Past Masters Seventy Four
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Eighteen short stories, many being republished for the first time since they appeared in newspapers and magazines long ago. They are all in the Life + 70 Public Domain. 1: Expert Testimony / Ernest M. Poate 2: Revenge / Anonymous 3: Conroy / D. H. Souter 4: The Act of God / Beatrice Heron-Maxwell 5: Waif of the Bush / "Wanderer" 7: Intrigue / Mark Channing 8: The Dancing Partner / Jerome K. Jerome 9: The Withered Heart / G. G. Pendarves 10: Up Irrawaddy Way / Ltnt Edgar Gardiner 11: The Sin-Eater / G. G. Pendarves 12: The Dragoman's Secret / Otis Adelbert Kline 13: My First Case / Edmund Leamy

PAST MASTERS

SEVENTY FOUR

20 April 2022

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: Expert Testimony / Ernest M. Poate

2: Revenge / Anonymous

3: Conroy / D. H. Souter

4: The Act of God / Beatrice Heron-Maxwell

5: Waif of the Bush / "Wanderer"

7: Intrigue / Mark Channing

8: The Dancing Partner / Jerome K. Jerome

9: The Withered Heart / G. G. Pendarves

10: Up Irrawaddy Way / Ltnt Edgar Gardiner

11: The Sin-Eater / G. G. Pendarves

12: The Dragoman's Secret / Otis Adelbert Kline

13: My First Case / Edmund Leamy

14: The Awakening / Owen Oliver

15: The Chair That Smiled / Edith Rickert

16: The Ball of Fire / S. B. H. Hurst

17: The Receipt / S. B. H Hurst

18: Retribution / Anonymous

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1: Expert Testimony

Ernest M Poate

1884-1935

Detective Story Magazine 16 Sep 1919

THE CROWDED courtroom was very quiet; men and women leaned forward, breathless, for the end of the long, droned question:

"In your opinion, is he sane or insane?"

Doctor Peter Stone, stout, urbane, irreproachably clad, sat upright in the witness chair, alertly calm as he followed the lawyer's words.

"I consider him sane," he replied firmly. "In my opinion, he has recovered."

An audible sigh, a hushed murmur of comment, rustled through the room, frowned down by the justice. Young reporters scribbled furiously; the old, hardened ones leaned back, assuming exaggerated airs of boredom to hide their inner excitement— for this was news.

It was the final climax of William J. Wardlaw's long struggle for freedom. Five years before, after a month-long battle of high-priced experts— for he was heir to the enormous Wardlaw fortune, and could well afford the luxury of the insanity plea— the respondent had been acquitted of the brutal murder of his wife— acquitted on the ground of insanity, and committed to the State asylum for the criminal insane.

Each year since, his attorneys had sued out a fresh writ of habeas corpus, for Mr. Wardlaw emphatically did not intend to languish indefinitely in a madhouse because of a mere murder or so. This was his fifth appearance in court, and he had told the reporters that his money would bring him out this time.

And so it seemed, for now Doctor Peter Stone, chief expert for the prosecution at the original trial and the bulwark of the State's determined efforts to keep Wardlaw in the insane asylum— Doctor Stone, who had stood like a rock against the millionaire's every move toward freedom— Doctor Stone had pronounced him sane.

Wardlaw blinked patronizingly at the jury; his weak, immature features wore a smile of triumph as he whispered briefly with his attorneys.

The district attorney himself was on his feet, rallying gallantly from this crushing blow. His keen black eyes snapped as he emphasized his questions with an outstretched, pointing finger.

"Now, Doctor Stone, is it your mature opinion that this man, the self- confessed murderer of his innocent wife, this man whom you yourself have pronounced incurably insane, not once but a hundred times, the man who, in this very room last year threatened publicly to kill you, the man who hates you above all living beings, and holds you alone responsible for his detention in an asylum, concerning whom you swore that your life would not be safe with him at large— is it your final opinion that he is sane and responsible?"

The doctor nodded calmly. tirely recovered," he repeated.

"And how much does he pay you for changing your opinion?" inquired the district attorney with a sneer.

Doctor Stone drew himself up. "My opinion is not for sale,'' he answered coldly. "My fee for stating it, however, is to be twenty thousand dollars."

"Ah!" cried Mr. Forbes, and glanced knowingly at the jury.

One or two nodded, smiling wisely ; but it was useless. The weight of this testimony could not be overborne.

The verdict was a foregone conclusion, and after another question or two, District Attorney Forbes sat down, defeated. It was all over, whispered the wise ones among themselves, and wished that they dared leave the room to phone their papers; but Judge Altberger was strict.

Sure enough, the jury, without leaving their seats found William J. Ward- law sane and capable. Perforce, Judge Altberger signed the order of release, and the respondent walked from the courtroom a free man once more.

Through the outpouring crowd Doctor Stone moved unnoticed. All eyes were upon the hero of the occasion. From the street came lusty cheers for "Billy Wardlaw!" Was he not a released murderer? Such can always command applause.

His boyish face beaming with gratified conceit, Wardlaw bowed and smiled and shook hands with a host of admirers, holding an impromptu reception upon the courthouse steps. Some one called "Speech! Speech!" and he would have complied; but his lawyers, upon the order of a disgusted police officer, hurried him away.

Doctor Stone hung on the steps, faintly disquieted by the fellow's complacency; wondering— wondering. Behind him in the crowd, two men were talking in undertones.

"I suppose Stone knows what he's about," said one. "But I'd hate to be in his shoes to-day. If the fellow is sane, he ought to get the chair, and if he's not, he ought to go back to the booby-hatch. Look at him! Were you here last year, when he stood up in court and swore he'd kill Doctor Stone with his hands?"

The other laughed. "Twenty thousand dollars is a lot of money," he sneered,

They moved away, leaving the doctor vaguely uneasy, running over in his mind the sound reasoning which had changed his opinion. Somehow it failed to satisfy; he felt a vague foreboding, a questioning of conscience; for he was a conscientious physician.

The doctor elected to walk home in the hope of wearing out his mood. The exereise would do him good, he thought.

As he strolled up Broadway, many an eye followed him. "That's Stone, the alienist," he heard.

"Stone!" another whispered, looking up from the extra which already an- nounced Wardlaw's discharge. "Here's his picture."

Doctor Stone was not unused to public notice; beneath his polished calm it gratified him. But now he seemed to feel a subtle change in the interest his progress excited.

"Twenty thousand bucks," repeated some one behind him. "Gee, that's a wad!" and the speaker laughed raucously.

Near Thirty-fourth Street, he met a colleague. "Good afternoon, doctor," said Stone.

The other looked at him coldly, making no move to take his outstretched hand. "I hear you've been making money," he drawled and turned away, leaving the alienist rather uncomfortable. Was this the way his change of opinion struck his fellows?

Thoroughly upset, the doctor hurried home, bathed, and dressed. He had a dinner engagement in Westchester.

Once arrived at his host's house, he felt better. Here he was the guest of honor, and his vanity expanded beneath the sunshine of praise. Perhaps the company was not of the most select; but they were jolly good fellows and deferred to him flatteringly. They appreciated his distinction, reflected the doctor; and then, half amused, half bitter, came the afterthought: Why not? Was he not almost as notorious as the murderer himself?

For beneath all the laudation, his delicate perceptions noted a change. Men who would have been deferential yesterday were now jovially intimate. He felt the lack of that genuine respect to which he had been accustomed.

"Twenty thousand dollars," he imagined them thinking, "I'd take quite a chance for that, too."

As he brooded thus, the good food lost its savor; the doctor was silent and distraught. He left early and drove straight home, reviewing again and again the reasoning which had seemed so conclusive— until now. The man had surely recovered; his attitude was normal, his manner calm and pleasant. He had corrected all his delusions, had perfect insight. Yes, he was quite well; that had been Doctor Stone's sincere opinion. The fee had no bearing whatever upon that— certainly not! So thinking, he descended from his car.

It was midnight ; the house was dark and silent. With his latchkey, Doctor Stone let himself into his office; he would go over his records in the Ward- law case and convince himself once and for all that he had been right.

Something had gone wrong with the lights in the waiting: room. No illumination answered his pressure of the switch button. It was pitch dark; he groped on toward his private office, bumping against chairs, tripping over a rug.

The lights were off here also, but there was a flash lamp in his desk. Fumbling for it, he imagined a stealthy tread in the stillness behind him, and paused, a faint prickling running up his spine.

"Who's there?" he demanded aloud.

There was no answer. He turned again to his desk; and then, in the dark, strong hands gripped his throat. He was borne backward, struggling futilely.

Fingers like claws of steel choked off his breath; varicolored lights danced before his eyes. A long, crazy chuckle broke the silence; phosphorescent eyes flamed into his own glazing ones as the breath rattled hoarsely from his strangled throat.

"The great Doctor Peter Stone," gloated a thick, gurgling voice, and even to the doctor's dimming ears it bore a familiar sound. "The wonderful alienist— the wise man! I swore I'd kill you, Stone; I swore it a year ago. And then you let me loose— for twenty thousand dollars! Is it worth that, Stone?"

But Doctor Peter Stone made no reply. The breath had ceased to labor from his tortured lungs. He lay very still, arms out-thrown, until the dawn crept in and showed his sightless eyes and swollen, purple face. On his throat were blackened, discolored finger marks.

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2: Revenge

Anonymous

Lachlander and Condobolin and Western Districts Recorder, 9 Dec 1925

There are scores of short stories with this title, so I could not identify the anonymous author

I AM now getting old (I am over 80 years of age), and my strength and health are not what they used to be. I feel that I have not much longer on earth, and so before I go I am going to disburden my mind of a matter that has rested somewhat heavily upon.it.

I have indeed received the blessing .and absolution of our Church. Indeed I confessed and was absolved by the great Cardinal himself; but yet somehow, after all these years, I should like any descendants to hear of what I am about to write. What their verdict on the matter may be I cannot tell. I may perchance, or, rather, my spirit may (if, indeed, there be such things, as Pere Francois assures me there are), visit posterity and hear what my children say about it.

No one but myself knows the secret of my life. He to whom I confessed died years ago, and all my old comrades who might have recollected it have been gathered to their fathers. So now, I, Claude Pontac, Marquis de Vaudry, in my 83rd year, take up fine pen. It feels strange in my hand, for I was ever readier with the sword than with the pen, and yet my great friend and master, the Cardinal Richelieu, has often avowed to me that the pen is the mightier of the twain.

It happened in the year 1627. The siege of Rochelle had been prolonged again and again by the fierce and dauntless resistance of the Protestants. And, the siege being so long, we had formed quite a small town around the walls. The Cardinal was there, and so was his Majesty, King Louis XIII., with his whole court.

I had raised a company myself, and had placed it and my sword at the command of the Cardinal. I was young then, and was considered the finest fencer at court, and, indeed, my children will bear me witness that even now, old as I am, I am by no means to be despised. I feared no man sword to sword, and my mastery over the weapon astonished my friends and alarmed my foes.

It may be that I was over-proud of my skill, and perhaps boasted too loudly; for I had many enemies who were jealous of my swordsmanship, and yet who feared to fight me, knowing probably the inevitable fate that would overtake them. But I had one dear friend. His purse was ever open to me, and his arm ever ready, to strike a blow for me.

Ah! Ambroise de Salve was a true friend. There was only one point on which we differed. He was a bachelor and I a married man. I often used to rally him on his avoidance of the fair sex, but could never ascertain his reason for doing so.

When I married I saw but little of him, and was pained; for I thought he shunned me, though for what reason I couid not divine.

"Ah, Marguerite!" said I to my wife. "It is thy bright eyes that have driven him away. They must not play such havoc, or I shall have no friends left."

"I did not know I was such a monster that men fled from me. Tell me, Claude, dearest, from your heart, am I really so ugly?"

"Little witch! Thou art as beautiful and sweet as the fairest rose that ever bloomed, and as simple as the daisy thou art named after not to know."

"Alas, Claude! thy tongue, I fear, has many such pretty phrases on its tip. Where didst, thou learn all these compliments?"

"Nay, dear heart, 'twas the truth I spoke, and thou, sly one, knowest it. A woman does not possess a mirror for nothing; if she cannot read what is written on its burnished surface she is no woman."

"Perhaps I read there the plain and real truth which is hidden from my prejudiced Claude. But who is this Monsieur de Salve that thou talkest about?"

"He is my dearest friend, or was till I married," and I sighed for the friendship that had seemed so strong, but now seemed melted into air.

"And art thou regretting then thy married life?" she laughed.

"Heaven forbid! But thou knowest I have not many friends, and I hate to lose the best of them."

"Why not go and find him, Claude, and bring him here? Perhaps ne will learn from me, and from your example, that all women are not so bad as he thinks."

And so I did. At first he would not come, but after much persuasion I brought him to see my wife. And thus began a friendship between us three which, to me seemed perfect. Ambroise was always at my house, and Marguerite and I were always expecting him. He was like a brother to us ; and this lasted some months; and then the war began.

Ambroise and I both went, and as the siege seemed as if. it would last a long time, I took a house in the camp and sent for my wife. Ambroise lived with us. He was with his regiment, and I with my own compafly. Life then was sweet.

I feel as if I had not strength of mind to write down what fellows, but yet I must do so. The siege had lasted about six months. I had been out on duty for the night, and all the time I was at my post my thoughts kept turning to my home.

I recollect the day well; it was 16th October, 1627— a cold, pitiless right, followed by a cold, pitiless morning. The comforts and delights of home seemed far away as I stood there on guard in the cold sleet; but at last my duty was over, and I hurried back home, chilled to the bone and, shivering with the cold, I entered the house and. strode straight to my room. There was no fire, no breakfast.

I stood dismayed. Then I remembered that Marguerite had the night before gone to a great reception of the Queen's. Perhaps she had stayed at the Royal residence owing to the inclemency of the weather. Ambroise had promised to take her, I remembered. I looked round the room once more. It was now quite light, and I could see things plainly.

Ah, what was that? My eyes had fallen on something white lying on the bed. I picked it up and examined it. It was my wife's ball dress. I did not understand. If that dress was here, why not my wife? Again I looked round. Where were her cloak and hat? I could find them nowhere.

What trick was the little one playing on me? I went out and crossed the passage to Ambroise's room. Empty also. But I saw something on the dressing table. It was a note addressed to me. I tore it open and read it. I put the letter down bewildered.

What on earth did it mean? It could not mean— good heavens, that was too awful! I rushed back to my own room and looked round in an agony lest I should see what I expected to find. Yes, there was a note there also on the table. I had overlooked it before. I picked it up slowly, and it was some moments ere I dared open it. Dreadful suspicions floated across my mind. At last I broke the seal, and there in my wife's handwriting I read:

My Husband,

Pray forgive me. I loved thee once, and by that love conjure thee to forget me. Now all is over, and I shall be gone ere you get this. Seek not for me. It will be better so. I love another, and pray you to forget, her who was once thy—

Marguerite.

The room seemed to swim round me, and I sank into a chair, stunned by the blow that had fallen on me. I believe I must have swooned away, for when I again opened my eyes I found my man Jacques anxiously bending over me.

I gazed feebly round the room, and in a flash all came back to me. Slowly I rose to my feet, and asked Jacques in a quavering voice where his mistress waa  He said he did not know. He had heard Madame la Marquise and M. De Salve return about two in the morning, and he then fell asleep again.

I dismissed the man, and walked up and down the room trying to collect my thoughts. As my brain grew clearer I began to see my position in its true light.

I should be the laughing-stock of my companions. My love was wrecked, and I was dishonoured. Nay, that checked me. Dishonoured I would never be. I resolved to follow Ambroise to the ends of the earth if needs be, and he or I should taste the dust when we met. I began to think, and I saw that they had about four or five hours' start of me.

In an instant my mind was made up, and I strode off at once to the Cardinal. I knew that he would help me, as I was an old friend, and I had stood by him when others had withdrawn, and had ever been faithful to him when trouble was brewing.

I was admitted to his private room, and found him in riding costume, scanning some papers on a table. He had been on horseback all night; and looked, as fresh as a daisy. He glanced up at me as I entered the room and made my courtesy to him.

"What, Claude man, brings thee here at this early hour in the cold, away. from thy wife and home? Why, Claude, mon ami, what has happened?"

And then, before this best and greatest of men, I broke down, and told him all, and implored him to grant me leave of absence from the camp to follow my wife. He immediately did so, and also gave me papers to help me on the journey.

Thanking him for his kindness I withdrew to my own quarters, and was soon busy in preparing for my journey. By this time my servants had become aware that something terrible had happened, and they stood about whispering and watching me.

Whilst I was preparing I sent Jacques round the camp to see if he could find anyone who had seen a man and woman leave the camp in the early morning. After about an hour he returned and and said that a sentinel on the north side had seen a couple ride out in the direction of the north-east.

So they had ridden towards Paris!

I followed them, and while I rode I had time to reflect on what a hollow thing and an unstable friendship, was between two men if a woman's face was able to come between them. I cursed my folly in ever renewing the friendship between Ambroise and myself, and laughed bitterly when I thought of the perfect friendship that had existed between us three. Oh, I had been blind, blind, not to have seen what was going on below the surface. And my wife? Ah, what a fool she had made of me! Trading on the devotion I had given her, heart and soul, she had blinded my eyes by her pretty ways to the intrigues she was carrying on with Ambroise.

How I hated her!

And yet did I?

She was as lovely now and as sweet as she was when she left the convent to marry me. But she had deceived me and dishonoured my name, and her lover must die.

So I rode on swiftly, and soon found out I was on the right track. At the first auberge I pulled up at they told me that about ten o'clock a lady and gentleman had stopped there to bait their horses,* and they corresponded to my description of Ambroise and Marguerite.

They were only three hours ahead, of me, and I should soon catch them up. I rode on again. At the next inn they were only two hours ahead of me. With the papers the Cardinal had given me I procured a fresh horse and rode on, and so all the day I rode, gaining on them little by little.

Evening was now coming on. I had ridden all day, and had no. food. I wanted none, for I only hungered for revenge, and that shortly would be within my grasp. At last the sun sank and the darkness began to close round. It would be a fine night and clear. It was a full moon, and its silvery rays lightened up the road and showed the dark outline of a large forest, which I was entering. Ah, they could not escape me now! I had used three horses, and they, as I knew, had not changed once. They would not stop on the road, for they could hardly fail to know that I should pursue them; and in my imaginatlon I pictured to myself the guilty pair riding swiftly along, casting furtive glances behind, them, and trembling whenever a leaf rustled or a bough creaked. And I rode on swiftly, with my eyes ever strained on the road ahead,

About midnight I passed a dead horse lying by the road. It had a lady's saddle, and as I looked I recognised my own crest and insignia blazoned on the saddle-cloth. So they were not far before me now, and I spurred my horse on rapidly.

Now the road ran in deep shadow, and now through a more open part of the forest, and would then again penetrate some deep glade in the wood. As I emerged from the deep shade of a close covert I saw before me a sight that made my blood run warm with joy.

There, about two hundred yards before me, was a smail group. A man, a woman, and a horse. The man and the woman were standing by the horse, which lay in a dying condition at the side of the road. At last my hour had come, and my revenge was now in my grasp. They had not yet seen me, so I put on a demi-mask, such as was commonly worn by gallants in those days, and rode towards them,

As I neared them they perceived me, but at that distance they could not recognise me, and even at close quarters my mask would prevent recognition; so I determined to play with them.

Riding up, I bowed low to Marguerite, and in a feigned voice remarked that they Copmbd iu trouble:

"I passed a dead horse, on the road some way behind," said I; "and, thinking there must be some trouble somewhere, I rode on to see if I could be of any assistance.'

"Monsieur Is very kind," returned Ambroise. We. are indeed in trouble, and we wish to press forward as speedily as possible."

"Methinks, monsieur, I can guess the: reason for your, haste, because I passed a cavalier on the road asking if any had seen a lady and gentleman riding this way in haste."

"Holy Virgin, it is Claude!" said Marguerite. "It is a bitter enemy of my husband's, monsieur, and all-powerful with the cardinal; and he hates my husband," she added.

I smiled bitterly. "Was this cavalier far behind, monsieur?"

"Not very far, madame."

"Quick, Ambroise! Let us penetrate into the wood, and he will ride past."

"I fear, madame, it is too late."

"Why, monsieur, how so?"

"Because, woman, I am here!"

And, tearing off my mask, I stood before them.

How they seemed to shrink before my eyes, and how I gloated over their terror! Marguerite uttered a faint shriek, and clung to Ambroise' s arm. As for him, he stood there looking absolutely dazed.

"True wife and true friend," I said, "I am here, and ye have naught to say. M. de Salve, there is but one way of settling this affair. You or I must taste steel now, and I think it will not be me. Will you kindly loose yourself from my wife and draw

No answer. He stood there as if turned into stone. I saw that words were useless, so I stepped up to him; and struck him with the flat of my hand on his. cheek. Ah, that moved him no, less than the words' I hurled at him!.

"Coward! Traitor! False friend!"

"Let go my arm, Maguerite! No man shall call me coward and I not gainsay it!"

"Stand back, Mdme. de Vaudry!" said I. "Now, monsieur, we will fight here; and beforfe we commence let me tell you I shall proceed to disfigure the face which has won my wife from me. I shall then wound you in that month, which shall never taste her kisses again, and; finally I shall run you through your black, traitorous heart. Say your prayers, Monsieur de. Salve, for you have not long to live. And as for you, madame, when I have killed your lover, I shall then forget that you ever bore my name, or called yourself my wife— and I shall kill you also."

"Cruel man!" shouted Ambroise, moved by that last threat. "Would you kill a woman? Now I am ready. Do your worst!"

And he stood facing me with I drawn rapier. The hot fit had now passed from me, and I was cold as ice. Slowly I drew my rapier from its sheath, and stood smiling at him as I carefully felt, its point.

" 'Tis sharp enough," said I, " to spit an eegle, let alone a pair of doves."

"Begin!" he cried. And in a moment our swords crossed. I needed all my skill in the first few minutes to parry his fierce thrusts. He was no mean swordsman, but I was completely his master.

As we stood there with our sword-blades flashing in the moonlight, the full delight of the revenge I was taking came to me. I shall never forget that scene as it has impressed itself indelibly on my memory.

My wife half lay, half crouched, looking at us with staring eyes. We, facing each other, parrying and thrusting with the moon falling full on us, and causing lightning-like gleams to flash from our swords. He fencing hotly and fiercely, and I parrying his thrusts calmly and easily, as if I was in the fencing school.

At last, after several moments had passed, I felt him weakening. I was wearing him out, and I began to taunt him.

"M. de Salve's arm is not so strong as his love, it seems. How strong one's love must be to make one elope with one's dearest friend's wife. But fancy being caught by the irate husband. How humiliating for the honourable friend."

The perspiration came out in great beads on his forehead, and his breathing became rapid and laboured.

"So, M. de Salve, art getting weary of this sport? Now see, Marguerite, how I will change thy handsome lover."

I pressed him a little, and with a few rapid thrusts disfigured his face with innumerable gashes.

"See, Marguerite, the precious blood which is flowing for thee. Now watch."

This time I pierced him in the mouth and jaw, and the blood flowed afresh. Still he stood: before me, rapier in hand, but a film seemed to have come over his eyes, and, his hand shook unsteadily.

"Now, my wife, see this!" I cried, and, beating down his feeble guard, I passed my rapier through his heart.

He reeled for a moment, and then, with arms outstretched, fell back on to the earth— dead.

There was a scream as he fell, and-Marguerite rushed to him. She bent over him, moaning and sobbing, and kissing the mutilated face of her dead lover.

"Marguerite," I said sternly, "I have avenged myself, and have killed him who had dishonoured my name. I cannot take you back to the home you have defiled; so prepare to die. When the shadow of that tree has reached this stone be ready.

She made no answer, but knelt by his side.

Of a truth I did not mean to slay her. I was merely teaching her a lesson, alas! only too well deserved. Of course, I could not take her back to my home again. I should have to put her in a convent, to be guarded by the sisters till she died.

The shadow crept on and on, and at last was only a few inches from the mark.

"Marguerite," said I, "thy time has nearly expired. Pray, then, to your Maker to forgive the wrong you have done me; heaven may find power to forgive you, but I cannot."

Still no answer. She knelt there motionless by the side of the corpse. At last the shadow; touched the stone, so I strode up to her and laid my hand on her shoulder. She never moved. I bent down .and looked into her face. It was pale as marble; her hand was cold, and her eyes were fixed, staring on the upturned face before her. She was dead.

The shock was too much for me. A wave of reaction broke over me, and I fell on the grass sobbing like a clild.

After a while the fit passed away,and I rose to my feet. I caught my horse and rode off to see if I could find any dwelling-house near me, and I soon found a forester's hut.

Giving him money, I bade him go and bury the bodies in one grave, and after much protestation he went, and I flung myself down to rest and gradually fell asleep.

Next day, after leaving money with the priest of the nearest parish to pay for masses for their souls, I rode back to camp— an altered man. I went straight to the Cardinal and confessed all to him. He absolved me from the death of both. Ambroise I had slain in fair fight, but yet I considered that in some way I had killed my wife.

The Cardinal, however, pointed out that she must have died from terror, and indeed said that it was better for her to have died thus than to have lived for years, perhaps, with the weight of her sin on her mind.

