call on the magistrate in the morning, and I hope, he'll censure you for neglect of duty."

Then, taking the purple faced Robertson's arm, he led him into the street, where, while the other exploded he said:

"I think we had better make tracks for it, and return the clothes before Hudson comes back; he's a good fellow and won't give us away. Taking things all around, I fancy we have had a fair night of it."

Various thoughts troubled Robertson on the homeward journey, among others: what would Hudson say when he  saw his English shoes, which were now minus both tops and half the sole, for such goods are not intended for  rough veldt walking.

They wakened the coolies, and, even Jenkins looked ruefully at the dusty garments, from which several buttons were missing, as he slipped into his uniform.  Afterwards, with the skill that comes of long practice, they lifted a loosened fence-rail, and, crawling on all fours, unnoticed reached their quarters, where Robertson dreamed he was being led out to execution· by order of a court-martial. Jenkins, however, slept like a child, and when the morning parade was over, in obedience to a summons, went across with a cheerful face to visit Hudson.

The latter eyed him sternly, and, pointing to the pile of dilapidated garments, said,  "I had those things sent out from England specially, and I'm not in the habit of wearing shoes like that. I suppose I have to thank you two for this; it reads like a stroke of Jenkins' genius. I presume you know you made a sensation is the town last night. I rode in early this morning, and found a good many people anxiously enquiring for you; indeed, I very nearly gave them your address. If I had seen my clothes; I would have done it."

The surveyor's lips twitched beneath his moustache, and when Jenkins assumed an expression of abject penitence, the situation became too much for him, and he lay back is his cane chair laughing.  Then, mastering the merriment, he said:

"Confound you both, but I can't be angry. The joke is almost too good for that, and I suppose I must tell you the rest of the story. Hearing something of a curious case, I went into the court-house, and, was staggered to recognise in the dirty, furious man charged with making, a spectacle of himself in the streets your new I.O. He refused to give his name and plane of address, declared he was the victim of a foul conspiracy and would make the magistrates suffer for it.

"But Peters was extra thick-headed this morning, so he refused the demand for a private interview, and ordered them to bring the witnesses in. The sergeant had a Kaffir, who testified how a very drunk white man had given him his horse with a blessing. He was quite sure it was the same white man, only he had grown stouter. Witness fancied this to be the result of too much drinking, and wanted to know if he could keep the horse.

"Peters was going to turn up his law-books, but the prisoner, who was almost speechless with fury, broke in:

" 'Confound it, Sir; possibly someone drugged me, but I'm a British officer,  and on my word of honour I never gave any man my horse.'

"Then, when the sergeant brought in a Tugela hostler, who identified the beast, old Peters rebuked him solemnly, and said something about an indictment for perjury. I never saw any men so puzzled as that poor I.O., except the sergeant, who told what Peters called a lying story about two other witnesses who had mysteriously disappeared. Peters censured him, but he stuck to his tale, and then a light broke in upon me as I remembered you."

"We were bound to assist in maintaining public order," said Jenkins gravely; and Hudson choked as he answered:

"Confound your impudence! Then I thought it time to intervene, and got a few words with Peters quietly. A private explanation followed, the case was dismissed, and I don't know who was more sorry for himself, the magistrate or your Inspector. Still, I am inclined to think you have gone too far, and I wouldn't like to be in your shoes when the truth comes out."

"If I only get out of it this time I'll reform, and be a model," said Jenkins  piously. "For my sake don't tell them what you think. I haven't said anything."

For two days the pair of worthies lived in fear and trembling, while the heads of that detachment took counsel together, and the new Inspecting Officer departed suddenly, finding his presence, so he said, was urgently required in the south.

Then, according to Robertson's story, which was supported by other said more reliable testimony, this is what happened:

JENKINS, with his comrade, wan seated in his quarters darning his socks one day, and doubtless planning further mischief, because there was a particularly guileless look on his face, when a young sergeant knocked at the door. Like others in that service, he was a man of good connections and upbringing, and it was whispered a personal friend of the officer commanding the section.

"Trooper Jenkins," he said, "I have come to give you a piece of good advice, and you will be a wise man if you take it. Otherwise the authorities will deal with you differently. Now, I think I may say that recognising past good service, the chief doesn't want to rake up a heavy account against you, which, as you are aware, might involve others, too, or dismiss you with a ruined character. Still, after what happened recently, we are all of us getting tired of you, and you had better commit some technical offence, after which you'll be turned out quietly,"

So Jenkins, seeing his time had come at last, asked simply: "What had I better do? Go south and murder the I.O., or would burning these quarters down satisfy you?" and the sergeant answered: "Don't be a fool. Insubordination is the best, I think."

"You'll pass your word of honour if I commit the technical offence, sad blight my high class character to oblige you, there'll be no other trouble than a quiet dismissal?" said Jenkins. "I'm getting rather tired myself of this musty  service.

"Yes," said the sergeant, "I think I may," for he did not see the gleam of wild mischief in the other's eye, or he could doubtless have considered the matter.