I stayed till the end of the siege, no man asking me questions.

When Rochelle  surrendered I retired from Court to my own estates of Vaudry, and dwelt there some years a solitary man. My faith in man was broken, and woman I hated.

I had only one friend who ever came to see me, and that was the village cure,  Pere Clement. A good man he was and old.He had baptised me when a child, and had known me since I was born. I related all to him, but not at first.

He by degrees pointed out to me that I drew too gloomy a view of life and people, and persuaded me to marry again.

Finally I did so, and never regretted my choice. I told all to my second wife, and I she sympathised with me.

She died some years ago, and was an angel sent on earth to brighten the existence of a gloomy and morbid man.

By degrees the memory, of the past was effaced, but still in my waking hours I see that picture in the forest with the moon casting its pure light on the upturned face of the dead man, on the kneeling figure of Marguerite, and on my sword wet with the blood of my "dearest friend."

*  "bait their horses" means "rest their horses".

_________________

3: Conroy

D. H. Souter

1862-1935

Sydney Stock and Station Journal, 12 April 1921

David Henry Souter was an Australian artist, journalist, and short story writer

THE NIGHT wardsman rearranged the screen and went back to his seat bv the fire. He picked up the hand dealt him, and glanced at it and flung two cards on the table.

His mate tapped the pack with a grimy forefinger, a hint that the game was waiting. The pack was cut and two for his heels scored by his opponent.

'That puts you round the corner and I'm two streets behind.'

Somewhere a clock struck three. A lie long low room with its six beds down each side was dimly lit by the incandescent light over the table where the cribbage players sat. The sound of labored breathings rose at times to piteous moans as some pain-ridden man tossed and tumbled in his bed.

'That cove in fourteen will peg out in about twenty minutes, I wish to cripes he would hurry up;— it might change my luck.'

With the preternaturaly sharpened sense of those about to die, Conroy heard the words quite distinctly. They brought him a message of great joy. Only twenty minutes more and the pains and sacrifices of forty years were to meet with their reward at last.

Penniless and unknown Conroy was dying the death he had desired. A street waif, swept into one of charity's dustbins so that his rags and sores might not offend the eyes of the people, he t waited for the end with perfect equanimity.

And why not? All that he had had was sold and given to the poor. Surely among the many celestial mansions one of the most sumptuous was reserved for him. Time was when Conroy's Beer had only had a local reputation. By and bye it became a national beverage.

'Conroy's industry compelled success, but he had no luck with his family. Like his beer it didn't keep. As fast as the pints were filled somebody drank them. As fast as his sons were born death came and took them, until only his Tim was left. A sandy-haired big-eyed, neurotic boy, on whom the hopes of the house depended and to whom its wealth could not help but descend. Conroy watched this last scion of his name with jealous care. Every temporal and spiritual aid was invoked for his well being. Conroy meant him to be a great man.

'Beer,' he said, 'is wan of the counthry's necessities— it will always be dhrunk and the man that controls the supply could be the King of Ireland, if he set his mind on it.'

Conroy's old wife died. Old Conroy died, and young Conroy ruled in his stead.

It was 'Conroy's, Ltd.' now and Tim was almost a millionaire. Shy and senitive, he hedged himself around with a  reserve that few ever really penetrated. Mentally he was not brilliant. Not that that mattered. Conroys was run by a highly trained staff and all Tim had to do with the beer was not to drink it.

Born in a brewery so to speak he was cloyed with its sweetness. In his early twenties lie learned to appreciate most of the exhilirating liquors, but the humble beer to which he owed everything was always gall and wormwood to him. In time he moved from the bush town where his father had set up his first brewery and took quarters in Sydney.

'How's the game?'

'Level; but you're a crib ahead.'

Society opened its arms to him but he did not respond to its invitations very heartily. He ran a couple of racehorses, and his name was for a time associated with a lady who outdid them in speed and was said to have made  quite a pot of money getting her brother the Jock to lay against them.

Tim Conroy would make a nice rich husband for some lucky girl:— then the miracle happened. Tim saw the error of his ways and associating himself with a sect of social-uplifters set out to reform the world. It is difficult to do this and keep 'filling them up' all the time.

Tim's conversion was the joke of the hour. He was quite serious and tried to burn his breweries down but beer doesn't burn freely. If they had only known to what lengths he was prepared to go they would have jugged him for attempted arson or also declared him mentally unsound and sent him to Callan Park.

His social uplifters were a force to be reckoned with. They collected Tim's dividends and made piteous appeals for emulative contributors. They rented extensive offices, built hostels, and made themselves secretaries and managers with reasonable salaries and expenses that were quite reasonable also.

Tim soon saw that the poor were not getting all that they ought to have got, and dissociating himself from the Uplifters tried to work out his own salvation. The S.U.'s were furious. They wrote and preached against indiscriminate giving end denounced Tim as a dangerous propagandist who was sapping the Independence of Australia. They invoked the law against this vicious young man who was seeking to deprive them of their livelihood.

Tim got a clever but debauched solicitor to steer him through the jungle of the law courts. Meanwhile he was selling his interests in Conroy's Ltd. and giving the proceeds to the poor with his own hands, and the poor frequently gave again to the publican in exchange for Conroy's beer, so the vicious circle was complete.

Tim was getting poorer every day, and even the debauched solicitor could see the day coming when they wouldn't have the price of a pint between tHhem.

It came all right, and Tim disappeared for a time. In the shabbily dressed tramp preaching temperance and self-denial as he drifted west, none recognised Tim Conroy, and Tim didn't press for recognition. It was a solace to him to remember the things he had done: more so now; lying on the hard hospital pallet, cut off from life by the screen's gray walls casting up his accounts for the last time.

As he struck a trial balance he smiled to find himself so much in in credit. For instance: that evening at the Hotel Australia, just after the hotels had been told that they really must shut at eleven, and later enteitainment was hard to seek, he had broached his scheme to about twenty young bloods who, in mock seriousness, had disposed of their portable personality to the other occupants of the lounge and gave Tim a hatful of money to dispense, according to his principles.

Hiding in a Howe-street doorway, they had found a woman young in years but old in experience. Cold, hungry, and ragged they had dowered her with affluence and escorted her to her den in a Woollooinooloo lane. That she was found next day with her head battered in, and that a paramour of hers swung at Darlinghurst a few mouths later, served only to make a good story and show the utter impractibility of Tim's philanthropy.

Conroy classed the item as a doubtful debt, but the time he had sold 'Bonnie Boy,' after losing the plate which he was expected to win, and dividing the proceeds as far as they would go among every penniless punter who presented himself, and promised to punt no more, was surely a credit of some magnitude.

"I get a run for that."

"A run to Parramatta— they're not in sequence."

The air seemed colder and his mouth was parched and dry.

The taste of champagne was bitter sweet. Strange he should remember that, and the night at Gilligan's when they had filled the porcelain bath with it and immersed Mollie Lego in her birthday suit in the umber liquor. How hilariously they had watched her try to drink it below the level of her roguish lips, and all to win a foolish bet between Tim and Gilly. It was a foolish jest, but there are still a few grey-haired men who tell the story when they care to recall the follies of their youth.

Gilly was still about: chairman of a big bank and still owning his Darling Point house. Conroy had seen him driving in a big limousine the last time he crept through Sydney.

Was he happier dying his pauper's death than if he had hung on to Conroy's beer and affluence. Conroy's beer and Heaven were irreconcilable propositions.

'Nothing in, crib.'

Heaven must be a delectable place where one neither hungered nor thirsted. The streets were paved with gold and the Saints sang hosannas round the Great White Throne.

Enter ye into— into—

"For the love o' God deal me a decent hand this time."

Conroy's strength was ebbing. He couldn't remember what he was going to enter into, but it was surely some most desirable thing. Not Conroy's, not Gilly's; not the directors' room at the brewery where he sometimes had been to hear the year's profits declared and applauded. Not the Haven for the Impecunious Dying— something better than all that—

"Dead in the hole."

Better than that.

"In my father's house?" But he had sold his father's house twenty years ago. As he tried to remember what he had done with the money he sank into a great oblivion, and didn't even hear the night wardsman fling his cards on the table and refuse to play any more because his luck was dead out and he hadn't held a decent hand the whole evening.

Although it has nothing to do with the story above, I thought I might show one of the versatile Souter's illustrations, below.

____________________

4: The Act of God

Beatrice Heron-Maxwell

1859-1927

World's News (Sydney) 3 July 1920

JAMES BRINKMAN'S rooms were in Albery Chambers, and the hall was empty, on a night in October, when a young man swiftly entered, stepped into the lift, and went up. On Brinkman's landing he alighted, sent the lift down, and was about to press the bell of No. 8, when he saw that the door was ajar.

The next instant he was in the passage, the door half-closed behind him.

"Mr. Brinkman?" he inquired in a subdued voice, and repeated it with louder emphasis. No response came.

He walked on to the threshold of a room where silence reigned, the only movement being the noiseless sag of a velvet curtain from the draught of an open window hidden behind it.

The invader's eyes leapt to a bureau, and on to a short, thick-set knife of the Malay kris type lying amongst some smoking accessories, and, as he snatched it up, he knew what he bad come there to do. The bureau was an old one, and between the edge of the top drawer and its encasement was a space.

He slid the strong blade through this, and, using it as a lever, managed to release the lock from its sheath.

The knife dropped from his fingers as he pulled the drawer towards him. Inside were dossiers of all kinds, with rubber straps and neat labels.

Brinkman took no chances where his business deals were concerned. These packets all meant money to oil the wheels of his juggernautic career.

As the young man's glance darted from row to row, he was seized with a sudden panic. There had been no sound, but an impalpable sensation of being watched gripped him.

He looked stealthily round, the light from a central hanging lamp falling on his white, strained face with its well-moulded features.

If his gaze could have penetrated the folds of purple velvet, he would have seen in the dark window-embrasure a pair of eyes, in an evil face, that peered at him through the slight orifice made by the wind.

Relentless eyes, like a wolf's when it sights an unexpected prey and begins to hunt.

Reassured, the marauder turned back to the bureau and found the thing he was aftera thin package of strips of writing-paper, the top on of which was flapped at the edge to show the signature— of his own! "Philip Everest" scrawled in an untidy hand.

The arguments against taking the packet which raced pell-mell into his mind were silenced by two answers. The papers were his own, in a sense, and he intended to pay the full forfeit they involved some day.

He was pushing the drawer home, when a malicious laugh wheeled him round to confront Brinkman.

"You young thief!" he said, with slow relish. "So you wanted to have your fling, and, when the time came to pay, to steal your I.O.U.'s, and go scot free."

"No," stammered Everest, "I came here to ask you for them— to tell you I'd pay up if you'd give me time. What did you post me for?"

"When a boy plays over his means for a month and can't meet his liabilities at the end of it, it's time to stop him— quick."

"I couldn't have lost the amount you say,"

Everest broke out hoarsely. "If I signed, for it the sums were faked."

"That so?" queried Brinkman, insultingly. "Not content with letting me down, youe going to fling mud at me too— you drunken'cub."

Everest's hands were clenched, and the knotted veins stood out on his forehead. He was striving as he had never striven before to keep his temper down and his brain clear.

"I had too much drink, I know," he admitted. "but not enough to make me play wild to that extent. My drink must have been doped— I'm sure of it."

"By me, I suppose?" jeered Brinkman. "How many more excuses? You had better make them to the secretary. You won't be let in there, or anywhere again, even if you do pay up. They don't encourage defaulters on Gagnotte's black list in your other haunts. Your evenings Mil be dull, I'm thinking, Mr. Philip Everest."

There was a pause, broken by Everest's passionate voice. "What's it for? What have I ever done to you that you should set yourself to ruin me?"

"Ah! Now we're coming to it," Brinkman said, folding his arms in leisurely fashion. "As a rule I leave bluffers like you to stew in their own juice, and don't soil my fingers with touching their paper. But you were fool enough to jump a claim I'd staked out for myself. You danced one evening at Black's with Therese Delisle. She happens to be my girl. She's wayward at times, and she took a fancy to your youth and innocence. Another meeting or two and she'd be playing platonics with you. No good to talk to her— she does what she likes. So you had to be removed. It was easy enough with such a mug-the thing is done. You're down and out."

"I'll clear," said Everest, "and I'll pay you in full, as I said; but I'll make sure of these now."

He tossed the packet to the fire.

"No, you don't," exclaimed Brinkman, as he sprang to rescue it. But Everest wrestled to keep him back.

"It's got to burn," he panted, and clung so tenaciously that Brinkman yielded a pace; then, rallying, seized Everest by the throat with both hands, and they swayed to and fro without a word. Everest felt, his sight and breath failing, while the room went red and black to hie congested vision.

Neither of them was aware of a lean hand that shot out from the curtain and caught up the knife, nor of a figure that emerged and crept like a beast of prey towards them.

The last thought in Everest's mind before he reeled under Brinkman's weight and crashed downwards was the remembrance of a garden in England, long forgotten, where he had played as a lonely child, before his recollections of a new home in America began. For a few moments he lay like a log, then the concussion passed, and a sense of pain replaced the numbness. He moved his  arm, felt a twinge from a sprained wrist, and, propping himself up on the other elbow, stared round.

In a flash full consciousness and memory returned-the rilled bureau, the attack, the struggle, and— ah! With a stifled cry of alarm, he scrambled to his feet, shaking with an ague of extreme horror.

For, prone on the floor, his two tortured, stiffened hands clawing the deep pile of the carpet, lay Brinkman, with a knife buried to the handle between his shoulder blades. His face, turned sideways, showed the ghastly rigidity of death in the dropped jaw, and the livid lips drawn back from his gleaming teeth.

A shuddering sob broke from the boy, and he saw himself suddenly in the felon's dock with the electric chair closing his brief spell of life. If he had had any knowledge of the Abstract Power some people call God, he would have appealed in his sudden helpless agony for guidance.

But religion of any sort was a dead letter to him, and no prayer came to his trembling lips.

He swayed, and nearly collapsed; then the instinct of self-preservation asserted itself, and, catching up his hat, he moved furtively along the passage, and down the stairs.

The hall below was apparently empty. He went out into the quiet street, constrained himself to pass along it without semblance of haste, and, meeting nobody, turned into an avenue'. Then his nerve snapped, and he ran on— on—on.

He was slowing down from sheer exhaustion, when he reached a corner and pulled up short at something just ahead of him.

A dog-cart was being backed towards a high stone wall, the chestnut mare endeavouring to rear. The driver was in imminent danger, and Everest, suddenly realising this, dashed forward, caught at the near rein and hung on grimly.

For an instant it was a toss-up with fate for the three of them; then, suddenly sobered and shamed, the chestnut mare ceased her frantic struggles and stood trembling and sweating, but docile and subdued.

"If you'll let me give you a lift," said the man, "I'll try to express my gratitude. I see you were going my way. I'm for the station."

It came to Everest like a bolt from the blue that salvation lay in the offer.

As he swung himself up into the cart ha winced with the pain of his sprained wrist.

"Hurt yourself?" inquired the man. "I hope not."

"It's nothing," Everest answered, "only wrenched my wrist a bit."

They were trotting along rapidly now, and in the distance gleamed the railroad lights.

"I'm a doctor," said the man, "Doctor Farraton, and I've been wired for to Congreve Yelland— the Flax King. He has to have an operation within twenty-four hours, and he insists on my doing it. I can just get there if I catch the midnight express to the Junction. You see what an enormous service you have rendered me? Can you hold the reins with, your right hand while I tackle your wrist? Keep the mare moving! There's the signal."

Everest obeyed, and Farraton bound a handkerchief deftly round the wrist.

"The express is coming round the bend," he said. "I must run. One more favor. Drive the cart into the Maple Yard, and tell the ostler my man will be along in the morning for it."

"Right," agreed Everest.

"When I get back," Farraton went on, "I'll drop you a line. I shan't forget my debt to you. Where d'you live?"

"If you want to do me a good turn," Everest said desperately, "I'd be very glad of a loan. I'll send it back without fail."

The doctor took out a pocket-book, and extracted some notes, which he thrust into the pocket of Everest's coat. Then he caught up his bag, and, leaping down before the cart had come to a standstill, ran like a hare through the crowd and disappeared. Everest drove sharply across to the stable-yard opposite.

"Dr. Farraton's man will be round for this in the morning," he called to the ostler; "we've run our train rather fine!"

He was out and on the station platform as the signal flag dropped.

The guard put up both hands with a gesture of "Too late," but Everest, with a final spurt, sprang into the open door of the van, his frantic leap carrying him across the compartment, where he fell in a heap.

"Now, then!"  exclaimed the guard, roughly, and, stooping, hauled at Everest's arm.

The boy could not speak; breath and strength and brain were spent, and a grey mist seemed to wall him in. It was touch-and-go whether his heart would stand the strain of this concluding sprint. The guard realised suddenly what was happening and got him on his feet.

"Keep moving," he said less harshly, "till you fetch your wind. That's better," as the gasps slowed down. "Sit there if you like."

Everest sank to the look-out seat, and stayed silent until his heart was beating normally.

Then he said: "Dr. Farraton has been sent for to operate on Mr. Yelland, and I had to catch him with something he left. I'll get him at the first stop, and I can pay for my ticket then, and go back by the next train."

"We don't stop until the Junction," said the guard.

"That'll have to do," Everest answered.

As they jangled on, forging towards the Junction that meant a new starting-point of life for him, Everest felt as if this journey alone was real, and the past was all a dream from which he had awakened.

His terror had fallen from him as a garment outworn; his mind was clear and his wits at work planning a future.

He was free, with money in his pocket!

At the Junction he followed the doctor across the .bridge, and travelled on in the same train.

There was a run of two hours to the terminus. He could let himself sleep at last.

For, though the wires were busy by this time from Police Headquarters, giving a description of the young man wanted for James Brinkman's murder, no one imagined that the express could have been caught by the fugitive. Nor was there anything to connect Doctor Farraton's assistant with Philip Everest, the scapegrace gambler, who, being caught in the act of robbing Brinkman, had stabbed him and left him dead.

PERCIVAL Elwyn set his signature to the document before him, and said, addressing the lawyer, "That's a curious expression. Mr. Royce, about damage by 'act of God.' Do you often have it in legal deeds?"

"It's quite usual." Royce answered. "It means lightning, or earthquake, or flood— any phenomenon that is beyond man's control."

"I haven't come across it before," Elwyn remarked. "Well, I conclude Warren Court is mine now, and I can have possession."

"At this moment, if you wish," the lawyer assented. "When you arrive at the Court you will find everything in smooth working order."

"I think I shall move in this afternoon," said Elwyn. "By the way, Professor Harley is my nearest neighbor, is he not?"

"The professor's house." Royce replied, "is in Warren itself. Mr. Jonas Merrick's house— Shotover Rise— lies between you and Warren cottage as the crow flies. He came over from the States about a year ago. He is an American."

There was a marked pause, and Elwyn's brow contracted.

He recalled his wandering thoughts, however, and took his leave.

"Rather a coincidence," Royce thought, as he looked after the well-knit, well-clad figure going swiftly down the road, "two men coming from a distance to settle down in this district. Warren has only one special attraction that I know of— Jacinth Harley!"

He smiled. The girl's name conjured up a charming personality and suggested thoughts of marriage settlements and legal business of the romantic kind.

Meanwhile Percival Elwyn strode on towards the Warren Arms, where he had been staying while his purchase of the Court was arranged.

Until a few moments ago the whole landscape had been a setting for one precious jewel that he hungered to possess— one girl who meant the summum bonum of which (Browning wrote "All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of one gem."

And with a few careless words in the lawyer's office the scene had changed into a series of shifting views that were passing through his brain as in a kaleidoscope and ending in a cloud that threatened to block out his whole horizon. He saw himself, in that old life his memory had shunned for many a year, standing in a lighted room, with a dead man at his feet— and the curse of Cain branding itself upon his soul; he felt the night air stinging his fevered face as he ran through dark streets and byways, a hunted thing, that had no right to live because it had stolen life from another; he pictured again the brief struggle with the terrified mare, the rescue, the long drive, the agony of effort to reach the train, and the sleep that gave him back his youth and strength, with a new grit that had lain latent in him until then.

It had all happened so easily. Farraton recognised him as they descended from the train, and suggested that, as he was there, he might help him still further by engaging a room at the Station Hotel, to which the Doctor could come after the operation.

It paved the way to security. He had taken two rooms, explaining that they were travelling together, and entering his own name as Percival Elwyn.

He chatted to the manager, describing the incident of the mare's attempt to bolt, and thereby accounting for his bound-up wrist.

On the doctor's arrival, they breakfasted together before Farraton went back to his patient.

The operation was successful, and it meant that Farraton's future was made.

Before he left he gave a letter of introduction to Congreve Yelland's business manager that ensured an immediate berth for "Percival Elwyn."

Out of the first salary that Elwyn received he returned the notes he had borrowed, and won the doctor's and his own respect. From that time onward everything had prospered with him.

A certain brilliant capacity for business that developed in him raised his position and salary in the firm until, as a director, he could retire on a competence. All this in ten years, that had changed him from a wastrel boy into a man of means.

But for the first year or two there had been a haunting terror in his life. In the accounts of the murder at Albery Chambers it transpired that Brinkman had gone to a floor above to see a friend.

The deduction was that someone entered his flat, forced his bureau, and, being caught in tbe act, stabbed Brinkman and fled.

As young Everest was known to have been posted at Cagnotte's rooms as a defaulter, on information received from Brinkman, and as the lad himself and his I.O.U.'s to Brinkman were missing, his guilt was a foregone conclusion.

But the evidence was purely circumstantial, until a man made a statement that was conclusive.

Mr. Jonas Merrick had resided for a year at Albery Chambers, on the top floor, leading a very quiet life. He declared that as he approached the house he saw a young man look furtively out from the doorway, and afterwards emerge and run swiftly away. His suspicions being aroused, he rang the bell for the night porter, and they went up in the lift and, finding the door of No. 8 open, entered, and discovered the tragedy. The police, therefore, had only to trace Philip Everest and confront him with this witness, to ensure a conviction.

Directly Elwyn read this statement, he knew that the man was the real murderer. Thinking it all over, he had decided that it would have been impossible for him, gripped as he was by Brinkman, even if the knife was still in his hand, to have stabbed the other man in the back. And in two details the statement was a lie. He had not looked out to reconnoitre from the door, and he had walked slowly to the end of that street, and the next, before starting to run.

In the course of some business transaction for the firm he came across a letter telling of an attempt Brinkman had made to jockey the writer in a money deal.

"Brinkman is a thorough-paced scoundrel," was a sentence that stuck in Elwyn's mind. "And, though he does not know it, Merrick was at the back of me in this enterprise, and Merrick is not a man who forgives."

It was after this that Elwyn determined to go to England, his parents' country, and settle there, putting the sea between him and any dread of recognition.

Chance brought him into contact with Professor Harley, who was in London at the time, studying at the British Museum, and, through the professor, with his only daughter Jacinth.

Elwyn's face grew strangely tender as he remembered their first meeting, and the revelation of perfect woman-hood that this girl with the wonderful eyes and radiant smile, and the individual femininity that makes some women seem the only woman to certain manly men, had been to him.

Jacinth's heart was untouched so far, and he resolved to win her. So when she talked of their little cottage home in Devonshire, he laid his plans of strategy, in which again chance seemed to give him a helping hand. He went down there a week before the Harleys were due to return, found that the Court was to be let, took it straightway, and built his hopes upon it.

One question obsessed him now as he walked along. Was this man Merrick— of all the hundreds of Americana who might settle in Devon— the one who had a grudge against Brinkman, and, if so, having himself to shield, would he recognise Elwyn and denounce him as, Everest?

So absorbed was he in this problem that he reached a stile, which opened on a sharp cutting, down to the village road, without seeing that someone was standing in the shadow of the hedge beyond, and it was with a violent start that he replied to a low laugh and the query, "In a brown study, Mr. Elwyn?"

The trouble in his face merged into unalloyed gladness as he said, "You're back? I thought it was to-morrow you were coming!"

Jacinth laughed again. "That's not nearly so surprising as finding you here," she said softly.

He laughed too. The joy of seeing her had banished all misgivings for the moment.

"I live here," he said.

The color flashed into her cheeks as she stammered, "You live here? Since when?"

"Since an hour age," he answered. "My address is Warren Court."

She could not speak. She had missed him, and this revelation held a meaning which she hardly dared to guess at. There is a silence so eloquent that it bridges over a space of countless words and makes a wireless line between two hearts.

Heedless of the danger hovering over him, Elwyn caught her hands in his, and let the headlong passion that was throbbing in every pulse have its way.

"Jassie, I meant to wait, but I can't— I love , you too much! I want you for my wife— I worship you! Don't send me away— let me try to make you care— Jassie— Jassie!"

The broken words hurried from his lips, while the clasp of his hands grew closer, and he drew her nearer to him. All the loveless, barren loneliness of his orphan, boyish days. All the deep feelings of a nature unstirred so far by emotional impulses towards women were merged in this devotion of body and soul; that she had inspired. It was a resistless torrent, and it carried her away on its surging tide. She was in his arms in another instant, and their lips had met.

Even that hour, so long gone by, when he knew that life and liberty were re-opened to him could not compare with the exultant, overwhelming rapture of this one. Voices in the road below sundered them, and he loosed her from his embrace, but the speakers passed on along the road.

"Father!" breathed Jacinth, in a whisper, "and Mr. Merrick."

The name was like a cold clutch at Elwyn's heart. It brought him violently back from the heaven he had just entered, and set him on the earth, alone, and in possible peril of his life.

She sensed some disturbance in his mind, and her hand stole gently into his.

"You need not be jealous of Mr. Merrick," she said. "I have never liked him. I cannot imagine why father does."

"They are friends?" asked Elwyn.

"Yes. Do you hate Mr. Merrick? I believe you do."

"I don't know him." Elwyn said.

She smiled. "Someone has told you of him, then."

"Yon mean," he questioned, "that he is in love with you?"

Jacinth made a wry little mouth: the smile had faded, and her lips were grave.

She spoke vehemently. "He dares to say so, sometimes," she acknowledged, "and when I forbid him to, and tell him that he is detestable to me. he says he shall wait— that everything comes to those who know how to wait. And he manages to see father nearly every day. They have a lot of subjects in common. I avoid him whenever I can. Don't let us think of him— to-day."

Her eyes grew luminous with love-light, and Elwyn banished the shadow from his mind.

"May I walk home with you?" he asked, "and wait till your father returns? I can scarcely believe yet that you care, Jassie. Say 'I love you. Percival.' "

She said it sweetly, with her lips to his. They walked along to the cottage, in its bower of crimson-ramblers, and when the professor returned Jacinth put her arm through her father's as she welcomed him at the door, and whispered that Percival Elwyn was there to see him about something important.

The professor looked down into her glowing face.

"Is the 'something important' my little girl?" he asked, and Jacinth nodded.

"Thank God," said her father, for it had been his only care that his motherless girl might find happiness in a home of her own before he himself "went west." And he had known all the while that Elwyn could be the man of her heart. Elwyn, waiting for his interview, heard the deep note of glad thanksgiving.

The words to the lease flashed back into his mind, and with them the germ of belief in this Divine Being that had been only an abstract vague nonentity in his thoughts until now.

Perhaps this wonderful priceless possession that had just come to him was the gift of God! Perhaps a stronger hand than that of Chance had led him from that room where his wayward self-indulgence died, killed by a violent death, to this fragrant house that held the deepest reverence of his heart.

He spent the evening at the cottage, and it was decided that he should take possession of Warren Court in the morning, and that the professor and Jacinth should come there in the afternoon and stay on to dinner. (It would be a house-warming— the preliminary to their home-coming.)  But, resolutely as he banished it, the phantom of fear returned with the night, and kept him sleepless until dawn.

He decided that he would meet this man Merrick at once. There was no object in waiting, and the strain would be intolerable.

Looking with earnest scrutiny in the mirror, he wondered whether anyone could recognise the lad of ten years hade la this mtere manhood. It MiMWl doahilut

By the time he had taken up his abode at Warren Court, and Jacinth and the professor came, he had reassured himself into a state of equanimity.

There seemed no cloud between them as he took Jacinth over the house that would soon be hers, and talked of their life together.

When they returned to the drawing-room the professor beamed upon them, and tea was waiting for the future chatelaine of the Court to dispense.

"By the way," said the professor, "I met Merrick this morning and told him our news. He asked if Percival hailed from America. There was a man called Elwyn connected with Yelland's business, he said, and he wondered if it was you."

The bolt had fallen. Elwyn knew instantly that jealousy would lead Merrick to penetrate into his past, and that the truth mignt come out and would be made a lever against his marriage with Jacinth. This was certain, even supposing that Merrick was not the man who had paid his grudge against Brinkman, and played for safety by a clever alibi arranged during that interval of Everest's unconsciousness.

But he kept his composure while he replied steadily, "Yes. L am a director of one of Mr. Yelland's concerns."

"Good!" said the professor, "Merrick is keen to meet you. He said he should pay a fiiendly call to-day. He may turn up at any moment."

They went out on the terrace after tea, and the wind, which was tempestuous, carried Jacinth's hat away, so that she and Elwyn pursued it together, laughing and breathless, like a couple of children. Returning, they saw in the distance, coming up the drive, a tall, muscular figure, with a strong, coarse-featured face, and eyes that were cold, and sharp, and cruel, like a wolf's when it scents its prey.

"Here is Merrick," said the professor, and went a few paces ahead towards his friend. Jacinth laid her band on Klwyn's arm.

"I hate him to come here!" she said under her breath; "we must bear it this time, for father's sake, but—"

She broke off. The two men had met and were greeting each other.

Merrick's eyes, going past the professor, had fastened on Elwyn, and his eyebrows were bent in a concentrated stare of inquiry that was changing to certainty.

Elwyn knew that his hour had come. There was no mistaking the light of amazed satisfaction in those cruel eyes.

Merrick advanced a yard, saying, "Mr. Percival Elwyn and I have met before— once! He won't remember me, but—"

The words were struck from his mouth, as, with a crash that might have been a thunderbolt cleaving its way through space, one of the tall, red chimneys that were the pride of Warren Court in their mediaeval workmanship detached itself from a crumbling socket, torn by the wind, and shattered itself at his feet.

The little group scattered in dismay, and, as Jacinth gave a startled cry, Elwyn caught her in his arms. She clung to him a moment, whispering, "Thank God it didn't hurt you!"

"A lucky escape," exclaimed the professor; "a miracle it did not kill one of us!"

But Merrick, looking past him at the lovers, made a gesture of furious hatred, his features convulsed by jealous passion.

"It would have been a judgment," he stammered hoarsely, while his face worked strangely in the stress of violent emotion. "I tell you, Harley, this Elwyn shall not marry your daughter. He— he—" the choking words refused to come, as he swayed, groped with his lingers blindly, and, before the professor could reach him, fell heavily and lay still.

They carried the insensible figure to the house, and a doctor was fetched, but Merrick did not regain consciousness, and drifted with the night into the eternal silence of death.

"A stroke brought on by the shock of the falling chimney," the doctor said, "and if he had survived it would have meant paralysis."

AND WHEN, later, Jonas Merrick's lawyers found, amongst certain papers he had confided to them to be kept unopened until after his death, a confession of how and why he killed James Brinkman, Elwyn, looking back, believed at last with his whole soul in "a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will."

For these two men who had preyed unduly upon their kind, death— swift and sudden!

For the heedless young offender who had been his own enemy rather than any other man's punishment that had cured, a redemption that had been worked out, and an unclouded future with the girl who was the best God-given thing of all.

____________________

5: Waif of the Bush

"Wanderer"

Geraldton Murchison Telegraph (W.Aust) 1 Oct 1898

I cannot identify this author.  It is tempting to think of Irish-Australian Mary Helena Fortune, who published many, many stories under the names "W.W." and "Waif Wander" from the 1850s onwards but this is unlikely.

DURING a drought in North-west Queensland I had retreated with a few horses to a gorge between two spurs of the Dividing Range, where a never-failing spring spread itself in rills over a little flat below, ensuring abundance of feed for a limited number of stock. I had come across the spot years before, while looking for strayed cattle, and made a note of its position, thinking that it might be a haven of refuge in time of drought, far removed from any human habitation— the nearest cattle-station being over sixty miles away— it was about the last place in which one would expect a visitor; yet, before I had been a week in camp, one had made his appearance.

I had just gone round the horses to see that they were all right, and returned to my fire, on which I was about to place the billy, when I was startled by a hoarse cry from a clump of bushes. It seemed scarcely human, and I waited for a repetition of it before going to investigate. It came again, and I thought I could distinguish the word "help."

In a minute or two I was at the patch of scrub, in my haste nearly falling over the prostrate form of the poor devil whose cry I had heard so opportunely. I thought at first that he was dead, so ghastly was his appearance, but a short examination showed me that he had only fainted. Picking him up, I carried him to the fire— he was wasted to a skeleton— and, seizing a bucket which stood handy, full of fresh water I dashed the contents over his head.

The effect was electrical. His eyes opened, and he tried to struggle into a sitting posture. The effort was too much for him, however, and he fell back, uttering inarticulate sounds, and pointing eagerly at the billy. Of course, I knew what he wanted, but I was not going to let him kill himself by drinking too much, so I got some water in a pannikin and mixed with it a little whisky, a couple of bottles of which I kept in my tent in case of emergency. Raising his head, I held the pint-pot to his lips and made, him drink slowly in sips. At first he could scarcely swallow, so swollen was his tongue, but by the time the whisky and water had disappeared, he was a new man. The colour began to creep back to his cheeks, the glassy look left his eyes, giving place to the alert and piercing glance which I afterwards learned was characteristic of them; and, finally, his tongue resumed its office and faltered forth thanks in broken tones.

"That's all right, old man," I said; "never mind trying to talk yet while. Lie back with your head on this saddle, and by the time the billy boils you'll be able to pick a bit of bread and meat."

He gave a sigh of satisfaction as he laid his head on the saddle, and, closing his eyes, seemed to dose off while I busied myself preparing supper. The fare was not very grand— only the usual corned-beef and damper— but rough as it was, my new-found friend would have cleared the bag, which served for a table, had I allowed him. I only gave him a little, however, cutting it up in small pieces, so that he could not choke himself.

The hot tea seemed to freshen him up more than anything, but I would not let him talk.

"I'll make a shake-down for you in the the tent." I said, when supper was over, "and after you've had a night's rest you'll be better able to tell me how you came to be wandering about like this."

With some green boughs and a spare pair of blankets I made up a comfortable bed for the stranger, and had the satisfaction of seeing him fall into a sound sleep almost as soon as he lay down.

So far as I could judge, he was about thirty of medium height and build, with black curly hair and a beard. One hand lay outside the blanket, and as I noted its shape and he texture of the skin, I came to the conclusion that he had been bred to something different from the rough life of the bush. I began to be quite interested in the companion whom chance had forced upon me, and was impatient for the morning to come that I might learn all about him.

But it was not till many a year afterwards that he unbosomed himself, and the only on condition that his story remained secret until after his death.

When he woke he was able to get up and walk without support, and a week afterwards he was as strong as ever. He told me he had been looking for work, and, having left the main track in search of water, has lost himself, and wandered about for four days, most of the time in a state of semi-madness, caused by thirst.

Beyond saying that his name was Harry Player, and that he had only been four of five years in Queensland, he gave me no information as to his previous career. I asked him if he knew anything about droving, and he said he had done one trip with cattle, so I invited him to remain with me till the drought broke up, and then to accompany me on a trip for which I had been engaged some time previously. He gladly availed himself of the opportunity, and a welcome companion he proved during weary months of waiting till the rain came. He was full of interesting information— indeed, he seemed to have visited nearly every country on earth— and he conversed brilliantly on many abstruse subjects.

During all our talks, however, he made no reference to the part he himself had played, and, after one or two ineffectual attempts to draw him out, I refrained from questioning him.

At last the rain came, We had been growing rather anxious, as the stock of provisions which I had laid in dwindled rapidly under the attacks of two hungry men, and the surrounding country had become absolutely impassable for anything but a bird. It was with no small satisfaction, therefore that we saddled up one fire morning, and rode away through a once more fair and smiling campaign for the nearest township.

For six or seven years Harry and I worked together, each succeding year knitting closer the friendship between us. Some seasons later, we were crawling slowly down the Paroo with a mod of fats, when Harry rode up to me and said:—

"I've had a presentiment for the last two or three days, Tom, that something is going to happen, and in case of accidents, I want to tell you the secret of my past life, so that in case I do go under you can let my people know."

"Don't talk rubbish," I said. "I'm surprised that a man like you believes in presentiments. You'll live to see me planted, and I have no intention of shuffling off for many a long day."

He smiled sadly. "I hope you're a true prophet," he replied, "But I'm going to tell you all the same. Perhaps you won't care for my company when you know that I'm a murderer?"

"A what! Are you mad, or only having a lark with me?"

"Neither," he replied quietly. "In the eye of the law a murderer, pure and simple, although I killed my man in fair fight, and I have been hunted from one end of the earth to the other until I found a refuge in the Australian bush I may as well tell you the story right from the beginning.

"I am, as you may have guessed, an American. My ancestors were among the first settlers in the Southern States, being of French extraction. As I was an only son, and my father was enormously wealthy, I'm afraid I was rather spoilt during my boyhood. A few years at, school and college had a salutary effect, on me, and I bid fair to become a model country gentleman by the time I should be called upon to take over the management of our large property. My father wished me to see as much of the world as possible before settling down, so I spent two or three years roaming about, visiting many places undreamed of by the average globetrotter. At the end of that time I found myself in Vienna, and was making preparations to return home, when I received a letter from my father, saying that he was about to come to Paris with my mother and sister, and asking me to proceed thither and engage suitable apartments. I had been in Paris before, and was nothing loth to revisit the gay city, so in less than a week I was comfortably installed in gorgeous apartments in the Rue du Helder. My father, mother and sister arrived in due time.

"To say that I was astonished by my sister's altered appearance would be a mild way of putting it. When I left home she was a tall, gawky, angular, girl of fifteen, with nothing remarkable about her except her eyes, which were wonderfuly large and brilliant, but now she burst upon me in the full blaze of matured and rounded beauty, such as you see in perfection only in the Southern States of America. I felt quite proud of such a sister, and laughingly prophesied that her path through the season then opening would be strewn with slain. She smiled, and said she hoped her charms would not prove fatal to anyone. After her first ball she became the rage. No one was talked of in society but 'La belle Americaine,' and wherever she appeared she was surrounded by admirers, each vieing with the other to obtain a smile from the beauty of the hour, whose charms were rendered doubly potent by the fact that she was known to have a very rich father. Among so many it was difficult to single out any individual for particular favour, but as time went by I began to feel sure that Mario was encouraging the attentions of young D'Albert, whom I know to be an utterly unprincipled man, and unworthy of any woman's affection. I warned Marie that she was laying up trouble for herself, but was promptly told to mind my own business. I could see by her heightened colour, and the way she blazed up when I hinted that D'Albert was not fit to associate with any decent woman, that he had made an impression on her warm, passionate heart, and I left the room in which our short but sharp encounter had taken place pondering as to how I could best show him up in his true colours, and thus cure my sister of her ill-advised attachment. I made my way to one of the cafes, where I sat down, and, ordering a 'book,' gave myself up to reflections which were, anything but pleasant.

"I must have sat thus for over half an hour, when I was roused by the sound of D'Albert's voice and, looking up, saw him sitting two other men slightly known to me. As the spot where I sat was shadowed by a trailing vine, they had not noticed my presence. They were discussing my sister in that particularly objectionable style, affected by so-called men of the world. I was about to make them acquainted with the fact that I was within earshot when D'Albert uttered a remark which sent the blood surging through every artery. What he said I will not repeat; his words embodied such an insult as could only be wiped out with blood. Springing to my feet, I dashed aside the hanging vine, and the next instant stood before the slanderer. There must have been murder in my face, for, directly he saw me, he turned white. With one stride I was beside his chair and, stooping, hissed into his ear,  'Liar, liar, liar!'

"He rose quietly and bowed— he had the pluck if he was a blackguard— and said— " 'Where and when you please, monsieur. I presume an apology is useless.'

" 'Do you wish to make the insult deeper?' I cried, 'Gentlemen,' tuning to the other, who sat open-mouthed, will you be so kind as to leave M. D'Albert and myself alone for a while? We have business of importance to transact.'

"They rose at once, and, bowing politely, departed. When they were out of earshot I turned to D'Albert.

" 'Now, then, sir,' I, said, ' let as waste no time. Meet me in half an hour in the Luxembourg garddens. I am indifferent as to what weapon you choose, but I suggest revolvers.'

" 'As you please,' replied he, 'and about seconds?'

" 'No seconds are required,' I answered. 'We will toss for first shot, and the survivor can explain matters if he chooses, that is, if there be a survivor.'

" 'Are you aware that you are planning what will be called murder?'

" 'I care not one straw. If we have seconds we must explain the cause of our quarrel, and that I will never do. If you won't agree to my plan I'll throttle you where you stand and take the consequence.'

"He bowed.

" 'I shall be at the rendezvous in half an hour, monsieur,' he said.

"He walked rapidly away, while I sprang into a passing cab, and, driving to the nearest gunsmith's purchased a revolver, after which I proceeded to the place of meeting. I found my antagonist awaiting me, and in silence we walked to the bottom of the gardens where we were pretty secure from interruption. Here I measured off twelve paces, and, my opponent agreeing to the distance, we tossed for the first shot. I won, and the diabolical glee which filled my heart must have shown itself in my face, for my opponent remarked:—

" 'Monsieur's skill with the revolver is well known. Let me advise him in the event of an accident'— he smiled grimly— 'to lose not a moment in quitting France, for my father will leave no effort untried to bring him to the guillotine.'

"So saying he walked to his place, and, folding his arms waited for death, not a tremor betraying his knowledge that his hour had come. he did know it though, and so did I. I knew that I would kill him with my first shot, and I did. The bullet struck him straight between the eyes, and he fell forward and lay quite still. As I saw him prone at my feet the mists of unholy passion seemed to clear away from my brain, and the horror of the situation struck me. Had it been possible I would gladly have changed places with him.

"Not a day has passed since then that I have not seen him thus, with the evening sun shining on his pale face. My first impulse was to give myself up, but then I thought of the effect a public trial would have on my mother and made, up my mind to fly.

"Making my way home I sought my father, from whom I obtained a cheque for a large sum, under the pretext that I wished to purchase a valuable pair of horses. This I cashed at my club, and ere the sun had risen on another day, I was flying from Paris, well disguised, as fast as steam could carry me. In less than three days the police were after me, but, clever as they were, they were a bit too late; nor have they ever laid eyes on me since, although they hunted me from city to city, from country to country, for more than five years, till at last I gave them the slip for good by disappearing into the Australian desert. Those terrible years have made me look much older than I really am, but latterly I have been able, to sleep in peace. Now you know more about me than any other living soul, and in the event of my death I want you to write to my people and send them one or two little things which I have managed to keep through poverty, hunger, and distress. Perhaps you won't want to have anything more to say to me now, though, eh?"

Harry turned and smiled mournfully at me.

I was so deeply affected by his story that I could only grasp his hand in token of my unchanged friendship; he seemed satisfied. I rallied him on his despondency, and tried to laugh him out of his idea of approaching trouble, but my efforts were in vain.

Within three days Harry was dead. He was riding along quietly next afternoon, with one leg thrown side-saddle fashion over the pommel, when his horse stumbled and threw him. None of us could tell how or where he was hurt— he had only a few a scratches externally— but from the first he knew he was dying, and said so. I stayed with him to the end.

I HAVE SOMETIMES wondered since whether the story was all true, or all of fancy born— for men long by themselves in the bush get into the habit of weaving romances and then believing them to be true. I found Harry so straight a man, all the time we were together, that I would have taken his word for anything. Perhaps, if he had given me some clue to the where-abouts of his people, my curiosity would have been satisfied.

____________________

7: Intrigue

Mark Channing

1879-1943

Daily News (Perth) 21 July 1938

'MY orders stand, Eminence!' blustered Sigismondo the Merciless, Duke of Commacio, a burly man in purple velvet slashed with black satin. 'My men-at-arms march at dawn!'

The Borgia Cardinal's robes rustled as an elbow found the chair-arm and a lean chin was sunk into a wrinkled hand. He looked like, an immense scarlet bird whose brown eyes were warily watching a suddenly-sighted enemy. The Pope's ambassador slightly shrugged spade-like red shoulders.

'Then, your Grace will set aside the Holy Father's wishes and lead your forces in person?'

Sigismondo flushed darkly, and for a moment the astute Borgia thought he had gone too far. He had been specially warned not to provoke the savage temper for which Sigismondo was notorious.

'Ebbene, Eminence!' said the Duke, guttural with suppressed fury. 'Since you say that it is the Holy Father's wish that I should not personally support a cause which I have judged to be one that should be settled by the sword— Ebbene, I say! I will not fight! Another shall wage war for me!'

His knuckles whitened round his poniard hilt.

'THE Holy Father's concern  touching peace with Spain is known to you,' he said. 'One might even say that the Vatican's policy depends upon the Duke of Commacio!... A dangerous responsibility, my son!' He spoke protestingly, but with a certain persuasive finality.

The Holy See was all-powerful in the sixteenth century. A gloved hand crashed on to the table. Duke Sigismondo abhorred contradictions— from others.

'For me, Eminence, Spain is now the foe of Italy! When the dukedom of Commacio lapses— as it will at my death, since I have no heir— the Holy Father may order my army as he will. I say again: My men-at-arms march at dawn!'

The Cardinal regarded thoughtfully tthe amethyst on his middle finger, turning it to catch the light. A subtle diplomat, he knew this violent, orgy-loving duke was but a clumsy handler of diplomatic weapons. But his orders from the Pope had been urgent and clear:

'At all costs, Sigismondo of Commacio must not act against Spain.'

For over an hour the Cardinal had been probing the sensual rubbish-heap of the Duke's mind, to discover the secret cause of his sudden change of attitude towards the Spaniards. Most of Commacio's crimes had for foundation some beautiful woman: so far, in the present case, his spies had not been able to discover one— a fact that his Eminence found as unusual as it was baffling.

The Cardinal's eyes quitted the wine-colored fires of the amethyst and met the bloodshot stare of a man whose boast it was that nobody had ever defied him and lived.

'Upon whom will your Grace confer the honor of going in your stead? Rome will be interested, even though she be sad!'

The Duke's small eyes were barely visible behind their ramparts of red fat.

'Lorenzo Gismondi will command my forces!'

ONCE again, but this time more thoughtfully, the Cardinal studied the amethyst.

Three days ago Lorenzo Gismondi had brought his young bride to Commacio to present her to the Duke, and every evening since her arrival Sigismondo had talked and danced with none but her. At last the secret was peeping from its murky hiding-place.

'Va bene,' said His Eminence slowly, rolling the words on his tongue as if he were, tasting a savorsome dish. 'Rome will rejoice to hear that you are sending another to replace you in the forefront of the hottest battle, as the Old Testament expresses it!'

The glances of the two men clashed. Sigismondo had understood the Spanish Cardinal's covert allusion to the sin of King David and Bathsheba. He laughed defiantly, but his eyes were deadly. Any man save this Borgia had brought down upon himself torture and death for such a hint.

'Rome sets too high a value on my poor life,' he said. 'But even you, Eminence, will be unable to overrate the value of my Spanish cook! Tonight you shall judge his art, and meet Lorenzo Gismondi!'

Being also a fin gourmet.' his Emminence smiled affably. 'I look forward to this evening, Duke! Even in Rome we have heard of your... cook! You warriors of the North besides fearing nothing keep better cooks than we of the South do. We are more timid; and love fruit more than flesh? Why is it, think you, that we fear— sometimes— the revenge of a woman?'

Sigismondo gave a snarling half laugh.

'The only woman to be feared is she who bears to him who loves her no sons!'

'But if a man outrage a woman whose heart is not his— is she not to be feared, my lord?'

The insinuation was icy. Sigismondo sneered. This conversation irked him.

'We Commacios care not whether the women we desire give us their hearts or not, Eminence. We break them. There is no danger in a broken thing!'

Here was no fencing, but brutal hack-and-thrust.

'Bare feet are cut by broken glass, Excellency!' The Borgia smiled thinly.

'We Commacios go always steelshod, Eminence!'

The Cardinal straightened his little red skull-cap. 'Steel may be an obstacle as well as a remover of obstacles, my son!'

Once more he shrugged scarlet-clad shoulders.

'Ebbene! I shall not eat, this midday that I may be better able to. appreciate the wonders of your.... Portuguese cook!' (The Borgias were of Spanish origin.)

FROM his window in the Commacio palace that evening the Cardinal watched the flaring lights of the flambeaux as long lines of torchbearers clad in the green and yellow parti-colored livery of the Duke inarched into the great courtyard to take up their positions. In half an hour the banquet would begin.

On each side of each step in the sweeping curve of the marble staircase, and at four-yard intervals along the wide Piazza, with its slender carven columns and pointed trefoil arches, stood a man with a flaring, smoky torch in a broad-lipped iron holder. The leaping shadows pleased his Eminence. There was no moon, and the fountain in the centre of the courtyard seemed to be spouting molten bronze— towards a dark-blue sky spangled with brilliant stars that recalled to the Cardinal an Oriental image which compared the night sky to a black horse decked with pearls.

The beauty of the chiaroscuro suited the Borgia's present mood. It reminded him, quite pleasantly, of life and death; of the unsteady brightness, of life as compared to the everlurking, always in the end triumphant darkness of death. In fact, the possible nearness of death to three separate and distinct people had been occupying his Eminence's thoughts ever since that morning.

Those three were: Duke Sigismondo of Commacio, Lorenzo Gismondi, and his young wife, Madonna Beatrix. To which of them, first, would... or should... death come?

Placidly looking down Into the courtyard, the Cardinal— churchman only in name— pondered the question. If Lorenzo Gismondi's wife died tonight (and very shortly she would probably wish to die) there would be no war.  Sigismondo would no longer want to get rid of Gijmondi ...If Sigismondo were to die suddenly tonight, his army would be disbanded.

A thin lower lip was pinched meditatively. So much depended upon 'urgency' and 'the consequences' in these cases. He would talk to the Duke again during the banquet. There was still time; Gismondi had not yet started.