Robertson did, and wondered just what would happen, until there was a swift rush, the sergeant being a light man, was hove up in the air, and staggering through the doorway, Jenkins hurled him into the neighbouring canteen, where he landed with a heavy crash among much miscellaneous debris. Men ran out into the dusty compound shouting and laughing, one or two other officers chuckled, for they knew the culprit, and had expected something would come of their comrade's mission. Then, as they picked the sergeant up from a litter of broken crockery, Jenkins stood forth in the sun-glare, and, wiping the sweat from his face, addressed them.

"I'm the innocent scapegoat of unprincipled men," he said. "This is the  reward one gets for faithful service from an ungrateful country. Come and arrest me someone. I'm ashamed of my nation."

So, amid subdued, applause and ironical laughter he was led away, and the men of that detachment never saw him in uniform again, for, after a private inquiry, he was quietly thrust out of the service next morning.

Still a collection was made, and remembering many kindnesses, every trooper contributed, as well as the surprised sergeant, and it was whispered, the chief of the detachment also slipped gold pieces into the purse. He did not love the great I.O., but there may have been no truth in it.

Now what followed shows the hidden spirit of unity which pervades the British race, for while his brother has plenty no Englishman need suffer want upon the South African veldt. Thus, Jenkins, who departed with only a suit of worn-out tweed clothes, and a purse which he said nothing about, was treated everywhere with the kindness the unfortunate always receive in that country, the more so that he told a cruel tale of Governmental injustice.

One man gave him a horse, which he promptly sold; another a decent mare, and a third, a mule, both of which he kept, and he made his way seawards, levying  contributions from all he met.

So at last, when he crossed the border, a report reached the police officer that his dismissed trooper was driving before him several excellent beasts, and the informant added: "If he travels another 500 miles, he'll annexe everything worth having in the country. That man has a silver tongue. He wheedled a rifle out of me in ten minutes, And somehow I had to give it to him!"

IT WAS in the time of a little native war that the mounted police met Jenkins again.

They were waiting, half-starved, by a river for provisions and ammunition, with a black horde coming down on them, when, under a singing hail of bullets, a transport rider drove his loaded mule team, swimming some of the time through the flood, and a roar of applause greeted him when he brought  the dripping beasts and burdens safely into camp. Then he raised his broad brimmed hat to the officer in charge and the clamour increased when they saw it was Jenkins.

"With what you gave me, and the rest I made, I had enough to  start in this business," he said, "I am making £20 a month, easy, and I'm glad I retired from the service. Still," he added, reflectively; "we had good times in it."

_______________

Index to Past Masters Nos 61-68

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

How the Fat Woman Eloped 68

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

Harold Bindloss

Trooper Jenkins 68

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

Edgar Rice Burroughs

Who Murdered Mr. Thomas? 68

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

George Allan England

Drops of Death  68

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Three Hours Between Planes 65

Mrs. May Agnes Fleming

How The Lone Star Went Down  68

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

Crocodile Tears 68

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

A. S. Gregory

The Death Window 68

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 Cat of the Stars 68

Seven Million Dollars 68

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

David Wright O'Brien

Hokum Hotel  68

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 Baron's Snapdragon 68

The Faith of Men 62

The Mystery Man 68

The Mystery of the Third Thumb 68

The Story of the Chief of Police 61

The Third Cracker 68

The Velvet Hand  68

The Woman Who Hated London 68

The Yellow Jasmine 68

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

A Chat With William Le Queux 68

Mrs. Rooth's "Murder" 61

The Spook of Cornelius 61

Albert Richard Wetjen

The Chief of the Loch McCree 61

Fred Merrick White

Early Closing Day  64

Gentlemen of the Jury  65

The Purple Terror 66

Victor L. Whitechurch

The Convict's Revenge  61

How the Captain Tracked a German Spy 61

In a Tight Fix 61

Raoul Whitfield

The Great Black 65

Mary E Wilkins

The Shadows on the Wall  64

___________________

Table of Contents

1: The Death Window / A. S. Gregory

2: How the Fat Woman Eloped / W. L. Alden

3: Crocodile Tears / Guy Gilpatric

4: Who Murdered Mr. Thomas? / Edgar Rice Burroughs

5: Drops of Death / George Allan England

6: Hokum Hotel / David Wright O'Brien

7: The Cat of the Stars / Sinclair Lewis

8: The Yellow Jasmine / William Le Queux

9: The Mystery Man / William Le Queux

10: The Mystery of the Third Thumb / William Le Queux

11: The Third Cracker / William Le Queux

12: The Baron's Snapdragon / William Le Queux

13: The Velvet Hand / William Le Queux

14: The Woman Who Hated London / William Le Queux

15: A Chat With William Le Queux / R. A. J. Walling

16: Seven Million Dollars / Sinclair Lewis

17: How The Lone Star Went Down / Mrs. May Agnes Fleming

18: Trooper Jenkins / Harold Bindloss

Cumulative Index #61-68