Meanwhile, he reviewed some of. the instances in which murderous intrigue had effected its purpose and important political ends had been successfully served— the strangling of the Princes of Biseglia, Vitolozzo, and Pierre de Medici.... The black-and-orange chiaroscuro was beginning to pall.

TAKING from a pocket a slender folding knife with a mother-of-pearl handle set with emeralds, the Borgia opened its thin gold blade, and selected a magnificent peach from a gold dish at his elbow. In all Italy there were no peaches like those from his Eminence's gardens at Forli. He never travelled without a supply of them.

With the artistic delicacy of a connoisseur, he stripped the skin from the glistening flesh of the fruit. That done, for a moment he studied, abstractedly, a call-bell standing on the. table by his side. The bell had been sculpted by the great Benvenuto Cellini and represented Adam and Eve standing on the world, their bodies— one on either side of a tree around which was coiled the Tempter— forming the handle. Eve was handing Adam the fatal apple.

With a curious little thrill the Cardinal observed that Eve's small golden hand held, not a whole apple, but a half fruit. Like sunlight on yellow ivory, a slow smile dawned in the Borgia's face.

Putting out his hand he rang the bell, a forefinger-tip caressing the tiny half apple as he did so.

THE POMP and glitter of that banquet pleased even the critical eye and splendor-surfeited soul of the Borgia. The soft light of more than a thousand candles was reflected in a mass of gold-plate, flushing the immaculate whiteness of great banks of lilies and causing the goldandsilver threads in the wall-tapestries to glow like thin streaks of living fire, so that the eyes and weapons of the figures took on a strange realness. In the centre of the main table weire set four high-backed chairs embossed with the ducal arms in colors.

Outwards from this principal table ran three other tables like the arms of an 'E'— one from the centre and one from either end. The warm, heavily perfumed air was filled with music and a babble of conversation and laughter. Duke Sigismondo had not under-stated the wonders to be provided by his Spanish cook. The soul of the gourmet Cardinal was rejoiced by the sight of smoking piles of sausages made of pigs' brains, or mortadella di Cremona, Ferrarese sturgeon, Lombard quails and peacocks stuffed and decorated with oysters which were sprinkled with gold-dust. Gold-dust was held to strengthen the heart. The Cardinal's thin nostrils quivered with delight when all these delicious odors asasiled them.

DUKE Sigismondo was gorgeous in claret-colored satin and cloth of gold. His broad chest and shoulders were ablaze with jewels and crosses and chains of orders, the gems in which flashed prismatically with his slightest movement. On his right sat the Cardinal; slim and vivid in the scarlet robes of a Prince of the Church and fair with the fairness of the Borgias, his brown eyes watchful with the unsleeping Borgia watchfulness.

On the Duke's left sat a girl so serenely beautiful that she might have been the model for Bernardino Luini's 'Madonna.' Her tall suppleness was robed in olive-green velvet trimmed with ermine, and on her dark hair was a diamond-patterned net of shimmering pearls. The delicate oval of her patrician face was pale, though for that glittering throng Beatrix Gismondi was esteemed Fortune's latest favorite in having so attracted the Duke's attention.

The chair on her left was vacant. The vacancy of that fourth chair was occupying the Cardinal's thoughts to the. exclusion of all else. Suddenly Duke Sigismondo heaved himself round.

'Well, Eminence! Did I lie when I said my cook was a cardinal among cooks?'

His Grace slid a few inches downwards in his chair. He had been drinking continuously. The Cardinal leaned forward, but his gaze was on Madonna Beatrix's face. She was almost too young and beautiful to die in a few moments— as he intended she should.

'The consequences,' however, demanded it...

'Answer me, man!' demanded the Duke loudly. 'Did I lie?'

'The Dukes of Commacio never lie— to the Church,' responded his Eminence, suavely. And once more his eyes met the girl's who, seeing the pity in them, smiled at him faintly. Here, evidently, was someone who understood her danger and her loneliness.

'MADONNA!' said the Cardinal softly, ignoring Sigismondo, who was now throwing rose-petals at a vividly painted young Contessa on the other side of the table. 'Madonna Beatrix, will you consent to share with me one of these peaches? They come from Forli. People say that they are as delicious as those which, grew in the Garden of Paradise!... Is it not so, my lord?'

He turned to Sigismondo, raising his voice as if he had suddenly recollected his host's presence. The Duke glowered. He had been rebuffed by the Contessa and wanted to sulk. But, as it happened, peaches were his favorite fruit. The sight of these seemed to make his parched throat refreshingly cool. Carefully the gold-bladed knife was opened. With a delicate precision an equator was traced with its extreme point round the velvety curve of the fruit. The thin skin of the peach parted under the knife point, allowing the starting juice to pearl, like dew-drops on a yellow rose, the cut golden-velvet of the peach skin. Then with a swift sureness the Cardinal divided the fruit into two halves. Sigismondo passed his tongue over his bearded lips and leaned his bull neck towards the Borgia.

'You said,' he remarked thickly, 'that the Dukes of Commacio lie not to the Church. I lied! I bade Gismondi start before the banquet! Absolve me, then!'

The eyes of the Borgia glittered, but he was still smiling.

'Behold the token of my absolution!' He slid one half of the peach on to the Duke's plate. Then he passed the other half to Madonna Beatrix, who, cutting it into small pieces, began to eat it. Sigismondo snatched up his half and bit into it savagely— once, twice. His cheeks bulged, and with a quick knuckle he arrested a slaver of juice trickling down his chin.

THROUGH the open windows floated the thin silvery notes of a trumpet. It seemed to the Cardinal as if Madonna Beatrix had been expecting it, for she immediately— and for the first time that evening— turned and looked directly at the Duke. Her cry of horror as her eyes encountered the convulsed face of the last Duke of Commacio was cut short by the ringing tones of the Borgia.

'Summon a physician! It is an apoplexy!'

Unnoticed, he wiped the poisoned side of the slim gold-bladed fruit knife on the coat of a nuzzling greyhound. Then swiftly he crossed to the balcony of the great central window, from where Madonna Beatrix, pale as death, was looking down at the armored figure of her husband in the courtyard below.

Lightly the Cardinal laid a benedictory hand on her head. 'Lorenzo Gismondi!' he said benignly, 'The Duke of Commacio decided tonight that it is to be peace with Spain! Fortunately, it is possible— sometimes— to suddenly change one's plans!'

____________________

8: The Dancing Partner

Jerome K Jerome

1859-1927

From Novel Notes, 1893

"THIS STORY," commenced MacShaugnassy, "comes from Furtwangen, a small town in the Black Forest. There lived there a very wonderful old fellow named Nicholau Geibel. His business was the making of mechanical toys, at which work he had acquired an almost European reputation. He made rabbits that would emerge from the heart of a cabbage, flop their ears, smooth their whiskers, and disappear again; cats that would wash their faces, and mew so naturally that dogs would mistake them for real cats, and fly at them; dolls, with phonographs concealed within them, that would raise their hats and say, 'Good morning; how do you do?' and some that would even sing a song.

"But he was something more than a mere mechanic; he was an artist. His work was with him a hobby, almost a passion. His shop was filled with all manner of strange things that never would, or could, be sold— things he had made for the pure love of making them. He had contrived a mechanical donkey that would trot for two hours by means of stored electricity, and trot, too, much faster than the live article, and with less need for exertion on the part of the driver; a bird that would shoot up into the air, fly around and around in a circle, and drop to earth at the exact spot from where it started; a skeleton that, supported by an upright iron bar, would dance a hornpipe; a life-size lady doll that could play the fiddle; and a gentleman with a hollow inside who could smoke a pipe and drink more lager beer than any three average German students put together, which is saying much.

"Indeed, it was the belief of the town that old Geibel could make a man capable of doing everything that a respectable man need want to do. One day he made a man who did too much, and it came about in this way:

"Young Doctor Follen had a baby, and the baby had a birthday. Its first birthday put Doctor Follen's household into somewhat of a flurry, but on the occasion of its second birhday, Mrs. Doctor Follen gave a ball in honor of the event. Old Geibel and his daughter Olga were among the guests.

"During the afternoon of the next day some three or four of Olga's bosom friends, who had also been present at the ball, dropped in to have a chat about it. They naturally fell to discussing the men, and to criticizing their dancing. Old Geibel was in the room, but he appeared to be absorbed in his newspaper, and the girls took no notice of him.

" 'There seem to be fewer men who can dance at every ball you go to,' said one of the girls.

" 'Yes, and don't the ones who can, give themselves airs,' said another; 'they make quite a favor of asking you.'

" 'And how stupidly they talk,' added a third. 'They always say exactly the same things: "How charming you are looking tonight." "Do you often go to Vienna? Oh, you should, it's delightful." "What a charming dress you have on." "What a warm day it has been." "Do you like Wagner?" I do wish they'd think of something new.'

" 'Oh, I never mind how they talk,' said a fourth. 'If a man dances well he may be a fool for all I care.'

" 'He generally is,' slipped in a thin girl, rather spitefully.

" 'I go to a ball to dance,' continued the previous speaker, not noticing the interruption. 'All I ask of a partner is that he shall hold me firmly, take me round steadily, and not get tired before I do.'

" 'A clockwork figure would be the thing for you,' said the girl who had interrupted.

" 'Bravo!' cried one of the others, clapping her hands, 'what a capital idea!'

" 'What's a capital idea?' they asked.

" 'Why, a clockwork dancer, or, better still, one that would go by electricity and never run down.'

"The girls took up the idea with enthusiasm.

" 'Oh, what a lovely partner he would make,' said one; 'he would never kick you, or tread on your toes.'

" 'Or tear your dress,' said another.

" 'Or get out of step.'

" 'Or get giddy and lean on you.'

"'And he would never want to mop his face with his handkerchief. I do hate to see a man do that after every dance.'

" 'And wouldn't want to spend the whole evening in the supper room.'

" 'Why, with a phonograph inside him to grind out all the stock remarks, you would not be able to tell him from a real man,' said the girl who had first suggested the idea.

" 'Oh, yes, you would,' said the thin girl, 'he would be so much nicer.'

"Old Geibel had laid down his paper, and was listening with both his ears. On one of the girls glancing in his direction, however, he hurriedly hid himself again behind it.

"After the girls were gone, he went into his workshop, where Olga heard him walking up and down, and every now and them chuckling to himself; and that night he talked to her a good deal about dancing and dancing men— asked what they usually said and did— what dances were most popular— what steps were gone through, with many other questions bearing on the subject.

"Then for a couple of weeks he kept much to his factory, and was very thoughtful and busy, though prone at unexpected moments to break into a quiet low laugh, as if enjoying a joke that nobody else knew of.

"A month later another ball took in place in Furtwangen. On this occasion it was given by old Wetzel, the wealthy timber merchant, to celebrate his niece's betrothal, and Geibel and his daughter were again among the invited.

"When the hour arrived to set out, Olga sought her father. Not finding him in the house, she tapped at the door of his workshop. He appeared in his shirt-sleeves, looking hot but radiant.

"Don't wait for me,' he said, 'you go on, I'll follow you. I've got something to finish.'

"As she turned to obey he called after her, 'Tell them I'm going to bring a young man with me— such a nice young man, and an excellent dancer. All the girls will like him.' Then he laughed and closed the door.

"Her father generally kept his doings secret from everybody, but she had a pretty shrewd suspicion of what he had been planning, and so, to a certain extent, was able to prepare the guests for what was coming. Anticipation ran high, and the arrival of the famous mechanist was eagerly awaited.

"At length the sound of wheels was heard outside, followed by a great commotion in the passage, and old Wenzel himself, his jolly face red with excitement and suppressed laughter, burst into the room and announced in stentorian tones:

" 'Herr Geibel— and a friend.'

"Herr Geibel and his 'friend' entered, greeted with shouts of laughter and applause, and advanced to the centre of the room.

" 'Allow me, ladies and gentlemen,' said Herr Geibel, 'to introduce you to my friend, Lieutenant Fritz. Fritz, my dear fellow, bow to the ladies and gentlemen.'

"Geibel placed his hand encouragingly on Fritz's shoulder, and the Lieutenant bowed low, accompanying the action with a harsh clicking noise in his throat, unpleasantly suggestive of a death-rattle. But that was only a detail.

" 'He walks a little stiffly' (old Geibel took his arm and walked him forward a few steps. He certainly did walk stiffly), 'but then, walking is not his forté. He is essentially a dancing man. I have only been able to teach him the waltz as yet, but at that he is faultless. Come, which of you ladies may I introduce him to as a partner? He keeps perfect time; he never gets tired; he won't kick you or trad on your dress; he will hold you as firmly as you like, and go as quickly or a slowly as you please; he never gets giddy; and he is full of conversation. Come, speak up for yourself, my boy.'

"The old gentleman twisted one of the buttons at the back of his coat, and immediately Fritz opened his mouth, and in thin tones that appeared to proceed from the back of his head, remarked suddenly, 'May I have the pleasure?' and then shut his mouth again with a snap.

"That Lieutenant Fritz had made a strong impression on the company was undoubted, yet none of the girls seemed inclined to dance with him. They looked askance at his waxen face, with its staring eyes and fixed smile, and shuddered. At last old Geibel came to the girl who had conceived the idea.

" 'It is your own suggestion, carried out to the letter,' said Geibel, 'an electric dancer. You owe it to the gentleman to give him a trial.'

"She was a bright, saucy little girl, fond of a frolic. Her host added his entreaties, and she consented.

"Her Geibel fixed the figure to her. Its right arm was screwed round her waist, and held her firmly; its delicately jointed left hand was made to fasten upon her right. The old toymaker showed her how to regulate its speed, and how to stop it, and release herself.

"'It will take you round in a complete circle,' he explained; 'be careful that no one knocks against you, and alters its course.'

"The music struck up. Old Geibel put the current in motion, and Annette and her strange partner began to dance.

"For a while everyone stood watching them. The figure performed its purpose admirably. Keeping perfect time and step, and holding its little partner tight clasped in an unyielding embrace, it revolved steadily, pouring forth at the same time a constant flow of squeaky conversation, broken by brief intervals of grinding silence.

" 'How charming you are looking tonight,' it remarked in its thin, far-away voice. 'What a lovely day it has been. Do you like dancing? How well our steps agree. You will give me another, won't you? Oh, don't be so cruel. What a charming gown you have on. Isn't waltzing delightful? I could go on dancing for ever— with you. Have you had supper?'

"As she grew more familiar with the uncanny creature, the girl's nervousness wore off, and she entered into the fun of the thing.

" 'Oh, he's just lovely,' she cried, laughing; 'I could go on dancing with him all my life.'

"Couple after couple now joined them, and soon all the dancers in the room were whirling round behind them. Nicholaus Geibel stood looking on, beaming with childish delight at his success.

"Old Wenzel approached him, and whispered something in his ear. Geibel laughed and nodded, and the two worked their way quietly towards the door.

" 'This is the young people's house to-night,' said Wenzel, as soon as they were outside; 'you and I will have a quiet pipe and glass of hock, over in the counting-house.'

"Meanwhile the dancing grew more fast and furious. Little Annette loosened the screw regulating her partner's rate of progress, and the figure flew round with her swifter and swifter. Couple after couple dropped out exhausted, but they only went the faster, till at length they remained dancing alone.

"Madder and madder became the waltz. The music lagged behind: the musicians, unable to keep pace, ceased, and sat staring. The younger guests applauded, but the older faces began to grow anxious.

" 'Hadn't you better stop, dear,' said one of the women, 'you'll make yourself so tired.'

"But Annette did not answer.

" 'I believe she's fainted,' cried out a girl who had caught sight of her face as it was swept by.

"One of the men sprang forward and clutched at the figure, but its impetus threw him down on to the floor, where its steel-cased feet laid bare his cheek. The thing evidently did not intend to part with its prize so easily.

"Had any one retained a cool head, the figure, one cannot help thinking, might easily have been stopped. Two or three men acting in concert might have lifted it bodily off the floor, or have jammed it into a corner. But few human heads are capable of remaining cool under excitement. Those who are not present think how stupid must have been those who were; those who are reflect afterwards how simple it would have been to do this, that, or the other, if only they had thought of it at the time.

"The women grew hysterical. The men shouted contradictory directions to one another. Two of them made a bungling rush at the figure, which had the end result of forcing it out of its orbit at the centre of the room, and sending it crashing against the walls and furniture. A stream of blood showed itself down the girl's white frock, and followed her along the floor. The affair was becoming horrible. The women rushed screaming from the room. The men followed them.

"One sensible suggestion was made: 'Find Geibel— fetch Geibel.'

"No one had noticed him leave the room, no one knew where he was. A party went in search of him. The others, too unnerved to go back into the ballroom, crowded outside the door and listened. They could hear the steady whir of the wheels upon the polished floor as the thing spun round and round; the dull thud as every now and again it dashed itself and its burden against some opposing object and ricocheted off in a new direction.

"And everlastingly it talked in that thin ghostly voice, repeating over and over the same formula: 'How charming you look to-night. What a lovely day it has been. Oh, don't be so cruel. I could go on dancing for ever— with you. Have you had supper?'

"Of course they sought Geibel everywhere but where he was. They looked in every room in the house, then they rushed off in a body to his own place, and spent precious minutes waking up his deaf old housekeeper. At last it occurred to one of the party that Wenzel was missing also, and then the idea of the counting-house across the yard presented itself to them, and there they found him.

"He rose up, very pale, and followed them; and he and old Wenzel forced their way through the crowd of guests gathered outside, and entered the room, and locked the door behind them.

"From within there came the muffled sound of low voices and quick steps, followed by a confused scuffling noise, then silence, then the low voices again.

"After a time the door opened, and those near it pressed forward to enter, but old Wenzel's broad head and shoulders barred the way.

"I want you— and you, Bekler,' he said, addressing a couple of the elder men. His voice was calm, but his face was deadly white. 'The rest of you, please go— get the women away as quickly as you can.'

"From that day old Nicholaus Geibel confined himself to the making of mechanical rabbits, and cats that mewed and washed their faces."

___________________________

9: The Withered Heart

G. G. Pendarves

(Gordon Trenery, 1885-1938)

Weird Tales Nov 1939

DEAR JOHN,

If a fifteen years' friendship means anything to you, come at once. Sorry to hustle you like this, good old slow-worm that you are, but we've simply got to go into session about this thing before the month's out. The Ides of March are on Tuesday next. May 31st, this year.

My whole future is at stake and you've got to come and help. It's a very very queer thing, and Jonquil and I don't agree at all about it. I wish to heaven we'd found the box earlier and had more time to argue it all out. I see Jonquil's point of view, of course, and feel in a way bound to carry on for her sake, but— well, you know my- views about playing round with any- thing like magic and necromancy. Jonquil says I'm morbid, still— Oh, well! come and see us through it.

Rafe,

May 27th, 1938.

I TRIED to pretend to myself that I couldn't go, that I wouldn't go! But even as I made these protestations inwardly, I was giving instructions to the boy, Joe, who daily and conscientiously thwarts my best efforts to grow flowers, fruit and vegetables. For a quarter of an hour or so my foredoomed struggle went on.

"—and Joe! that gallon of weed-killer is for the whole lawn, don't pour it over one dandelion root.

"It's merely one of his latest ideas, he gets them like measles. I won't he fooled into rushing off and leaving my garden just now.

"Joe! if you let that dog bury his bones in the new seedling-bed, I'll kill you when I get back and bury you with them.

"All rubbish about his future! Another few weeks would make all the difference here! Why next Tuesday?

"Don't forget the quassia for the gooseberries, Joe!

"—and what the devil has magic to do with his future? No! I won't go! I won't waste—"

By this time I was in the potting-shed, kicking off my heavy shoes and scrambling hastily into another and cleaner pair. Like iron to a magnet, I was drawn to the house where my mind continued to carry on acrimonious debates while my body intelligently took no notice of my mental disturbance and obeyed my will.

I packed a bag, interviewed my old housekeeper who expressed her disapproval of my plans by serving up watery coffee and an India-rubber omelette for my lunch, and set off within the hour with parting instructions to expect me back in God's good time.

It would have been more fitting to have said in the devil's own time. So far, however, no tinge of the saturnine malice which had, after a lapse of two centuries, begun to manifest itself, darkened the joyful anticipation of seeing my friend, Rafe Dewle.

I clambered into my old Austin-Twelve and set her battered bonnet northwards. Those last hours on the open road when life was still free and untainted! Never, never again shall I experience anything like them. Knowledge has crippled imagination since then— evil polluted every spring of happiness.

On Shap Fells I stopped to cool my engine. Around me, yellow gorse breathed out its honey perfume; bumble-bees fussed to and fro as I lay stretched out on the heath and watched white cloud-feathers drift in the blue above. I slept for a brief spell on the warm breathing earth with the thin lonely call of curlews in my ears and the sense of hoary guardian hills all about me.

In sleep, the first faint brush of evil touched me. I dreamed that I journeyed on— on into a dark valley where, amidst mist and darkness and confusion, I felt the approach of invisible and threatening hosts. Yet I must go on swiftly— swiftly! Someone was waiting. Someone was in danger. I must hurry, hurry, hurry!

I woke to find my sunlit hemisphere all dark and angry. The great hills reared up threateningly into thunderous cloud-banks. Gusts of wind scattered the golden gorse- bloom and whistled the coming storm along over shivering grass and heather.

With a sense of urgent fear left by my dream I started my car and dropped by long winding loops of road down to the valley, and, as I tore along leafy green lanes toward Keswick this fear persisted. Once past the town, I drove even more quickly, cutting across the head of Borrowdale under dark Helvellyn's shadow and along the unfrequented road which led to Braunfel.

The rambling old manor house lay some twelve miles from town. I'd known it well when Rafe and I were boys together. His people had been wealthy landowners before 1914. The war took their men. The lean following years took their money and lands. Braunfel was on its last legs, financially, and I wondered why Rafe hadn't sold up before his marriage. I couldn't reconcile what little I knew of Jonquil French with the austere bare life that Rafe's inheritance otfered. Their meeting and the marriage that so swiftly followed had been romantic and impassioned, a sort of Lochinvar affair; for Rafe had snatched her from another and very wealthy suitor almost at the church doors.

So characteristic of him and that hot Magyar blood of his! Even the lovely spoiled Jonquil French had succumbed to it. But for how long?

His letter indicated the thin end of a wedge to my mind. I'd met his bride in London and had not particularly liked her— not the wife for Rafe at all. I'd no idea what was the mysterious "thing" the pair disagreed about, of course, and I wished he'd been more explicit. Planning a good sensational story for me, no doubt. He loved being melodramatic.

At last I could see the bulk of Braunfel ahead, gray in shafts of pale clear light piercing a curtain of rain. About it, wide untended meadows stretched. Behind, the bare face of the fell, where only stumps remained of the great fir forest that had been so beautiful a background to the an- cient house. War victims, those sheltering lovely trees! And no plantations showed their young green promise for the future. How gaunt Braunfel appeared! Not only that— it was positively sinister.

I tried in vain to put the thought away. There was a look of boding grimness hanging over the massive pile that even neglected lands and bare scarred hillside could not wholly explain.

My old car splashed along the last mile of muddy lane between high ragged hedges. The road turned and twisted like a sea-serpent. Preoccupied and depressed, I took a sharp angle and put on my brakes with a curse. A tall and very agile figure seemed to leap from right under the Austin's bonnet.

"Rafe! What the deuce "

"Hello! Hello! you old mud-turtle! I forgive you— don't apologize!"

He opened the car-door, slid his long legs under the dashboard, put an arm about my shoulders and grinned in the old familiar way.

"You're a marvel, John. I didn't really count on your coming until tomorrow, but I got so restless thinking you might turn up that I've been hanging round for the last hour here. Never been so glad to see your solemn old mug in my life!"

My heart grew light at sight and sound of him. Marriage had not altered him as far as his friendship and affection were concerned; they were mine still, perfectly unchanged, the warmest, strongest tie I had in the world.

I grunted and glowered up at his face, dark as a gipsy's, lighted up with the inner fire that burned so strongly in him. I never knew man, woman, or child with so glowing, so intense a quality.

"Same old mad March hare!" I grumbled. "I'd hoped marriage might have given you a grain or two of sense. I suppose you realize you've practically ruined my garden for the next six months by dragging me up here?"

"Splendid! I have made a hero of you!"

He burst out into a wild barbaric song and yelled and yodeled until I drowned him with my car's horn. The noise was insane. We broke down and laughed like hyenas at last and I drove on feeling younger than I'd ever expected to feel again— my twenty-eight years had weighed heavily since Rafe's marriage.

SATURDAY, May 2Sth. Once under the steep gabled roofs of Braunfel, my bubble of delight was pricked. The sight of Jonquil French— Jonquil Dewle I should say— brought back the formless fear of my queer dream on Shap Fell. Why the sight of a girl like a princess in a fairy-tale should depress a man, I didn't know. Jealousy? No, neither of Rafe nor of his exquisite bride.

I had been jealous, afraid she'd come between us: I knew now most emphatically that she had not. Nor did I envy him. A woman has never yet roused the passionate thrill of joy I feel at sight of a perfect flower. It's no use arguing with me, I can't help it; that's the way I'm made.

"Mr. Fowler— John, I mean! How perfect that you've come! What a relief! You simply can't imagine what a time I've had lately. How lovely and large and shy you look! Isn't he too perfect, Rafe?"

"Certainly not. I refuse to live with two perfect beings. John's a mere man like myself."

She blew him a kiss, pirouetted round the dark paneled room like a little red flame blown on the wind, dropped on one knee before me and raised her hands in an attitude of prayer.

"Dear, dear John! You are perfect! Oh, if you could only see yourself. Just like a lovely solemn pine tree planted in the middle of our library. Please, please may I kiss you— I really must."

In a flash she was on her light dancing feet, her arms about me, her pleading face upraised. I bent a stiff reluctant head, received a moth-like touch on my lips and watched her and Rafe clasp each other in ecstatic amusement.

"I take it back, darling." Rafe wiped his eyes. "He certainly is— perfect."

"Well, now you've settled that, perhaps you'll start explaining things. You haven't brought me here to point out the singular beauty of my character?"

"No," chuckled Jonquil. "But you wouldn't be of any use to us unless you were such a perfect wise old owl."

Her smile glanced like sun on running water.

"Not time to explain before dinner. It's a long, sad tale. Rafe will take you up to your nice large drafty room, and when you hear a sound like a bull being massacred— come down for dinner. Rafe's invented a patent bugle-thing he uses when I'm late for meals; he's too lazy to walk the half-mile upstairs."

Left to myself in a bedroom whose size and dignity made me feel some- thing like a small dry ham-sandwich on a platter designed for the traditional boar's head, I pushed open a diamond-paned lattice window, slumped down on the broad uncushioned seat beneath it and glared out at the cobbled garth below. Pigeons kept up a low bubbling complaint from roofs of stables and outbuildings— ruinous affairs, minus doors and windows, their slates and stones stained with centuries of rain, their woodwork gray and cracked, weeds, moss and lichen a green-gold signal of defeat.

It wasn't the garth, or the many evidences of poverty elsewhere that worried me, however, as I sat listening to the broo! broo broo of the pigeons. It was the thought of Jonquil.

It was impossible to do more than put into mere words her remarkable beauty, and what are words when it comes to a young, living, exquisitely made creature like her. She had crisp red-gold curls, eyes of changing deep warm brown that reminded me of wallflowers in sunlight, a milk-white skin, and body so light and quick in movement, so sure in poise, so extraordinarily expressive of her every mood that she seemed winged— a brilliant tropic bird darting and flashing to and fro.

But it was the will behind her laughing eyes that frightened me. Her will— blind, ignorant, unyielding, a terrible weapon in her reckless hands!

Abruptly, my dream possessed me again.... I was hurrying along that dark valley into mists and darkness and confusion— someone needed my help— I must hurry, hurry, hurry. And now Jonquil was beside me, her hand on my arm, her voice laughing, persuading, telling me to come back, come back, come back— she hindered me— I could not shake off her detaining hand. Her clear laugh prevented my hearing what my ears were straining for. I only knew I must hurry, hurry, hurry— in the gathering darkness ahead someone needed me....

It wasn't until after leaving the dinner-table, graced no longer by Queen Anne silver and Waterford glass, that I realized the significance of Jonquil's inclusion in my disturbing and recurring dream.

Rain and wind turned the May night to chill discomfort. Rafe lighted the big library fire, piled up fir-cones and logs until a heartening blaze warmed a respectable area of the lofty room with its moldering books, threadbare rugs and worm-eaten oak.

Stimulated by tobacco, whisky, and Rafe's company I began to discount my boding fears again— but not for long. Jonquil was eager as Rafe seemed reluctant to enlighten me. He yielded to her importunity at last, lifted down an iron casket from a high bookshelf and set it on a heavy table near the fire.

"There you are, lady and gentleman!" he made an exaggerated showman's gesture. "This is the Luck of Braunfel and guaranteed to supply your heart's desire. To make its magic work you need a nice round full moon, a strong belief in ghosts and devils, and a bottle of my best whisky inside you. These will qualify you to commune with a Benevolent Gent who died two hundred years ago in the hope of an extraordinary Resurrection from the Dead."

His nonsense wasn't well received. The sight of that twelve-by-eight inch box filled me with a nasty crawling sensation of hor- ror. I set down my glass and stared at it in silence.

Jonquil ran up to the table, tried to pull the box from beneath Rafe's long brown fingers.

"It's not fair— it's not fair to tell him like that! You're trying to prejudice him. Let me show him! Let me tell him!''

Instantly he became the bland infuriating nurse with a spoiled child, patted her shining coppery curls with one hand and imprisoned her impatient fingers with his other.

"Now! Now! Now! Remember there's a little visitor here, darling! Don't forget your pretty manners!"

He kissed and put her back in a chair with another admonitory pat on the head.

"This is my Ancestor! My Benevolent Gent— hereafter known as B.G., and I will not be intimidated by a woman with red hair!"

I knew Rafe well. He was stalling now. It was a very old habit of his to approach anything he deeply disliked with idiotic badinage. Well, he might deceive Jonquil, but not me. So I sat tight and waited. My hands and feet grew cold in spite of the hot cheerful fire. I was most acutely awake, my eyes on Rafe's face, when that cursed dream of mine recurred... a dark long valley stretched between us... he faded, dissolved into distance and smoky dark confusion....

"John! What is it?"

I FOUND myself on my feet, blinking stupidly down into Jonquil's alarmed face. Rafe was staring at me across the table, his mouth open in surprise.

"Cramp?" he inquired. "Must have been a bad twinge. I never heard you yell like that before."

"Cramp!" I echoed feebly, then pulled myself together. "No— it's a tooth— going to have it out."

I mumbled apologies, filled my glass, drank and felt considerably better. My mind cleared.

"Let's get down to business." I waved my pipe toward the box on the table. "I want to know where I come in. Let's have the story straight, mind!"

"John, you are such a darling! When you look at me like that through those enormous specs I feel just like a criminal before a judge."

Jonquil sat very stiffly and raised a hand as if to take an oath:

"I promise not to interrupt— unless I have to."

She tucked her little green slippers under her, curled up in the corner of a settee, and assumed an air of child-like innocent patience. I watched her with a pang. She was so sure of herself. She knew so exactly what she wanted— and intended to get it at all costs.

"Well?" my voice was brusk with anxiety as I turned to Rafe. "Bring out the skeleton in the cupboard."

His lips twisted in a rather doubtful smile.

"Queer you should say that. It's not exactly a skeleton, but it is part of a dead body."

"What? Your Ancestor, did you say— was he embalmed?"

"His heart was."

He lifted the casket's heavy lid as he spoke. A breath of thin cold air blew across my face and neck as I leaned forward to watch. I hated to see him standing over that beastly box; there was something so repulsive and ominous about it that my flesh crept when his fingers touched its rusty lid. Intuition told me that he did more than open a lid— he opened a door to something deadlier than plague.

It was a relief to my taut nerves to see him take out two tangible objects and set them on the table. One was a fat little book, fastened with broad brass clasps and bound in solid leather. The other— I got to my feet and went to examine it more closely.

My gorge rose at sight of tire dark dried thing. I've seen mummies, and some were hideous enough. I've prowled about laboratories and examined scientific specimens preserved in fluids, and many were fairly revolting to a mind and imagination like mine. But this little horror, black and withered, with a strange metallic sheen! In amazement I drew still closer, unable to credit my sight. Then I straightened up with a jerk and glanced at Rafe.

"It's living! It beats— the thing beats!"

He nodded— "Since 1738, according to his tombstone date."

I saw he shared my revulsion. I forced myself to touch the heart, and drew back in horror at finding the dark withered bit of muscle was warm.

Jonquil clapped her hands. "You see! You see! Now perhaps you'll persuade Rafe to do it. Oh, he must— he must!"

She could contain herself no longer and flashed across to us. There wasn't a vestige of fear in her eager face as she put out a delicate exploring hand and touched the withered heart. Her faith in it, her strong will to test it, lent the dreadful thing power, and I saw it swell under her fingers— saw the throbbing pulse beat stronger, fuller.

"No! Don't!"

Rafe's voice sharply admonished her. His hand snatched back her own. She looked from him to me and laughed, but the red-brown eyes were bright with impatient anger.

"How exasperating men are! You look like two old hens with a duckling! I didn't think you'd be afraid to, John."

She gave me a stormy scornful glance. Next moment she was curled up in her corner again, sudden as a puff of wind.

"John, darling!" her voice was honey-sweet now; "that's a heart of gold. Quite literally a heart of gold for Rafe and me— if he chooses! Oh, I see what you're thinking. You're a sentimentalist like Rafe. I'm not. His heart won't reduce the Bank's overdraft, you know. That"— she flicked an airy hand toward the table— "that heart will."

I caught Rafe's glance at her and sharply realized his carefully concealed unhappiness. His shining tower of romance was fast changing to an old house in need of repair. The solitary countryside where he and she would walk in dreams was being reduced to an estate whose every hedge and gate and meadow clamored for money— money— money! I'd never felt the pinch of my own straitened circumstances before, but now I hated myself— I'd have given anything to put things right for Rafe. And I hated Jonquil too— unreasonably, fiercely, for making him unhappy.

I didn't answer her. I was watching Rafe as, with swift distasteful touch, he took up the repulsive little heart, restored it to its metal box and dropped the lid with a clang.

Then he picked up the squat leather book and I followed him to the fire- side.

I was convinced he was as much relieved as I to have that beastly heart out of sight

"Don't tremble in your shoes, old man! I'm not going to read this tome right through. It's full of queer stories and experiments that don't concern our problem directly. This is the really juicy bit that does."

He drew a stiff yellowed crackling sheet from a pocket of the book's cover and unfolded it with a flourish.

"This is the apple of discord in the house of Dewle! This is the bee in Jonquil's bonnet! This is what's muting the family lute! A scrap of paper— a thing capable of starting anything in the world— wars, duels, murders— all the trouble that is, or ever will be."

"A check for £1,000,000 is a scrap of paper I'd love to see— with your name on it, dearest!"

"It was only £100,000 this morning," he reminded her, "Even a B. G. has limits, you must remember."

"And those that don't ask, don't get," she retorted with a flirt of her red curls.

"Well, we'll see what John thinks of my ancestor. Count Dul's billet-doux." He gave me a swift glance. "There's a preliminary but I'll spare you about his grave. It's been lost for generations, but Jonquil discovered it after reading this."

I could see the black thick lettering through the semi-transparent paper as Rafe held it up. He seemed to know it pretty well by heart, to judge by the way he galloped through the closely written lines:

This document concerns only those in whose veins my blood doth run, and who bear the ancient name of Dul. Let any such read these words with faith to believe and courage to obey, and to them will I grant the wish that lies most closely to their heart, be it for life beyond mortal span, for riches, for fame, or for the sweet delights of love. Let him who would seek my aid ask in the full knowledge that I, Count Dul, have power to give him his desire.

For his part, he must most strictly observe such instructions as are writ hereafter, failing not in any particular. Let him take careful heed therefore to obey.

THE DEED MUST BE DONE UPON A CERTAIN NIGHT and that the first night of a month of June when the moon is at the full between its second and third quarters.

I MUST BE SUMMONED BY ONE WHO STANDS BESIDE MY GRAVE and in such words as are graven upon the inner side of the Box in which this docu-
ment shall be discovered, together with the Book and my Heart.

AT THE FIRST LINE OF THE CONJURATION MY KINSMAN SHALL LIGHT A FLAME and it shall be of oil poured out in a black bowl and set at the foot of the grave.

AT THE SECOND LINE HE SHALL SPRINKLE EARTH UPON THE GRAVE and it shall be earth which fire has made bitter, and rain has washed, and the four winds blown upon.

AT THE THIRD LINE HE SHALL SET MY HEART AT THE HEAD OF THE GRAVE; then, kneeling beside it, he shall cut his left hand until his blood drops from it upon the heart.

LASTLY HE SHALL SUMMON ME IN A LOUD VOICE AND PRONOUNCE HIS WISH. And I shall hear him. And I will come to him. And whatsoever boon he asks, it shall he his.

Rafe stopped reading as abruptly as he'd begun, and held out the paper. "You can read the Conjuration yourself. It's a bit melodramatic to declaim aloud just now."

I read in silence, then sat staring into the fire. The touch of the paper, its crabbed evil lettering and the hateful words themselves filled me with loathing.

"Well?" Rafe continued. "How's that for an ancestor? Jonquil's convinced that if I do my little song and dance he'll come rushing back from— well, this Book leaves no doubt from where— with a Present for a Good Boy under his ghostly arm."

"Yes, I'm convinced he would."

"Oh, John! You dear! You absolute darling!" cried Jonquil. "You do think there's something in it? You really and truly do! Oh, I'm thrilled. Rafe's been so exasperating about it. Now he'll simply have to give in."

"I didn't say that I agreed with you," I interrupted.

She sat up with a jerk, scattering cigarette ash over the satin iridescence of her dress. Black cold rage possessed me, brain and body. I knew I'd never make her understand— spoiled lovely little materialist that she was. Superstition urged her to snatch at this promised wealth. Ignorance blinded her to the hideous risk.

"You don't agree with me? You've just said you believed the Count could and would return!"

"Yes. I believe that."

"Well?" Her face grew radiant again. "Then you're just teasing! You are on my side, after all."

"No. Once and for all, I'm utterly against you. The man that wrote that promise and left behind him that foul thing"— I pointed to the box on the table— "must have been the devil's own brother."

"Oh-h-h!" wailed Jonquil. "You're not going to talk about demons and dangers and unlioly powers, too! Rafe's been croaking like a raven for three whole days— and now you!"

"Go to it, old man!" urged Rafe. "She won't take it from me, but perhaps you can make her see it's not just money for jam."

I knew I couldn't move her, but I tried— explained, reasoned, argued, all to no purpose.

"It's no use trying to frighten me. You believe Count Dul can be brought back," she repeated for the twentieth time, "and that he could make Rafe a rich man. That's enough for me. He's only a ghost, poor thing! Perhaps he was just a harmless eccentric old man. Wouldn't make a will. Wanted to give it himself to his descendants."

"Harmless! What about that heart of his— beating two hundred years after his death? D'you think unaided human knowledge could leave that behind? Count Dul will surely return if the door is opened to him. But it's forbidden. The dead may not— must not return."

"I can't see why not. You don't actually know any more than I do myself. You've read a lot of stuffy books and believe everything in them. I haven't. I'm unprejudiced. I'm willing to take risks."

"You mean to let Rafe take them." Rafe, who'd sat listening with a queer twisted smile, laughed out at this.

"Hear! Hear! Exactly. Is she to do a pantomime scene at midnight by the grave of a disreputable old nobleman? No! Is she to chat with a two-hundred year old devil-worshipper in the moonlight? No! Is she asked to shed her good red blood on a thing that looks like a bit of cat's meat? No!"

"Well, Rafe, darling! It probably is all nonsense and I'm tired of arguing about it. Still—"

She jumped up from the settee and stood before the fire, facing the two of us.

"John has helped me, after all." She dropped me a mocking curtsy. "Yes, you dear old Solomon! You've helped enormously. Now I feel absolutely certain there is something in it, or you wouldn't be so worried.

"You know, darling," she turned to Rafe, "you promised to be guided by John's opinion. He's given it. He completely believes in your ancestor. And so do I— now! I'll never forgive you if you don't take a chance and try this thing out."

"Jonquil!" I was on my feet now, almost incoherent with fury. "What I be- lieve in is the risk— the damnable risk of trying such a thing. You only believe in the money you want and shut your eyes to anything else. D'you suppose for a moment that dead Thing has waited two centuries to give you a fortune?"

She burst out laughing. "John, if you could only see yourself! You look like one of the Minor Prophets in action! There's a picture in the National Gallery that exactly—"

"Rafe!" I was almost shouting now. "You know enough, if she doesn't, to realize the wicked insanity of doing such a thing. D'you remember Harland and the sticky end he came to? And Browning who's gibbering away in an asylum? They happen to be men we know personally, but think of the hundreds of others who've been fools enough to think necromancy's a mere parlor game— who've deliberately walked into hell! It's hushed up— such cases always are. People are called mad, or reputed dead of heart attacks, etc. The truth is too beastly to publish."

"There's a good deal in what you say." Rafe had assumed a poise of amused detachment now. "I've not delved into occult lore as you have, old man. I dislike what I know, however. Still, Jonquil's attitude of 'nothing venture, nothing win' has a lot to recommend it."

She flew to him, took his hand in both her own.

"Oh! I knew, I knew you'd be an angel! You really mean to try it out?"

His answering look at her eager lovely face, his gesture as he rumpled her flaming aureole of hair, was sufficient for me. She'd won. My hot angry opposition had decided him, had pushed him into doing so. And I cursed myself for a pompous muddle-headed fool. I'd tilted the balance down— down to hell. If I'd kept calm and laughed at Count Dul, made light of the whole affair. Jonquil's belief might have faded. I'd lost my temper with her— lost my best chance by forcing Rafe to take her part....

My dream enveloped me in its swirling vapor. ... I was driving furiously down that long desolate valley — in the cloudy smothering darkness I heard a voice— Count Dul! Count Dul! Count Dul! The piercing cry was echoed by howls of laughter from the swirling mists— I drove on— on— someone needed me— someone I loved, needed me....

SUNDAY, MAY 29th. I spent a night of wretched anger and self-reproach and misery, interspersed with lapses into the haunting terror of my dream.

Rafe found me at eight a.m., empty pipe between my teeth, sitting on the stone parapet of a bridge, my thoughts dark and cold as the water I watched so gloomily. "Not worth the usual penny, I can see!" Rafe came to perch beside me.

"Still, there's some excuse for you. Enough to make anyone broody— my estate! Reminds me of the hymn, 'Change and decay in all around I see'."

He patted me on the back.

"Cheer up, Jacko! And don't worry about the way things have turned out. This way— or another! What odds? I'm tremendously bucked up to have you here, and I'm bent on enjoying myself while I can. Forget Tuesday night— forget it! After all, you never know."

His look, his voice, his friendly touch cheered me. After all, as he said, one never did know! It was a relief to let myself be bluffed by his absurdly high spirits. Depression slipped off like a wet cloak as we tramped home for breakfast as carefree as if the pair of us had nothing more on our minds than a boat-race, or a thesis to be finished.

Jonquil appeared in high feather at the breakfast table— adorable with Rafe, mockingly sweet with me. And, of course, she scarcely talked of anything but Count Dul— how and when and where and what was going to happen about the wealth with which the family fortune was to be restored.

Rafe refused to be serious for even a moment about the B.G., as he called the Count. He was in the unreasoning fey mood that always seized him before any special test in our college days.

"I think the date's a mistake," he remarked. "The old boy meant April 1st." I didn't remind him that the last night of May, this year, was peculiarly fitted for Count Dul's return. He knew considerably more than he acknowledged of ceremonial magic. It was unlikely that the significance of next Tuesday's date had escaped him. Together, as students, we'd read the Fourth Book of Philosophia Occulta, and the works of Pirus de Mirandola, and the Grimoire of Pope Honorius.

Above all, he'd read the book which Count Dul had left behind him. I'd borrowed and read it too, from cover to cover, and it was plain that Rafe's ancestor had, after many experimental essays, followed the teachings and practises of the infamous Lord of Corasse. These entailed observance of astronomy and, according to them, such a purpose as the return of the dead could only be accomplished at certain rare conjunctions of the stars and moon and planets. Rafe must be aware of these facts.

"Perhaps," Jonquil's face sparlded with excitement, "perhaps it will be priceless old jewelry he brought from Hungary. Count Dul was the first of your family to settle in England, wasn't he, Rafe?"

"He came because he was pushed," he replied. "They found he'd smuggled emeralds mined in the High Tatra Alps, He escaped from a particularly spectacular death connected with rope and four horses by a miracle— and, tradition records, by the aid of the devils he served."

"Emeralds!" breathed Jonquil, her eyes two deep pools of ecstasy. "How I adore emeralds! I shall keep the very most beautiful for myself, Rafe. You can sell the rest if I have just one perfect stone to wear."

"Certainly, Madam!"

He whipped out a notebook and pencil and assumed a business-like air.

"Let me see, now! What size and color does Madam prefer? I would not like to order something unsuitable. Oval, round, or square? Green or rose-red?"

"Rose-red," she took him up promptly. "A very very large square-cut stone set as a pendant with diamonds."

He licked his pencil and printed her order laboriously.

"You can take off that superior smirk, my child," he assured her. "There are such things as rose-red emeralds."

Their discussion went on to the end of the meal. Then she announced that we were all going to climb Hawes Fell.

"I've found a black bowl for the oil. All we need now is the earth."

"Earth! Climb up five hundred feet on a good Sabbath day of rest! Your breakfast has flown to your head, child. Think again— what about my untilled acres?"

"Doesn't it say the earth must be bitter with fire, and washed with rain, and blown on by the four winds? Very well, then. Wasn't there a heath-fire on Hawes Fell last month? It's as black as soot now and soaked in rain, and every wind in the world blows up there."

She'd made up her mind. It was to be earth from Hawes Fell, and the remainder of the day was spent in getting it.

TUESDAY NIGHT, MAY 31st. Tuesday morning— afternoon— night. At last, Tuesday night.

Rafe and I stood waiting for Jonquil in the library. It was after eleven p.m. In a few minutes we should set out across the fields to where Count Dul's grave lay. From the Book he'd left it was clear that in England, as in his own native country, the Count had been excommunicated by the Church and his body buried therefore in unconsecrated ground. It was Jonquil's indefatigable curiosity that had discovered the grave with its broken headstone in one of Rafe's outlying meadows. It was this initial discovery that had first determined her to carry out the remainder of the Book's instructions.

"Who actually found the metal box?" I asked now.

The constraint between Rafe and myself on this last day had made me desperate. He'd steadily avoided being alone with me until now, although I'd persistently sought such opportunity, for today Jonquil had, for the first time, weakened in her project.

Too obstinately proud to say outright she was afraid, she'd endeavored in roundabout ways to get Rafe to change his mind. He'd refused to rise to her bait, brushed aside her every tentative move toward canceling the date he'd determined to keep with his B.G.

But her wavering had given me a gleam of hope. Perhaps I might persuade him out of his insanely dangerous rendezvous even now. I felt sure Jonquil had given me this last chance to do so.

"Was it you who found the box?" I repeated.

He gave me a queer slanting look, half speculative, half sad.

"It found me," he laughed. "Slipped from the top of a bookshelf. I haven't the slightest recollection of seeing it in the house before. Never heard my father mention it. Must have been pushed out of sight somehow— it fell with a crash right at my feet and the Book and the B.G.'s heart rolled on the floor."

"Rafe! Don't go on with this. Even Jonquil doesn't want it now. You know— you surely know the risk. Why will you—"

He caught my eye, and changed color.

I saw he was trying to bring himself to answer me, and waited. He began to speak in quick, almost stammering words.

"Yes, I know the risk. I know, old man, but— I must go on now. It's been heaven— these last six months with Jonquil— heaven! But it can't last. We married in haste, but I'm damned if I'll let her 'repent at leisure.' It's a million to one I'll come through— with money, or without it, tonight, but— she'll remember I've tried."

"Rafe! You can't... you won't "

"I will. It's easier to die than to lose her. I can face any hell but that."

"But she's going to— to lose you. And she's afraid of that now. She'd be glad— thankful if you gave up."

He smiled, as he'd smiled a thousand times when I'd missed some obvious point.

"Dear old chap! You don't know Jonquil. She's temperamental— just working up to the proper goose-flesh mood for tonight's orgy. No use, John! I'd never live it down if I failed her now. She's a child, an adorable child. I've had more than most men— and I'm choosing the easiest way out."

Jonquil's light step sounded on the un-carpeted old stairway.

"Ready?" her shining curls appeared round the door. "It's after eleven o'clock. We ought to start."

We went out to the great, echoing hall; our feet, on the old-fashioned red tiles, clanked dismally.

"This the picnic basket?" Rafe took up Count Dul's box from an oak chest. "Got the champagne and oysters, dear? Right! Let's start,"

THE night was cool, almost cold. Wind stirred in the tree-tops. Tall solemn elms on either side of the avenue whispered uneasily as we passed between their double ranks. Overhead a brilliant sky of stars, and a proud moon sailing in full majesty.

I wondered if any remote world up there was like the one I trod; if any other beings knew such bitterness and horror and evil as we did on our earth. I wondered if I could go on living here— alone, when Rafe— when Rafe—

Suddenly my dream blotted out moon, stars, and earth.... I had reached the end of that awful valley— breathless, spent from long pursuit— before me a broken pathway descended to the lip of a yawning chasm. And along that path, walking with steady purposeful tread, a man's tall figure loomed. Rafe— it was Rafe! In agony I stumbled after him....

My dream blew like mist from across my vision. I was back in a country lane with Rafe and Jonquil, under the full moon's menace, the moon that would pres- ently light Count Dul from hell.

"Here's our field-path.'' Jonquil turned aside to an old stile of flat stones laid with gaps between to keep cattle from crossing.

We followed her, cut across a field to another stile and across it to the desolate overgrown rocky bit of wasteland that was our objective. In another minute Jonquil stopped and pointed.

"There! There it is!''

The white merciless moon showed up every grass-blade and flower and stone of the hummock before us. Nature had flung a poisonous pall over the dead, and even the moon's glare could not blanch the blotched evil of henbane, viper's bugloss and deadly nightshade, or the scarlet- spotted fungus on Count Dul's grave. A cracked and sunken headstone leaned awry at the head of it. The worn lettering showed only a few words of whatever in- scription had been cut two hundred years ago— COUNT DUL... DIED 1738 ... A WARNING TO ALL WHO READ....

Rafe looked at his watch, glanced up at the moon as it climbed to its fateful meridian. He'd doffed his armor once more. With mocking brilliant smile he looked down on the horrible grave and airily kissed his hand.

"Rafe!" Jonquil's brows went up in anxiety. "You must be serious."

"Darling! I'm sure the B.G. wouldn't like it. Think what a gay old dog he was in his time. Think how much he must have enjoyed himself to have tried for two centuries to get back again. Must make his little trip enjoyable, you know! About time I got to the front door to meet him. I suppose it's no use arguing any more— you won't go home?"

"For the hundredth time— no, dearest! You might take my rose-red emerald and run off with some other pretty lady."

She was looking up into his face and, even to my jaundiced eyes, was a sight to stir the blood of any man. For a second, Rafe's devil-may-care mask dropped, his dark burning eyes and drawn features showed such anguish that I started forward with a cry. This was my dream... his tall figure— so dear, so obstinate, so tragic— moving steadily onward to the edge of an abyss....

At once he recovered himself. Behind the brilliant smile he turned to me I read entreaty. He wanted me to take Jonquil away. He was in terror of what she would see and hear, in terror that she might be endangered too. But I knew also, and it was the only poor comfort I had left, that he wanted me- — needed me as he and I always needed each other in a tight corner.

No one on earth— nor from hell— should move me from that graveside, and I confess I was glad that Jonquil should be there also. I wanted to spare her nothing.

I hoped if Rafe did not survive that she too would be destroyed.

I don't know how much of my thoughts he read, but in any case she wouldn't have left with me. He turned away, opened the metal casket, lifted out of it the withered pulsing heart and set it down at the head of the grave under the deeply sunken head-stone.

My fascinated gaze was held by the horrible little thing. I saw it throb and quiver to the beat— beat— beat of whatever infernal power quickened life in it. I saw its dark withered walls gleam in the moonlight like tarnished copper.

At the other end of the grave, Rafe uprooted a clump of spotted henbane, set down a small black bowl and poured oil into it.

Jonquil's small hands clasped in excitement. She watched with dancing eyes, her curls ruffled about her eager flower-like face.

Rafe glanced at his watch again, smiled once more at Jonquil. He didn't look to- ward me — I was thankful for it.

"Now for my old B.G. Stand back! Stand back, there!" he waved an imperious hand. "Make way for the Count Dul— make way "

He took from his pocket the crackling parchment on which the conjuration was written, its black lettering very plain in the moonlight, ran his eye over it for the last time, although I was certain every word of it was stamped deep in his memory.

His voice rang out as I'd heard it ring on the playing-fields when we were boys together:

For your sightless eyes— this Flame!

He stooped to set alight the oil in the black bowl.

For your fleshless bones— this Earth!

He scattered dry dark soil from the basket.

For your withered heart— this Blood!

He knelt, held out his left hand and slashed it with a knife until blood dripped upon the heart. Then he got swiftly to his feet. His loud voice challenged the dead:

Wake from your sleep, Count Dul!

Rise from your grave, Count Dul!

Return from the dead, Count Dul!

Give me wealth — wealth for my boon!

My body was turned to ice, my feet rooted to the ground, my whole being concentrated on Rafe's tall rigid figure stand- ing at the graveside — at the mouth of hell.

His last word echoed and reverberated like an organ-note; louder— louder it swelled and boomed, until the quiet night hummed and quivered, and the poisonous grave-weeds slowly withered, blackened, lay in dust, until the earth beneath them cracked widely open and the burning oil shot up into a red roaring fire that was cold as wind off an ice-field and seemed to lick the stars.

It froze the tears on my cheek. It chilled even the unbearable anguish in my heart.

The heart— in the red flame's brilliance— shone, incandescent, fiercely alive, then vanished.

In that moment the flame sank to earth again, the noise of its burning ceased— silence far more ominous fell, while overhead the great moon looked down in passionless survey.

The grave yawned widely open; from its void rose a wisp of dark smoke that turned and wreathed and twisted and coiled in ever denser volume as it swelled and blew and eddied to and fro above the gaping grave, blind, purposeless, uncertain. Then a nucleus formed in the vaporous evil, a dull purplish-red heart-shaped glowing core about which the dark mist swiftly formed and re-formed to a tall swaying pillar— an imperceptibly growing outline— a recognizable human body whose white face of damnation stared into Rafe's, whose awful rotted hands reached out to touch, to hold, to bind him fast.

And now I could not distinguish Rafe from the smothering infernal Thing itself. It swirled about him. It covered head and hands and feet from sight. When he moved, he moved within the enveloping darkness. When his face turned to me I saw only the dreadful livid face of the dead.

Still I was frozen there, unable to speak, to move, to do more than see and hear the Thing that now moved forward with fixed pale staring eyes and loose dark lips that mouthed and laughed and whispered as it came.

I could not turn to look at Jonquil. I felt her arms about me, clutching— I felt her warm soft body pressed to mine, her face against my cold and empty heart. I heard her long shrieks echoing above the thin dry whisper of the Thing that steadily advanced— nearer— nearer.

It halted beside us. Now I could. see Rafe's tortured eyes, his face and form behind the clouded horror that enfolded him— he was shut up inside it like a chrysalis in a dark cocoon. He was Count Dul— Count Dul was Rafe!

Next moment Jonquil was plucked from my side. Her body was flung down on the dew-wet earth, her curls gleamed as two hands met about her throat, ' choking a last thin cry...

The Thing that killed her rose and moved back to the grave. Now I coifld see Rafe more distinctly beneath the wavering cloud of evil. His dreadful garment grew thin and patcliy, drifted from him, lost density and outline as it hovered over the open grave.

And the grave's darkness sucked it down out of sight, back to the hell from which it came.

The yawning hole closed up. The ugly weeds grew rank again upon the hummock. A sunken headstone leaned awry at its end.

In the same moment, I was released and ran stumbling over the long grass to where Rafe lay huddled.

A MONTH later. Rafe was not dead.

But he would have died— he would have died if that devil hadn't barred his way out!

By some infernal miracle, and after lying unconscious for a week, Rafe woke to full possession of his faculties. No memory was spared him of that fatal resurrection, or of Jonquil's unthinkable end.

He lives to remember it hour after hour, day after day, week after week.

For another two months his torture will endure. Then he will be hanged. That much is certain. He confessed to the murder of his wife and stands trial next week. He'll plead guilty and there'll be practically no defense. Neither he nor I mean to confess a word of the actual truth. It would condemn him to years and years of life as a criminal maniac — remembering — remembering....

A murderer— and a millionaire! Oh, yes! Count Dul kept his promise. A will turned up when the Chief Inspector of Police was going through Rafe's papers in the library— the thing toppled off a book-case at the inspector's feet. It stated that the count had left a legacy buried in the cellars of Braunfel.

The police dug it up. Emeralds! An astounding collection which was photo- graphed and written up in every rag in the country.

The finest gem was a great rose-red emerald, cut square and set with diamonds as a pendant.

I burned the Book and the Conjuration. I threw the metal box into Lake Derwent-water. But I couldn't find the heart— went over every inch of the grave and all round about it.

Rafe takes this as a sign Count Dul's power is expended. I'm thankful that he doesn't understand.

I know that devil will return somehow— somewhere! Jonquil's death means life for him. Her will to live is added to his own.

When Rafe dies, he will look for her— and never find her. Never. She is one with the Count now, part of his thought, his will, his enduring evil.

Whether I can learn his secret, learn enough to meet him— and destroy him— I don't yet know.

When I am left alone, it will be all that remains worth doing in a world of fear and shadows.

______________________

10: Up Irrawaddy Way

Ltnt Edgar Gardiner

Weird Tales April 1929

An otherwise unknown author who produced about ten stories between 1929 and 1932, which appeared in Weird Tales, and Oriental Stories.

IT HAD all been a tremendous mistake. From the time we had left Singapore on what was to prove such a terrible chase, I had felt that it was a colossal blunder. But the others had overruled my half-hearted protests, inflamed as they were by money madness and treasure lust. But one thing could they think of— that tremendous heap of rubies, of wealth incalculable, the secret of whose whereabouts was at last in their hands.

What did it matter to them that this was the treasure-house of a god? They didn't believe in heathen gods— not they! Nor in the supernatural. Trickery— that's what it was, nothing else, and this talk of a god of destruction whose very name the natives feared to utter was rot; while the tales about the many who had gone to seek this hidden loot never to return— that was nothing but ignorant superstition— native fancy with no basis in fact. Stuff and nonsense!

What did it matter that as far as they knew its devious trail, their information had come a blood-spattered deadly way? That but gave added proof of its genuineness. Men have ever killed for far less than this dazzling pile— history was full of such cases; and it would be so again.

They were positive of the truth and reliability of their map with its ugly brown stains. They were just as sure of the information that had been gasped out by that native priest as his life slowly welled from his body, so terribly mutilated by native vengeance just when he had almost won clear away. And that information had fired them with a madness there was no staying, even while it chilled me with grim foreboding. Perhaps I had been in the Orient too long, had seen too much that could not be explained away; perhaps too much sun and raw native liquor.

I was overruled, browbeaten, bull-dogged, until I gave in against my better judgment.

The trip up-river had been— well, not exactly a pleasure, but then, not so bad, either. I had done worse many times. Things had gone smoothly— too smoothly, I could see now. We had been led on like rats into a trap.

Step by step we had followed the trail as shown on that gruesome map, and as each item proved correct the hopes of my comrades had risen the higher while, oddly enough, my own spirits had sunk the lower; for I was scared— I, who had shot my way out of some mighty tight places and through some pretty rash adventures— I, who was never so cool as when the odds looked hopeless— here I shivered with dread while things went so smoothly— too smoothly.

We had cut our way through the jungle after leaving the last outpost of civilization, so called, the six of us: white men all; as brave and fearless a crew as you ever saw— and as unprincipled. We had come upon the ruined temple, almost swallowed up by the ever-encroaching jungle, with little or no trouble. It lay just where the map had indicated. And while the rest had jubilated over the easy conquest, I had known nothing but sick dread, a vague terror that was none the less real, oppressive, impending.

Our campfire gleaming redly over the ruined moldering idols ranged round that great room, and on the red-lacquered beams above, seemed to me oddly symbolic. That greatest stone monstrosity of all, seated above us in its niche, seemed a live and sentient thing. It leered at me through the flickering shadows, its one eye following me wherever I moved until I was almost mad.

I begged and pleaded with my comrades to get out while there was yet time, but they only jeered and shouted ribald comments. Forego the loot they had come so far to get? With success just around the corner? Never! To my entreaties that we push on then at once, rifle the cache and go while the night was with us, they turned a deaf ear. Tomorrow was time enough, they argued. No hurry now. It was much the best to wait until daylight before descending below ground in this venerable relic.

At last we lay down, the six of us, and their snores soon proclaimed the others asleep, but the longer I lay the more wide awake I became. Restlessly I tossed and tumbled; then in desperation I got up and crouched above the dying embers. Malevolently that evil image glared down upon us. So sinister it was that I shuddered. When I could stand it no longer I picked up a brand, swung it vigorously overhead until it blazed, and with this torch I clambered into the niche.

What I intended to do up there, I had not the remotest idea: perhaps there was a wild desire to hurl that stone image into the dust— I don't know. What I did instead, was to thrust the blazing brand into the corners and crannies, seeking everywhere for I know not what.

Across the face of the idol I swung the smoking flames, illuminating every hollow above, but saw nothing save the dust of centuries, patched and discolored by the mold of tropic damp. Then, my sanity returning in some measure, with a muttered curse I turned and was about to throw the brand back to the hard-packed earthen floor, but instead, thought better of it and thrust the torch, with a sardonic humor, into the figure's clasped hands, into a hollow made for the burning of incense.

There! Let him sit once more as he had sat in the heyday of his popularity, with the smoke curling about his Satanic features. But now no devout throng of worshipers groveled on the ground before him. Instead lay five hard-bitten adventurers sleeping the sleep of the just until the morrow, when they would wrest from him his treasures, gathered through the centuries and left behind when his might had declined into obscurity.

A BLOOD-CURDLING scream broke through my musings. One of those five figures raised with a convulsive start and fell back writhing in agony, while the others came to frenzied life with a bound and gathered about him. I came tumbling from the niche in a hurry.

"Wot's th' matter, hi sye?" growled Jeremy Sykes, while the others babbled in excitement not unmixed with fear. The sufferer, however, was beyond answering. A bloody froth flecked his lips, drawn back from his teeth in an animal-like snarl; his limbs threshed wildly as those horrible agonizing tremors passed over him; his face turned a mottled, livid hue.

One glance I took and knew the worst. Of all venomous snakes— and they are myriad in that land— the smallest of them all is the most deadly. Scarce six inches long and red as hell-fire, his bite is the agony of centuries of the pit compressed into a short half-hour: agony so great that sufferers have been known to choose the merciful quickness of the steel in preference, though too often they had no such chance, but bent and writhed in tortures unutterable until the slow, dreadful end came. And, stop! did not the natives give him the same name as this fearsome image above us?

But Jack's paroxysms were growing more violent and his entire body was turning an ugly mottled purple. His eyeballs seemed straining from their sockets and his back bowed as if it must break, while from his lips burst the noise of a soul in torment unutterable. The cold sweat of horror stood damply on my brow and I was sick within.

Another unearthly scream, broken short by a harsh grunted oath as Jeremy Sykes dropped beside him: a flash of steel shone redly up, then down in a shining arc and cheated that dreadful grinning monster behind us of his last full measure of payment.

"God!" breathed Bill Callaghan, passing a shaking hand before his eyes -while he drew a shuddering breath. "What hit him?"

I pointed at that grinning image above.

"Hell's bells!" growled Jeremy Sykes. "Nowthin' of the sort. Snake-bite. A little red devil. No cure for it; but an hour or so of what you saw Jack going through. Often enow I've seen it, and twice it was Gord's mercy to pass th' steel between the ribs to end it. Ugh!" And he turned unsteadily away while the others looked at me.

"It's the truth," I affirmed. "Steel is quick and merciful and no less sure. I'd thank anyone for that choice if it ever came to me. Jeremy did the best possible thing."

There was no more sleep for us that night. We sat instead about another blaze which we had built at the other end of the room, furtively eyeing every moving shadow and studiously avoiding the dreadful figure that lay in the half-gloom staring sightlessly up into the niche.

One gone, I ruminated. One. So soon and so terribly. Who would be next? For that more would follow him I was sure. Deep within me I felt that as surely as I knew that I was still alive. And those deaths, I felt, would be just as terrible as this first one, whatever form they might take.

The others laughed at my forebodings. It was an accident, such as might occur to anyone, anywhere. These old ruins, they pointed out, were overrun with vermin. This land saw frequent violent deaths in strange guises. Why, one in every ten died from the bite of poisonous snakes! I was an old granny, a superstitious fool.

THE quick dawn put an end to our arguing, and as the details stood out more and more plainly in the grayness of that dim interior, the night seemed more and more like a fantastic dream— except for that horrible thing that lay, putrescent already, offensive and swelling, at the far end of the idol room. With the light came the first bit of the day's humid heat and in contrast our trip underground promised relief. We got out the map again and studied it carefully. Above all things we must not get lost in the labyrinth beneath us. How extensive it was we could not tell, nor did we want to know, save as it led us to the treasure we all felt was there.

"Le'see: we go down back of that big idol," said Peter Drew, his stubby forefinger on the map. "We must. They's no other place in this room that fits the plan," he argued as we objected.

''There's no opening there," I protested. "I was up there when— when—"

"Yeah, I know. But it was dark then. You couldn't see nothin'. The mouth of that underground passage just must be there."

To settle the argument I led the way into the niche, and after looking and prodding everywhere, they agreed with me that save for a little grille leading upward toward a dim light no other opening existed.

"Damme, it must be here," Peter insisted.

"Where?" I began. "We have tried everywhere."

"Maybe in the ceiling," he began, and jumped up on the idol's spacious lap to investigate.

"Oh, nonsense ! " I began.

"Hey, look out!" shouted Jeremy as the huge stone idol tilted slowly forward.

Peter dropped off to one side, cat-like, on all fours, and the idol swung slowly back again.

"You've found it," I shouted in triumph.

"Found what, you fool?" growled Jeremy.

"The opening of the labyrinth. It's under the idol, of course. That big stone god tilts on a balance, and under it is the month of the treasure-house. I saw the steps leading down."

"Aw, what bally rot!" from Jeremy again.

"Not at all. It had to be hidden, you know. What better hiding-place than under several tons of stone?"

"But how—"

"You saw how it worked. A man's weight out on the knees of the idol opens the way "

"And its own weight shuts it again, eh?"

"Certainly it does. One of us has to stay outside to work it while the rest go below. Or perhaps there is some way to move it from the inside. Here, Peter, open it again and I'll go down and try to find out."

Obediently Peter climbed up on his perch again, and slowly the idol tilted forward once more. Down, down, till Peter could stand upon the floor and hold his weight about the figure's neck, leaving a yawning hole through which we might easily enter.

Three times we tried the rocking stone to make sure it would work without sticking before my companions let me go down gingerly into the darkness. I counted fourteen steps before I reached the bottom, and the matches I lit showed me the corridor sloping slightly downward before me. By their feeble flicker I saw something else— something that made me shout aloud.

"What is it, Jock?" and Jeremy's shaggy head was thrust into the patch of light that marked the entrance.

"Two skeletons, Jeremy," I returned. "The poor devils must have come into this place and the idol closed behind them, shutting them in to a miserable death," I called as I bent over them. "And wait—"

Into my voice crept such a note of excitement that all but Peter Drew came scrambling down to me. No doubt he, too, would have been there had it not meant the closing of that massive door.

By the flickering light of a candle or two that they had brought with them, my comrades saw the proof that the treasure we had come so far to find was still there.

How long those two had lain there could not be told; a hundred years perhaps, maybe three times that long— long enough to rot away almost every vestige of clothing. Yet one of those two had brought with him from those treasure rooms below indubitable proof that what we sought was still there. Tucked into his girdle perhaps, or in a purse long since gone to dust, he had brought a dozen or so of splendid rubies that now gleamed redly from about the pelvis bones where they had fallen. Each of them was worth a king's ransom. No wonder we shouted and scrambled for the precious bits of living flame.

A hoarse shout broke on our ears— that was Peter Drew! It brought us up those steps in a panicky run, sent us scrambling into the idol room around the base of the idol that even now was settling slowly into place. I felt its cold rough edge graze my shoulders as I scrambled out with Jeremy close behind me.

A muffled curse, and in my swift backward glance I saw that Jeremy had dropped one of his rubies. He swept it up again almost without pausing and was scrambling over the edge. But that momentary pause was fatal. The huge block of stone was swinging downward now at a terrific rate.

"Hurry, Jeremy," I shouted, and grasped his shoulders to drag him from beneath that impending doom. Too late! There was a soft thud as the idol swung into place. A spasm crossed Jeremy's face. I looked in dazed horror at the swift red spot that grew and grew from about his waist where he protruded from between the stones.

Where was Peter Drew, and why had he not held the stone god down away from the opening? I wondered even as I heard the sharp crack of Bill's heavy revolver and something flashed past my shoulder in a vivid streak of light. My swift glance showed Bill lying flat on the floor of the niche as cool as though he were at tiffin, the while he pumped an occasional shot into the light-shot gloom of the big room beyond.

And Peter's failure to keep the idol in place out of the opening was explained by the same glance, for I saw him lying on his face before that grim deity in an attitude of supplication, arms outspread. Poor Peter! His last act in this life ! From his back protruded the handles of two of those terrible throwing-knives of which I had seen a few specimens down river.

Poor, poor Peter! Semper Fidelis was the motto tattooed upon his massive chest, and that he had been. Always faithful, yes, faithful unto death! With his last breath as his dying grip had loosened he had uttered the warning shout that had enabled us all to escape from that death-trap.

All? No, not all. There was Jeremy Sykes pinned under that loathsome stone, still alive, still conscious, as I was surprised to discover.

Too well I knew what had happened when that stone settled into place with Jeremy only partly through the opening. How long can a man live when he is mashed into two pieces, I wondered? I had thought perhaps a few moments— surely not as many minutes. Yet Jeremy seemed almost normal in spite of that terrible thing, in spite of that gruesome spreading red flood about him.

"I'm done," he muttered thickly as he caught my eye. "Get these stones— to my wife— you know— address."

I nodded. "If I get out of this alive I'll do it, Jeremy," I promised. The filming eyes lit up joyfully.

"Thanks, old top," he whispered.

A deathly grayness was creeping over his features and consciousness was fast departing. Death was coming almost like sleep.

"Get down, you fool," shouted Bill as another streak flashed past me, and once more Bill's service revolver spoke. It was followed by a blood-curdling scream.

"Gutted him. That's two," Bill grunted in satisfaction. "I wish I knew how many more are out there," he added as I crawled up beside him.

"Mois?" I questioned.

"No. We're too far north for their range. Bandit looters from beyond the northern border most likely. Damme, I missed him," as he pumped another shot at a half-seen figure.

A sibilant hiss drew my attention to our rear. Fergus was there beckoning to me and I crawled swiftly backward.

"I think we can get out through here," he whispered, pointing at the little grille to which I had paid such scant attention on our first inspection.

Fergus had thrust it partly aside and he now crawled through it into the gloom. I hesitated to follow into that dimly glowing opening that had swallowed him and now reflected the dim light as he crawled forward, lighting matches as he went, or a candle perhaps. Then the light faded out entirely for a few moments, reappeared once more, and then grew brighter as Fergus' head came into view, disheveled and dirty.

"It leads beyond the temple wall into a thicket," he grinned. "I don't think there is a soul about outside, either. They must all be in here. Tell Bill about it and we'll get going."

"And leave all our outfit?" I began.

"We get away with our lives, perhaps," he pointed out. "Our outfit isn't much good to us if we are all dead, is it?"

He crawled out to Bill's side and they conferred earnestly together for a moment. Then he was back again.

"Come on," he whispered. "Bill will hold them off for a few moments before he follows us."

As I edged around the idol again I bethought me of my promise to Jeremy and took from his stiffening dead hands the jewels that had cost him his life, slipping them into one of the pockets of my shorts.

How silent was the festering jungle, as we crawled out into the light once more! Behind us we heard the muffled reports of two shots, sullen and hollow, and a few moments later Bill rose beside us.

"Got another," he commented briefly. "Now let's get out of here." We moved as silently and as swiftly as possible toward the river, but we had gone only a few hundred feet when we heard a yell of baffled rage.

"They rushed the niche and found us gone, I guess," said Bill as he in creased his pace. "And in mighty scant time those devils will be swarming after us. The trail is plain."

Five minutes passed— five long eternities while we made our way as swiftly and silently as might be toward where we hoped the river lay. Behind us the jungle lay quiet and empty.

"They must have missed us," whispered Fergus.

"Don't ever think it," I retorted. "Those fiends are on our trail, never fear. They're slipping along as silently as shadows and not far away right now. Perhaps they've even got ahead of us, some of them, trying to ring us in." I cast an apprehensive glance through the sun-splashed gloom. We stepped abruptly through a leafy tangle into a path or animal run.

"Thank God!" muttered Bill as he quickened his pace. Fergus and I followed closely on his heels. "We might get away now," he continued.

"If it's an animal trail, yes," I began. "If this leads to a village, no. For it might be that the villagers are the ones who attacked us."

"Speed is what counts now," snapped Fergus, "not talk," and he pushed past Bill.

"Something else counts most of all— something that neither of you has got," I growled as I jerked Fergus back and took the lead myself.

As swiftly as possible I moved forward, yet cautiously, too. Our attackers might be ahead of us and it would be an ideal trick to ambush us, slipping the steel into our defenseless bodies as we brushed past some leafy covert. Not a pleasant thought, that.

Yet, somehow, I didn't think they had passed us. Something within me warned me of danger, yet I was sure that any danger from them was in our rear. But if this path led indeed to a village, there was before us a silent danger more to be dreaded even than that other. So as I slipped along, my eyes were darting every where. I stopped at last, so abruptly that Fergus and Bill, crowding me closely, bumped into each other.

"What's the matter?" growled Bill, his voice a mere whisper.

I pointed at the trail before us.

"I don't see a thing but a leaf or two," he added and tried to push by.

Roughly I pulled him back and, stooping, I carefully lifted a large leaf from the path while they eyed me intently. Carefully I picked up the thorn concealed beneath it, with its gummy message of violent death. Carefully I searched the ground for more. There were no more. It was alone.

Bill's face was white, his eyes incredulous. "God ! Suppose we had stepped on it," he whispered through stiff lips.

"Death, eh?" Fergus' voice was steady but a glance at his eyes showed that he thoroughly understood the situation.

I nodded none too cheerfully as I went on again more cautiously than ever. Soon the path forked.

"Which way?" asked Bill.

Almost without a pause I turned to the left. "The other path goes to a village," I whispered. "And it isn't friendly. They want no visitors."

"How do you know?" Fergus was frankly curious.

"You saw that little bamboo lying across the path, didn't you?" I asked, never turning my head. "That is a plain warning. The path is closed to strangers. Beyond it—"

"More poisoned thorns, eh?" he finished quietly.

"Yes, or worse," I promised.

"This path, now," began Bill.

"Probably runs to the river," I cut in. "And if it's not a game trail there may be a boat. If not—"

"If not," Bill interrupted bruskly, "I've got four more clips of ammunition. How many have you?"

"Six." My eyes never left the trail ahead.

We crossed a glade, and as we entered the jungle again Bill stopped.

"Go on," he directed. "I'll join you in a few minutes. I've had a feeling we were being followed."

"So have I. It's been getting stronger and stronger," said Fergus.

The place was ideal to stop those we were confident were so hot on our trail should they cross the glade openly. Should they skirt it, however— but I did not let my mind dwell on that. Bill was a sharp-shooter, and in any event he would not go on the long trail alone.

The path was leading downward into a valley. We must be almost to the river. Our luck was still holding. If there were a boat, now— I heard the crack of Bill's pistol— once— twice— three times— then silence. Fergus stopped.

"I'm going back," he snapped. I laid my hand on his arm.

"No use, lad," I soothed. "Bill's all right. He stopped them, at any rate, whether he got any or not. And they haven't got him. I'm sure. He will be streaking it to us now. If he doesn't—"

I didn't finish, but Fergus' face grew grim as he nodded.

"You're right, Jock. It wouldn't do any good. But if he—"

And then Bill was with us again.

"Got another," he jubilated. "Right between the eyes. And pinked another, I think. They're Mongols, just as I thought— raiders from the North."

My face lighted. "Fine," I exclaimed. "And they have a hostile village behind them."

"By Jove, that's right," Fergus grinned. "And this racket is more than likely to bring the villagers out, too."

I nodded as I swiftly took the trail again.

PERHAPS our good luck made us careless; certainly there was little excuse for our running into that ambush. The first I knew of it was seeing one of those flashing throwing-knives streak past me. I ducked instinctively and so escaped the withering shower of slugs and scrap-iron discharged by an old smooth- bore muzzle-loader that let go almost at the same instant. Fergus, just behind, was not so fortunate. His hissing indrawn breath told me he was hit, no less than his stagger. Bill's gun and mine exploded at the same instant, and a shriek answered their reports, but whether it was a death cry or not we couldn't tell.

Fergus sank slowly to the side of the trail and a red tide dyed his tattered shirt. Quickly I stooped and got his arm about my neck, then lifted him bodily the while I swung my gun in my left hand in wide arcs covering the jungle before me.

Bill's eager glances stabbed the green gloom about us, but the jungle was still as death. He moved forward close beside the trail like a shadow, taking advantage of every bit of cover while I followed with my burden as well as I could. Fergus' breath came in painful gasps, but he gritted his teeth and doggedly kept on.

It was utter foolhardiness for us to advance so, but with enemies ahead and behind, desperate measures were necessary. And such a desperate play might succeed through its sheer unexpectedness.

So it proved. Bill got in one more shot at a half-seen figure that was gone again in a flash, and, though we crawled along at a snail's pace, we saw no others. Perhaps we had been ambushed by so few that they had no chance in the face of our bold move. Perhaps our one hit had destroyed their desire for combat at close quarters; at any rate we saw no more of them just then.

The ground beneath our feet was becoming a quivering jelly, a swampy quagmire that betrayed the river's proximity. The gloom was even more pronounced, with an oppressive quiet in the air, a sullen foreboding. Despite the heat I shivered.

On such treacherous footing I was hard put to go on with Fergus, and after several hundred feet of it I was almost exhausted. But the gloom was lightening; the jungle was changing; we must be almost to the river.

I could go no farther. Rest I must; my breath came in whistling gasps; I streamed perspiration. Chase or no chase, I could go no farther.

Close beside the path was a round rock about waist-high, and a short distance away a number of others offered an ideal resting-place as well as shelter should we be attacked. Bill stopped on the path, his glance darting incessantly about, every sense on the alert, and I carefully eased Fergus onto the nearest rock— not a rock after all, but some kind of spongy vegetable growth such as I had never seen before. Warily I rocked on my feet, too spent to take the few steps that separated this growth from the others. Bill dropped back to us and the lines in his face smoothed themselves momentarily as he smiled.

"We'll make it, old things," he encouraged. "It can't be far now."

Fergus' chin slumped forward onto his chest; his body sagged slowly toward us as I jumped for him. He was perilously close to a collapse, though the Lord knows he had gone through enough to try even a well man. His face was gray, his eyes closed. My arm about his shoulders, I strove to raise him, but he seemed made of lead. Again I heaved— no result. Bill stepped to the other side and Ave tried together with no better luck.

Then the terrible truth struck home to both of us. Fergus was held fast by that strange vegetable growth on which he sat. His legs seemed half embedded in its rubbery substance. But that was not the worst. All about him, through those plant tissues was a red stain, deepest close to him and fading gradually away.

I think I was the first to understand. Some few carnivorous plants I had seen before, but not of such a size or shape; my experience having been confined to Venus fly-traps and pitcher-plants back in the dim days of my youth.

"We've got to free him from this thing, Bill," I said rapidly. "It's not only holding him fast but it's drawing every drop of blood out of him," and I pointed to that darkening stain.

"God!" gasped Bill as his nimble mind took it all in at a flash. He heaved and tugged till his mighty thews and sinews cracked. As well have tried to pull down a vine-entangled jungle giant bare-handed as to pull that yielding form from the plant's tenacious grip.

"Cut him free with your knife. Bill," I suggested.

"I can't," he groaned. "I lost it crawling out of the temple through the passage."

"I lost mine, too," I admitted hopelessly. Oh, for one of those throwing-knives that had flashed past me not so long ago!

But Bill was heaving and tugging again in a frenzy. In desperation he jumped upon that spongy mass, stooped, and then lifted Fergus with a firm grip under his arms. Just such a heave had I seen him make in Singapore one day when he had lifted the end of a great teakwood timber so they could take the crushed body of a coolie laborer from beneath it. But all in vain: though he heaved and tugged till I feared for Fergus' body, he never raised him an inch; he merely sank his own feet into the spongy mass to his ankles. And Fergus' legs, I noticed, were now almost buried in that frightful plant, while the red stain had spread through its entire bulk. And Fergus' face and arms were turning a sinister bluish color.

Oppressed by a sudden fear, I thrust my hand within his tattered shirt. I groaned. Fergus was dead. Not the slightest tremor rewarded my exploring fingers pressed over his heart. It was stilled forever.

"He's dead. Bill," I shuddered. "One of those slugs must have got him worse than we thought and he bled internally, or—"

"Or this devilish plant killed him," and then Bill's face became a tragic mask of terror. "It's got me, too," he screamed, while he struggled wildly to free himself from that deadly grip about his ankles. But each violent struggle only sent him the deeper into that yielding mass.

Fergus' legs had vanished entirely into that horrid thing. He was engulfed almost to the waist and sinking slowly ever deeper. Bill had sunk ankle-deep before he discovered he was trapped, and his struggles to free himself speedily sank him almost to his knees.

Helplessly, sick at heart, I watched the hopeless struggle, unable to help in any way. There was nothing I could do bare-handed; no one to whom I could appeal for help. The brigands behind us, the natives behind them— all hostile, all seeking our death.

Bill was the first to recover his nerve. Face to face with a terrible and certain death that had already taken his brother and was about to claim him, he nevertheless refused to yield after his first momentary lapse.

"Go on, Jock," he urged. "You can make the river, perhaps. Take Fergus' gun and ammunition and his rubies. Here 's mine." He tossed me three flashing bits of flame. "They're yours, and welcome. I'll hold those devils back when they come as long as I—"

He shuddered. I knew what he meant by that unfinished sentence.

I shook my head in negation.

"Go on, you fool!" he raged. "There's none to mourn me. Good riddance to bad rubbish. The world's the better for me leaving it," and he grinned wryly. "Perhaps I can do a little bit of good now to offset all the bad. Go on, old top, and good luck."

So in the end I was persuaded.

Heavy-hearted I went forward, carrying with me the loot of two dead men and that of another who faced horrible death and hopeless odds as I may some day hope to face them, unafraid and smiling.

A gun in each hand, I crept slowly along that shaking, sucking path that threatened each moment to dissolve into abysmal ooze beneath my feet— onward to I knew not what, I knew not where. Death, certain and terrible, was behind me where it had already overtaken all of my comrades in most horrible forms. Would it get me too, I wondered? Would the powerful long arm of that long-forgotten, long-neglected god of destruction reach out even to me? In my heart was a sick dread, and a determination to do my best, whatever the odds.

I made my way through the gloom, my eyes ever ahead, my ears turned backward to where that grim, terrible thing was happening— or was it all over? What a cowardly fool I had been to leave! Yet, perhaps I would have been a greater one to have stayed.

No, it was not all over yet. I heard Bill's pistol cracking spitefully— half a dozen times; then after a pause, another string of shots.

Good old Bill ! A man at the last, whatever his faults. Going down like a hero, game to the very last, never giving up, even though the odds were overwhelming.

My mind was engrossed over what was behind me when it should have been most concerned with what lay ahead. That is my only excuse for what happened. The path dissolved suddenly into nothingness; I scrambled madly for another precarious foot-hold; half turned, and began sinking slowly into that deadly muck — sinking to a death no less terrible, no less certain than those others had been.

I felt the muck creeping slowly and steadily upward. Already my thoughts pictured its constricting clutch about my chest, its deadly entry into my throat and lungs. Ugh! What a way to die— unseen, unheeded!

But wait! Perhaps there was a more merciful death even now creeping along that path behind me. I strained my eyes through the semi-gloom, hoping to see the skulking forms of the bandits. Better the merciful crash of a destroying bullet or the stabbing pain of one of those deadly knives than this slow, sucking horror about me.

Knee-deep already, I made no useless moves that might drive me down the faster. Though death seemed certain, I would not give up hope until the last. My guns in my hands, I would go down shooting if the enemy came. If not— well, I would go down anyway, perhaps with a last mercy bullet from my Own hand.

What was that movement back there along the trail? Had they caught up so soon? Yet, it couldn't be. It might be monkeys, perhaps, in the trees above the trail; humans were hardly likely to come so.

Dimly through the oppressive gloom I made out a round, brilliant blue globe swaying at the end of a slender stalk and gathering to itself the faint light of that dense growth until it seemed to glow like a monster jewel. While I watched, several more of them appeared, rising above the lush jungle growth and bobbing gracefully above the path I had come. Odd how such trivial things should register on my mind in this extremity.

Slowly I sank into the slime— waist-deep— then more slowly yet until that filthy mess was up about my chest. But so slowly now was I sinking that I could scarce tell it. The minutes dragged endlessly by; each seemed like an eternity.

Would they never come, I wondered, after what seemed years of waiting? Had Bill's last fusillade beaten them off for good? I think I really hoped for the bandits' coming; anything was better than this slow, horrible approach of death, alone and unheeded.

Again and again I twisted my head around to view that path along which I had come, but it was utterly without movement save for the swaying and bobbing of those lustrous blue globes above the rank, steaming jungle growth.

TEN more minutes passed— or perhaps it was an hour— I don't know. The ooze had risen no higher. Though I felt nothing solid beneath my feet, I had failed to sink any deeper; I must be floating in that semi-fluid mess. My heart rose at the discovery, yet my reason told me that it meant nothing: I was helpless unless assistance of some sort arrived. Though I might not suffocate under that filthy ooze, I was doomed no less surely.

I felt, rather than saw, a movement beside the path; my quickened senses warned me that my pursuers had arrived. By straining to the utmost I could swing my arm around so that my gun commanded the path. Carefully I sighted into the thick of that dense growth; blindly I pressed the trigger, and the spiteful crack of my revolver broke through that brooding oppressive silence, to echo and re-echo against the thick leafy growth that hemmed me in.

I saw the bullet shatter one of those bobbing blue globes; saw the shattered shards drop, followed by a blue smoke-like cloud of dust that settled slowly. Again I fired, aiming blindly, and yet a third time, but the only tangible result was the shattering of yet more of those odd things, followed by other clouds of that blue dust that sank slowly out of sight behind that luxuriant jungle growth, spreading as it dropped.

Had I imagined the presence of an enemy? Were my senses giving way under the strain of this terrible ordeal? It would seem so. The jungle was as motionless as ever. Not a sound, not a movement betrayed the proximity of man. Ah, I had it! They hadn't seen me yet; they were trying to locate me.

A scream rang out— wild, inarticulate with fear, with agony. And hard on its echoes the jungle woke to life with a chorus of them; the death-still growth sprang to motion as half a score of frenzied figures broke out into the path.

It was the end, I told myself grimly, the last desperate charge that must surely overwhelm me. Very well. Let them come. It was at least a relief after all these horrors. I was ready to die. But I would not go alone. I would hold my bullets until I could make them all count. There would be plenty to join me as I took that last long trail.

But it was not the rush of an attack after all. These terror-stricken Chinese half-castes were too utterly demoralized to think of anything but blind flight— flight in any direction in their frenzied efforts to get away from that accursed spot. While I watched I saw two of them pushed headlong from the path into that morass that hedged it so closely, to sink into its depths still struggling madly and screaming eerily at the top of their singsong voices.

In God's name, what had happened there? Another dropped across the path, writhing in agony, and yet another. In all directions they sprang, colliding blindly with the jungle growths, slipping heedlessly off the path to sink into that deadly slime, or dropping in their tracks to lie threshing with pain. One huge, half-naked fiend sprang directly toward me, dropping into the ooze only a few feet away, where he twisted and clawed blindly.

As I watched his death agonies my dazed mind dimly grasped its stupendous horror. My bullets had not gone so wild as I had expected after all. True, I had hit no human body, but I had loosed upon these cut-throats something more deadly for them than mere bullets. Those slowly sinking, spreading blue clouds had dropped upon their naked bodies, unnoticed perhaps, but only so for a few moments.

Dust-like spores they must have been, of some gigantic fungi unknown to science, growing in that almost unknown land; another of those terrible carnivorous plants such as had laid hold of Bill and his brother a short while before— or was it ages ago?

The gleaming yellow body so close to me was stilled now; its struggles were over. Even as I watched, a terrible change was going on— a change that my mind refused almost to believe. Swiftly its color was changing from yellow to blue. Its outlines grew indistinct. The upper part of the torso seemed dissolving into a mass of little tentacles that grew rapidly and stretched upward in a compact group. Higher and higher they rose until they stood a foot above the level of the morass— two feet— three . And now from among them were pushing up colorless spikes that gleamed whitely as they rose swiftly. Up, up, up, until only by straining my head backward with all my might could I see their tips.

Their upward growth was stopped, yet they seemed still in motion. The rods were becoming more slender, the tips were thickening rapidly. Now the whiteness of them was changing to a deep glistening blue and the thickened tips were becoming those glistening blue globes I had seen rising above the jungle growth, while the compact mass of tentacles at their base was assuming a wilted, shriveled appearance, to fall over at last, a putrescent mass, upon what had once been a human body vibrant with life. Only upon the path I saw the leg lying of what had so short a time before been a man.

Dimly in the back of my mind some memory was struggling toward the surface of its consciousness. In my school days, in my youth I had watched slimes and molds under the high-powered microscope and had seen those tiny infinitesimal growths complete their life cycle so. But they had been tiny growths, fractional parts of an inch in height— never such monstrosities as these. And their similar upthrust sporangia held in their shells the dust-like spores of another such life circle, even as these blue globes that bobbed about in the air above me.

So far I reasoned, when like a flash, my own danger came to me. These spore-cases bobbing above me so lazily held another such cycle within their gleaming shells. In the fullness of time they would open, dropping another slow-floating, blue, dust-like cloud to settle down, down, down upon me held fast by the ooze beneath them.

In that moment I think I went stark, raving mad, screaming curses at the top of my voice, beating wildly at the viscous unresisting filth that held me there, until at last reason fled.

WHAT happened after that I could dimly reconstruct when, I know not how long after, I woke once more to reason within the high latticework hut of a native village. So weak that the slightest move took prodigious effort, I opened my eyes to the blazing sunlight and stupidly watched a native woman busy at her mud hearth preparing a meal. She turned and smiled as she saw my eyes upon her, calling in her musical voice while the hut shook as someone climbed the ladder without and a man entered; a golden-hued native like the many I have met in that upland country.

For many days I dwelt with them, slowly regaining strength under their ministrations, until at last I could travel again. From that hut, one of the pitiful few that formed the village, under the guidance of the native, I made my way back to the Irrawaddy and the trader's landing.

Of the scene on that jungle path or the ruined temple with its forgotten treasure they could not or would not tell me. Nor would they talk of my rescue. I surmised that the man had come along that path of sucking, treacherous death and had plucked my unconscious body from its slimy embrace, bringing me to the village. Of my guns or the rubies there was no sign; they must have been sucked down into the ooze.

Back once more at the river's edge,  I loaded my guide with what was to him a veritable treasure of brass rings and armlets, smiling a return to his thanks while my eyes traveled over the breast of that tawny stream that would carry me away forever from that still powerful though forgotten god whose arm had so nearly taken me.

_______________________

11: The Sin-Eater

G. G. Pendarves

Weird Tales Dec 1938

LOOK about you! What do you think of this land where the dark experiment we shall watch takes place? This ancient haunted land of Cornwall— unfertile, unfriendly, isolated until last century from the world, even from the rest of England. Old gods, old worships, old forgotten races have died hard and lingeringly in this narrow peninsula. Cromlechs, shrines and ruined altars on many lonely hills and desolate moors still remain to remind, to suggest, with dark portents of evil.

Not long ago Black Magic darkened the thoughts and lives of men here, from Land's End to King Arthur's Seat; not long enough to purge the duchy of its evil, not long enough to drive out forces so long dominant.

Apparently— oh yes— apparently only legends remain: legends useful to amuse summer visitors in company with wishing-wells, smugglers' caves, bathing-beaches, old coastguard paths, Roman forts, ancient tin mines, pilchards and clotted cream. Let it go at that. Legends!

In reality this is the story of a master scientist who dealt with human powers which few of us begin to understand. And it is always comfortable to deny the existence of what we don't understand. We demand of science improvement, discovery, bigger and better toys to play with in order that we can more easily forget the briefness of our stay in the playground itself. The science we support is obvious, spectacular, dealing only with matter, dealing with our bodies very specially that they may be bigger, better bodies so that we may stay longer to play with our toys.

But the mind of man! How convenient to forget the sciences that concern the mind of man! The majority have a touching faitli in modern psy- chology as being a complete map to it. About as comprehensive and true a map as those of the world made in the Twelfth Century!

That's as it may be, but most readers will grant, however, the suitability of our background here in Cornwall for this, for almost any imaginable mys- tery. Look at the broken, towering, gloomy cliffs. They guard memories of bloodshed, violence and tragedy, of wild gales and greedy seas, of battered ships and drowning men, of wreckers more barbaric than Moorish pirates, of smugglers and press-gangs, of long centuries of struggle between man and his enemy, the sea. On this wild coast the breaking tides boom one continuous knell— death!

And inland? Do these bare moors, this stern gray granite give you comfort?

Look closer — closer — at this old fishing-port. It is full of narrow cobbled ways, full of dark-skinned, dark- eyed fishermen, their swarming children, their hundreds of cats.

This is the port of Trink. This is where we shall watch a great experiment.

We reach the great iron gates of Lamorna House— follow a shadowed drive between tall firs that moan and whisper the sea's long dirge— death! death! Death!

MARK Zennor was dying.

He lay in his great carven bed and watched the pair of lovers with hard, merciless eyes. His young wife, Rosaina, and Stephen Lynn, his nephew, secretary and? What else Stephen was, or would shortly be, was hidden in the dying man's thoughts.

Dying! It seemed impossible to Rosaina. She knew the doctors had given him up, said the patient was hanging on hour by hour by a miracle of will-power. She knew her husband had repeatedly affirmed this. But he seemed to her more awfully alive than ever.

"Death, where is thy sting?

Where grave, thy victory?"

The words flashed across her confused and terrified thoughts. Hysteria threatened. How ironical, those words, in connection with a death-bed like this She bit her lip, closed her smarting eyes. Mark's voice stabbed her to control again. Her eyes opened to meet his sharp, cruel stare.

"Permit me to offer my sympathy. This is a most difficult role for you, my dear. Unpardonable of me to subject you to such embarrassment. It should have been so simple, so congenial a task to speed a parting guest. And an inconvenient husband at that! But my exit from this world? You feel something is lacking, eh? Now why?— why, Rosaina?"

Why indeed? For the life of her she couldn't formulate her deep uneasiness. Mark really was dying, there could be no question of it; all the doctors and specialists had agreed on that. A great many doctors had come and gone during the week of Mark's illness.

"It's only fair to you and Stephen that I take my departure with a good deal of publicity," he had explained. "My illness is so sudden and so unexpected that rumors might arise as to whether you two had connived at it. With all the drugs I use in my body a post-mortem would be very unconvincing."

It was remarks like this that stuck in Rosaina's mind. And the flicker of laughter in his eyes as he'd said them. At this very moment he—

"You're a fool, Rosaina, but not quite such a fool as Stephen. You at least realize how little you understand my work— my art. And you are afraid. Most wise. My nephew, on the other hand—"

He turned his great head, massive and bold in outline as the carved figure- head of a ship. His dark-red hair, tonsured like a monk's, was untouched by gray in spite of his eighty years. Under a tremendous brow, his eyes glittered like quartz in strong sunlight. His nose was long, finely cut, extremely sensitive, and, in conjunction with deeply-sunken cheeks and the fine brow, would have stamped him as an intellectual and ascetic had it not been for the mouth. That was a horror, a great bar of ugly crimson across the color- less face.

Stephen Lynn did not meet his uncle's keen, stabbing glance. He sat in the glow of a cavernous red fire across the room, and though ill at ease and resentful of his uncle's characteristically unpleasant way of conducting his death-bed scene Stephen's clever, mobile face showed neither fear nor doubt.

"My nephew," pursued Mark, "is too much a man of the world, of this world, to share your misgivings as to the future, Rosaina.

Imperial Caesar, dead, and turned to clay.

Might stop a hole to keep the wind away.

"My widow and her wealth would stop a good-sized hole. Exactly!"

A stain of color showed in the young man's face, too pale and sharply drawn for his age and build. But Stephen was a young man of character and ambition. His uncle paid him handsomely. He'd found the resources of Lamorna library invaluable for his own private researches. And there Avas always Rosaina. The fact of her near and dear presence had made his difficult, often revolting work possible.

He made no reply in speech, but Mark Zennor saw the red blood in his cheeks and sniggered.

"Don't trouble to conceal your face, my boy. And your thoughts are perfeedy correct, too. I am almost finished, so it's hardly worth while your taking me seriously now. I shall die before midnight."

Stephen frowned at the floor between his knees. He'd never got accustomed to his uncle's hateful trick of snatching the thoughts from his brain and putting them into words. He glanced across at Rosaina sitting on the far side of the great curtained bed. How nervous and strained she looked ! He'd be thankful when the end came and he could take her away.

"After all, Stephen," the voice from the bed proceeded, "you owe me a good deal. You've done better for yourself here than would have been possible elsewhere. The laboratory I fitted up for your exclusive use. The lines of research I indicated. Your salary. And the beautiful widow I am so obligingly going to leave for you. All these things must be balanced against less congenial aspects of your work under my roof. In fact, I'm hoping you will not grudge a last small service— a mere trifle, I assure you."

Rosaina turned her head sharply. She recognized the note in Mark's voice with a pang of fear. He was going to ask Stephen something important— something of such importance that he thought it worth while to subdue possible opposition with a weapon that never failed him. Her own heart leaped, her pulses thrilled in response to it. Mark's voice! Against all instinct and reason, those who heard that note in Mark's voice had no choice but to obey.

"Don't be anxious, my beautiful Rosaina. Indeed, my child, you must not be too sad, too tragic. I assure you there is hope, there is indeed hope!"

She shivered. Hope! What did he mean by that taunt? He knew his death was the one hope she had. He knew how she loathed and feared him, how she had tried to escape. But he would not let her go. And what Mark Zennor wanted he accomplished by methods peculiar to himself. She shivered again at memory of how, in the early days of her marriage, she had tried to run away. Mark had got her back in three days by means of a dream which haunted her during her absence. A very vile little dream, if indeed that whispering obscenity which never left her day or night could be called a dream. Possibly Mark might have used a more accurate term in describing the messenger he'd sent to bring back the runaway.

"Yes, hope! You were thinking on the right lines just now, my Rosaina, when your mind ran on death. I do indeed propose to rob it of its sting. And Stephen shall help me. I leave nothing to chance, to faith. I don't live by faith— that last resort of the inferior mind. I prove everything. I have proved everything— everything in this extremely elementary world of ours.''

"Proved everything!"

Stephen echoed the words. For a moment he actually believed the monstrous assertion. His own mind seemed to shrink and shrivel, confronted by a knowledge and intelligence brilliant as the noontide sun.

Then he was himself again, but shaken, a trifle fallen in his own esteem until he remembered a reason for his peculiar and absurd emotion. Watching by a dying man was not conducive to perfect functioning of the nerves, more especially when the dying man was his Uncle Mark. He rallied himself and smiled at Rosaina. She mustn't guess how close he'd been to sharing her own superstitious fear of this megalomaniac.

"It reassures me, Stephen, to see you smile."

Rosaina shuddered at the mad laughter in her husband's eyes.

"You appreciate this death-bed business for what it's worth, a convincing bluff for the ignorant. Objective facts of the most elementary kind are all this so-called scientific age understands. The real experiments are concerned with the spirit— with the will."

Will! At that ominous word Rosaina felt her blood run cold under the costly gold brocade of her gown. Mark insisted always on golden rich materials to set off her honey-gold hair and the matt pallor of her skin. The great emerald, emblem of their marriage, flashed wickedly with each nervous contraction of her hands.

"I am the only man in Europe who needs no faith. I have knowledge. I have mastered the secrets of existence."

Stephen felt completely himself now. Had it not been for Rosaina's obvious apprehensions he'd have started an argument.

"I must say I envy you,'' he replied. "It must be a wonderful sensation for you!''

"Sensation!''

Zennor's resonant voice gave the word an extraordinary inflection. It ex- pressed all the mad unfathomable derision that danced in the speaker's eyes. He opened a small platinum box, took out a pellet and swallowed it.

"A drug to give that keen edge to my intellect which I find necessary in dealing with you, nephew. I am too much diverted. And I have not much longer now. My— arrangements need scrupulously exact timing. The forces I control are as implacable as they are powerful."

The younger man frowned. He'd not realized quite how mad Rosaina's husband was. He looked at her again with startled apprehension. Good heavens! Was this the sort of thing she'd had to endure? No wonder she'd talked to him so wildly. There really was something in the old devil's voice— in his eyes— something inimical he'd never felt before. What a strong horrible face his uncle had! Curious— this was the first time it had seemed malevolent and spiteful. In dying, though, no doubt the face-muscles contracted. Or perhaps the shadow that lay across the bed

He got up in some haste, stirred the fire to a blaze, threw on a log, turned up a lamp. The shadow over the bed inexplicably remained.

"It's the shadow of death, my boy! Must do the thing properly." Zennor's eyes shone incandescent as a cat's as the fire roared up the chimney. "I promised both of you I'd die within the hour, and I'll keep my word. Death. Funeral. Burial. My mortal body committed to the earth. You two can carry out the whole heathenish sequence in most irreproachable style."

Rosaina sprang to her feet. Her panic found speech.

"Tell us, tell us quickly what you mean? What is this new trick?— this game you're playing with us?"

Zennor regarded her convulsed features with deep interest.

"You ought to have gone on the stage. Absolutely born for tragic roles! That was perfect! Perfect! I'm grateful for a moment of pure pleasure, Ro- saina. It hadn't occurred to me you'd ever give me one again. I never saw you so thrillingly, vitally alive. Beauty! Passion! Exaltation! If a woman hasn't these she's a poor drab nuisance in the world."

Her tortured eyes looked across the bed to Stephen. He was standing by the fireplace. Irritation and some bewilderment showed on his thin tired face now. He didn't understand the awful fear that made Rosaina's face a Greek mask of horror. He didn't understand the crepitation of his own nerves. He didn't understand why his uncle, whom he'd always regarded as a man of brilliant intellect most grossly misapplied and therefore faintly contemptible, should now be inexplicably dominating, even portentous.

The vast shadowy room was very still for a spellbound minute. Huge black candles burned in wooden standards four feet high and stood in a wide semicircle at the foot of the bed. Their wax gave off a faint scent of ambergris. Three uncurtained windows showed a staring moon and hard bright stars in a sky like polished gleaming steel. Rising wind made the dark firs toss and moan about the house. A dog's long dreary howl rose.

"Stephen!"

Rosaina's voice was like the clash of cymbals.

"Stephen! Take care— ah, take care! There is danger! Mark is not dying— not dying, I tell you! It's a trap for you, my darling. Stephen! Stephen!"

Zennor's big smooth supple hands flickered in a movement so swift that Stephen couldn't then, or afterward, recall exactly what he thought he saw, whether from the deepening pall of darkness over the bed a wing fluttered, a claw-like hand leaped forth, or if... if it was merely an effect of smoke and flame drawn with sudden swift roar up the great chimney.

Rosaina's hands flew to her throat. She gave a choking cry and fell back in her chair. Zennor's steely gaze turned from her to Stephen.

"Hysteria. I shall be dead in another fifteen minutes in spite of her unwarrantable lack of faith in my promise. You will spare fifteen minutes to hear a dying man's request?"

The cool convincing musical voice checked Stephen. Rosaina was over- wrought. She'd had the devil of a time. But now— well, it was only decent to humor his uncle in his last moments.

"If there's anything special. Uncle Mark, anything I can do for you, of course I'll be glad to carry out instructions."

His eyes sought Rosaina. She looked a great deal more like dying than did the man on the bed. Rigid as if bound to her chair, her face, her eyes, her straining throat, every line of her body showed terror bordering on madness.

"She will recover. I shall not."

The words came from the shadow slowly, solemnly. They riveted Steph- en's whole attention.

"I am listening, Uncle Mark."

"Then it is soon told. I wish you to be my sin-eater."

The fantastic words meant nothing to the listener. He waited. Mark Zennor's brilliant eyes were turned toward an hourglass set in an alcove near by. Filled with blood-red sand, it was swung between supports formed by two nude figures of transparent amber glass. The thing was of exquisite work- manship wrought by a craftsman whose skill was only equaled by his obscenity.

"The last sands are running out, the last minutes of my life. Soon the glass will turn over. In the moment of its turning I intend to make the change you call death. I have planned this ever since you came here, nephew. It is no question of my eighty years, of failing powers. My brain and body are not affected by time. I learned the small secret of prolonging the life of the body here centuries ago. Oh, it was easy to produce symptoms for the doctors if you're remembering their babble! Sant's the only man who'd have guessed."

His fingers crisped in angry recollection.

"Sant! The only man who might—"

He glanced again at the hourglass and checked himself.

"I have work that can't be completed on this plane of existence. I am ham- pered by my body, restricted by its laws. So I shall die."

He caught and held his nephew's eye.

"I ask you only to keep vigil for one hour by my body when I am dead. And then to eat bread, to drink water, and repeat the few words written on this parchment."

He showed a small scroll tied with black tape and sealed. Stephen glanced at the still figure of Rosaina. How ill and queer she looked! It was difficult to think of anything else. His uncle's thick lips twitched in savage amusement.

"She hears and sees you very well. But she is— er— prevented from joining this last intimate talk between us."

"You've— you've hypnotized her!"

Stephen dashed across the room, took the girl's cold stiff hands, called her name. His frantic efforts might as well have been addressed to the chair on which she sat. He swung back to the mocking, mountainous figure on the bed.

"What have you done to her? You old devil ! I'll go and call—"

"No!"

Stephen was held in a vise. He could neither speak nor move.

"Unless you swear to obey me, swear to be my sin-eater, Rosaina shall never wake. She shall die in trance as she is now. I can rely on Those who serve me to see to it after I am gone. You can't help her any more than you can help yourself now."

Furiously aware of sudden utter helplessness, Stephen heard Mark Zennor's voice. Its deep organ-note filled the room; its terrible music bound his soul in chains.

"Swear, Stephen Lynn! Come close. Put your hand in mine and swear!"

In spite of fiercest effort, Stephen felt himself obeying the voice, the lambent burning eyes that drew him... drew him...

He was compelled. His slow, reluctant feet moved forward, he began to cross the width of polished floor between fire and bed. It seemed like some tremendous journey. Cold, deadly conviction of loss and loneliness made those few yards of flooring beneath his feet wider than all the deserts of the world.

Rosaina and his love for her, Rosaina's stricken body close beside him, Rosaina and all their winged and shining future faded in that moment of his strange journey to Mark Zennor's bedside, faded to a small cloudy dream... insubstantial... drifting... drifting out of sight... out of mind.

MIDNIGHT approached.

The blood-red sands sank low in the hourglass, trickling through a bunch of glass grapes held by an excessively female figure into the opened mouth of an aggressively male one. When the glass swung over, the sands would flow back in a fashion as original as it was unprintable.

Stephen glanced up at the thing and back to the still figure on the bed.

Thank heaven! His hour of vigil was almost over. An hour. It seemed a lifetime since he had pledged himself, left hand in the dying man's cold strong grip, to carry out his uncle's last wish— to be his sin-eater. What a perfectly silly heathenish little ceremonial! And what peculiarly different things brought comfort to the dying! Certainly this last whim of his Uncle Mark's was outstandingly strange.

Little the dead man had ever cared about his sins! A man who refused to recognize any moral code at all, who never applied the words good or evil to conduct, who lived for experience alone— any— all experience.

His sin-eater! Fantastic notion! When last wishes had been mentioned, Stephen had imagined something far more formidable, something aimed at separating him from Rosaina. But this sin-eating business was merely a gesture— and a pitiful one considering the dead man's extraordinary intellect.

A baffling incalculable character. Sometimes he'd practised harsh rigid ascetism, reduced his great frame to a skeleton. Sometimes he'd indulged his senses in debaucheries that ought to have killed him— and didn't! He'd used brain and body to their utmost capacity in every conceivable way.

Stephen had known all this before taking on the duties of a secretary two years ago. What he hadn't known, and still didn't believe in, was the reality of the dead man's art. That was his uncle's name for the over-ruling interest of his violent and checkered life. Stephen was a brilliant young man in his own particular line but he never conceived of anything that came under the heading of occult as being more than the rankest imagination. And imagina- tion, he reasoned, belonged to poets and children in its better manifestations, and to drug-fiends and the morally and mentally deficient in its worse ones.

When a man died, argued Stephen, he utterly ceased to be, save as a memory. Death— death of the body was the end of a man as a separate individual. His work alone survived.

His uncle's work ! Stephen reflected on it as represented by the many books that bore Mark Zennor's name. He'd read some of them, a few that were written in English and dealt with scien- tific subjects. He'd been taken out of his depth and had never tackled the more recondite in German and French. There were books on philosophy in Chinese, Sanskrit, and Hebrew. There were books on music equally beyond his comprehension. He'd tried a volume of poetry once but decided that all the Turkish baths in the v'orld wouldn't make him feel clean after such literary explorations as these.

However, there was one book in the Lamorna library which he had been forced to know from cover to cover. He had made its black linen covers himself and printed every word of the text between them. It was not published, not publishable. It had been his first and most unpleasant task as his uncle's secretary to print this book on the private press that Zennor owned. A short book and a damnable one. The author's references to past vile experiences and experiments, and to others even more monstrous which he intended to carry out, haunted Stephen for months. To his clear young mind such revelations of immense research and familiarity with unspeakable beliefs and practises were lewd expressions of insanity, the excesses of a megalomaniac whose ambitions rivaled Lucifer's.

Finally, however, he grew callous. Profound disbelief enabled him to do his daily work with the detachment of a machine. He ceased even to wonder why his uncle had wasted time and his amazing intellectual powers over such insane and filthy nonsense.

"Yes, filthy nonsense!"

He repeated the words aloud. He was beginning to feel the necessity of reassurance. This vigil was getting on his nerves. Something was wrong wfith the lamp— it needed refilling, perhaps. His uncle had insisted on lamps and costly special oil for them that made the whole house reek. Tonight the lamp and the fire too— what was wrong?— everything seemed on the jump. Shadows. Beastly what queer imitations of life a shadow could give! Shadows— in that foul little book— they were said to be

He thrust back persistent words and images, and glanced toward the bed. The old man looked extraordinary. His arms and hands lay naturally by his side, the fingers crisped a little in the characteristic way they had in life. His eyes were open.

"Don't close my eyes, remember, Stephen!" he had commanded. "I want to watch you perform the ceremony."

And, although Stephen would have preferred to close those merciless bright eyes, he had given his word and could not bring himself to break it. He tried, however, to be mocking at his obedience, to be watching, waiting... waiting...

He attempted once more to reason about the thing.

"It's merely reflex action. The old man died believing in all his sticky little devil-worshipping ideas. He died happy in the thought that he was pushing all the results of his highly colored life on to my shoulders and went off believing this sin-eating business would square his accounts. That explains the peculiar expression in his eyes. And that half- smile!"

He frowned, stared.

"It certainly seems more pronounced. Probably it's those drugs he poured into himself to keep going as long as he wanted. When the rigor passes his muscles will relax. Nasty look on a dead face though— very nasty. Still it's perfectly explainable— perfectly!''

He wrenched his gaze from those fixed, sightless eyes. Sightless! It was hard to believe they really were that.

"He knew what he was about when he made me promise not to close them. Damned if the old devil's not at his old games even now he's dead. Trying to hypnotize me."

He moved restlessly, tried to laugh. The face of the dead expressed considerably more amusement than did his own; yet remembrance of this trick of his uncle's brought relief to the watcher. Hypnotism! That was it. That covered everything, especially the strange sensa- tions he'd had just before his Uncle Mark had died. Idiotic to have laid himself open to it— to have let imagination ride him so completely.

Thanks be! It had passed off almost at once.

Probably Rosaina's collapse had unnerved him, made him susceptible to suggestion. It was the very first time his uncle had ever caught him napping. His self-congratulation was unclouded by suspicion of design in this fact.

Rosaina! He looked at her. Still as a statue, white, frozen. Nothing he said or did could wake her.

"When you've fulfilled your promise, Stephen! She won't wake until then," Zennor had repeated. "Not until the hour is up and you've become my sin- eater."

Somehow he felt less concerned about her now— the strained white face, the terror-filled eyes, the slender limbs held as if in bonds! Hypnotized. He felt a faint contempt for the weakness that made her so easy a victim, even a sort of respect for the dominance of a will that could, even after death, exert its influence. Anyhow, if she were in a trance she felt nothing. No use his agonizing over her. Not long now to wait.

A FAINT whirring of machinery drew his glance to the hourglass. Its last grains had run out. Chimes of midnight sounded from some deep-toned village clock. Noiselessly, smoothly, the big hourglass turned in its half-circle.

He got to his feet, stood beside the dead body. At last he'd get the thing over and done with.

The first red grains ran back as he stretched out a hand toward the bared breast of the corpse. Those eyes! The light in them still. Surely— surely the dull fire couldn't strike that gleam in them? No, of course not. It was those infernal candles at the foot of the bed. Probably the wax contained some filthy ingredient that was affecting his eyes. Nothing his Uncle Mark had used was normal or natural. He was forever experimenting on his own senses and on other people's. The whole house ought to be burned down. Fire was the only purge for so much dangerous rubbish. That book in the library— everything suggestive, indecent. Yes, fire was the proper cure. He was so furious, so humiliated by the repugnant fear he felt of touching the corpse that he suddenly shouted at it:

"I'd like to burn the house down and you in it!"

Naturally there was no reply. Or was there? Didn't the dead man's grinning lips draw back a trifle further? Didn't the fixed eyeballs roll slightly in their sockets to meet his frantic angry gaze?

He cursed himself for a fool. A fool to have promised to carry out this fan- tastic post-mortem charade. A fool not to break his promise now. And fool most of all to get the wind up like this if he was going to do it.

He forced himself to take the parchment roll from under the dead man's hand.

He broke its black seal, unwound the tape, opened out the crackling sheet. His face darkened as he read the strong black lettering. This thing that seemed so childish and superstitious an hour ago began to assume a new aspect in its fulfilment. And for this, Stephen cursed his imagination now, rather than his lack of it in the first place.

Consulting the parchment from minute to minute he began to obey the directions written there.

"Take up the wafer that is in the mazar-bowl," he read. "Mazar? I suppose he means black-cherry wood."

Yes, there was the small wooden bowl on a table beside the bed. He took out of it a wafer whose smooth black surface was pricked in a deadly device he failed to understand. His fingers, colder than the dead flesh he touched, placed the wafer on the bared breast of the corpse.

Another, smaller bowl stood filled with water. And this also he put on the dead man's breast.

Then, turning to the table again, he dipped his trembling fingers into a handful of salt around which five minute black candles burned in a circle. Their tiny flames licked up fiercely as his hand was outstretched above them. Pain set his whole body on fire. He stood rigid, agonized. Suddenly the burning ceased. Only in his brain a strange sense of heat remained as if the fiery ordeal had left a spark upon the altar of his mind.

The salt he had taken up he now sprinkled upon the wafer and into the water. Once again he consulted the written words, put out an obedient hand, let it fall with a groan.

"No! No!" he muttered. "I don't like this business. It's— there's something I don't like about it! I believe he's—"

Against his will he looked up, caught the fixed dead eyes that seemed so piercingly to watch him, and again he felt a sense of utter powerlessness. Again, as when he first agreed to be his uncle's sin-eater, his resolution fatally relaxed. The fire in his brain dissolved the half-formed premonition of his danger.

Before the hard cold glitter in the dead man's eyes his own fell. He raised the bowl of water and held it out with stiffly extended arms toward the corpse. His hoarse strained voice came haltingly:

"I drink this water, with salt that can compel, that your sins may be washed from your soul. Let them flow— as this water— from you to me. I receive the great darkness of your sins. I give the light of my soul that your own may walk in it forever."

He shuddered violently as he turned, bowl in hand, to each of the four corners of the room, repeating the form of words each time. Then, putting the water to his lips he drained it and tossed the bowl away.

And now he knew no trick of candle or firelight had set that flame of wicked malice dancing in the eyes that held his own, or brought those capering shadows all about him. The fire within his brain worked like madness. He was part of all this now. He loved as much as loathed it. He desired as greatly as he feared to share the dead man's secret power.

He took up the wafer, turned again to each corner of the darkening room to repeat the written formula. Now his voice rose loud and defiant as he faced the corpse;

"Mark Zennor, with this bread and the salt that has power to seal my vow, I eat your sins. Give me the burden o f them. I take their weight on my soul. I, your sin-eater, give my soul's rest for yours eternally."

He put the wafer in his mouth. It crumbled to salt dust on his tongue. As he swallowed it he was aware that the flame of life within him was rising higher— higher— higher. And, with its soaring, towering, leaping life, he seemed to touch the stars. Then, with awful downward plunge, he sank— swift— swooning— down to thunderous abysmal dark....

"Stephen! Stephen!"

He roused himself. Rosaina was kneeling by his side where he lay on the floor. Her arms were about him. Her tears fell on his face. He got up, drawing her also to her feet, and looked down at her tragic face. He felt as though he'd been under the sea, submerged, almost drowned. His fears, his pain, the madness in his brain were washed away.

Rosaina held him with desperate convulsive pressure. He felt the wild beating of her heart against his breast. She couldn't speak. His low murmured words of love seemed to increase her dreadful shuddering agitation.

At last her sobbing breath was stilled, and she leaned against him in utter exhaustion as he stroked her golden shining hair.

"Darling! Dearest!" he whispered. "He's gone at last, left us free, you .and me! You and me, my own! Rose! My golden lovely Rose! Love me, love me and forget the rest."

She didn't move or speak. Once she turned to kiss the fingers that rested on her hair, and the cold pressure of her lips startled him — her clasp, her kiss were so despairing. Then she cried out again:

"Stephen! Stephen! Stephen!"

"Darling! I am here— holding you— close— close. Why do you call as if I were leaving you?"

"Stephen! You are— you are leaving me!"

She pushed him away, stood with white tragic face and haunted eyes.

"Oh, Stephen, my dear!— my dear! Don't you understand at all what you have done?"

"You mean that barbaric little ceremony? Dearest, you simply can't be- lieve there's anything in that! You might as well believe in ghosts and witches and devils— or— or anything," he finished lamely.

"I do believe in devils. He was a devil— served by devils. Didn't you see what held me bound this past hour, Stephen? Didn't you see?"

"The old man hypnotized you. I tried to wake you up— I tried repeat- edly."

"You saw nothing— felt nothing when you touched me? Oh, it's come, it's come at last— our punishment for loving. How fast he's got you now! He'll drag you down to hell— down to hell."

She went close to him again, looked up into his frowning bewildered face.

"His sin-eater. His sins. Have you any idea what Mark's sins were? No! How could you— when even I— although I can't sleep for remembering, for remembering— even I can only guess at "

Her face grew ashen but she moved back from his imploring arms.

"Wait, wait, Stephen darling! Oh, try to understand— try to believe me. It was real, that ceremony of the sin-eater. You have taken Mark's sins from him."

"You really believe that?" His tone was the more emphatic for a cold creep- ing doubt that chilled him now. "Darling, you can't be so mediaval and superstitious as that!"

"I know, I know I'm right," she urged. "You're in hideous danger. Oh, if you believed me even now it might be possible to "

She broke off, seized his hands and pressed them to her breast.

"Stephen! Stephen! Of course, I remember now what he said to me about Mark's illness, and that I must tell him if— Come quickly, quickly! We'll ask him to help you."

She clasped him in an agony of relief.

"Mr. Sant— don't you remember?— don't you remember he said Mark was not ill? He promised to return before any crisis arose if he could."

"No, I forget all about it. But he'd think me a fool to go to him with this tale.

"Uncle Mark was mad and you can be sure Sant knew it. He's the most celebrated alienist in Europe. Sant would count me as a patient if he thought I believed this. What can it signify— a few silly words gabbled over a dead body? Look here, Rosaina, let's get out of this room and talk some- where else; even the sight of his corpse—"

She glanced over her shoulder as they went, hand in hand, to the door. Her loud cry seemed to the man to come from his own lips as he turned and stared also at the bed.

"Look! Look! Ah-h-h ! Look at him now!"

He dropped her hand, strode to the cavernous bed. The face of the corpse was the face of one utterly at peace. Its bright staring eyes were closed, its lips gravely folded, every line that lust and pride had deeply stamped was smoothed away.

It was the face of one whose soul had found its rest.

Rosaina pressed close to Stephen. She stood staring... staring.... Her white trembling lips whispered over and over and over:

"You are his sin-eater— his sin-eater— his sin-eater! You have taken the evil from him."

They turned to look at each other. Her eyes searched his in frantic love and agony, dreading to see in them what he had taken from the dead. He returned her look. Faint impatience pricked him. He'd had enough melodrama for one night, he felt. Rosaina was— what had his Uncle Mark once said of an Arab woman he'd bought in Touggourt? Oh, yes! "Zobeide, my dear nephew, was a—"

He pulled himself up. Good heavens!

What had brought that lewd story to his mind— and in connection with Rosaina? He turned in horrified contrition.

"Dearest, you must come away. This place reeks of him and his beastliness."

"YES, please! Yes, we'll come at once. No, not here! I can't talk to you in his house."

Sant put down the telephone receiver, stood gazing at it. His mind was roused to extraordinary activity. His memory was gathering up facts, proofs, experience from the immense field of his knowledge. The whole sit- uation was changed now.

The great tawny Persian cat, lying with head sunk between straightly ex- tended forepaws, felt a break in the continuity of his peace. He looked up, gave a small inquiring trill of protest. His master picked him up and tucked the satin head beneath his own chin.

"Haroon Er-Rasheed, my old friend, it's bad news— the worst possible news. Mark Zennor is dead."

He held the cat so that he might look into his benevolent peaceful face. The animal rubbed a cold friendly nose against his own.

"Oh, yes, I know I'm clever, my dear. But so is he, most infernally so, and if he's dead it's because he didn't wish to remain alive. For the moment I can't fathom his reasons— that is what we've got to discover."

Haroon Er-Rasheed burrowed his muzzle into the palm of Sant's hand and gurgled consolation.

"Well, I'm glad you believe in me so utterly. It all helps. But we must think— we must think."

With the gentle deliberation ap- proved by that nervously constituted aristocrat he put the big cat down. Turning to his bookshelves he took out a battered volume entitled The Human Will. His visitors could not be here immediately, for his house was fairly inaccessible from Trink Village and the motor-road made a very long detour.

As this is the story of Zennor's death and of certain events immediately consequent on that crisis, it would be tedious to go back in any detail into circumstances of how and when these two men had previously come into conflict. The affairs were too elaborate, a great many other people were involved in them, and they had never been in the nature of man-to-man duels. Rather, Sant had interfered, very quietly, very circumspectly on a number of occasions in order to frustrate some of Zennor's ripest and most deadly plans.

By the time a rapid muffled knocking sounded at his front door, Sant had traveled a long journey in his thoughts. His immense power of concentration had marshaled his every encounter with Zennor and criticized each anew. In the light of his last dramatic move, everything Zennor had done or not done assumed less or more importance.

"Yes," reflected Sant aloud, as he rose to let in his visitors. "His death is a retreat in one sense, but it means that he has fallen back on some superior vantage-ground. My task is to discover what it is."

The welcoming light which, from the vestibule of his house, shone like a little star on the lonely hillside, showed Rosaina and Stephen to Sant as he opened his door to them.

Both were changed. He knew that instantly. It was a new and different quality of fear that now whitened the girl's face, aging and withering her inexpressibly. In Stephen's keen alertness there was now an edge of antagonism. A first faint pattern of the dead man's plan began to take shape in Sant's mind.

He led them in to his warm fire, and it did not surprise him to see his cat pressing up against the door as he opened it, but as the creature shot past his legs and away, ears flattened back, tail stiffened in angry fright, the pattern of Sant's thoughts was stamped a trifle more clearly. His eyes took on the gray remoteness of a winter sea, always a sign of intense mental preoccupation with him. He didn't, however, communicate his thoughts, but merely listened to their story and put extremely pertinent questions.

"About that one special book you recollected when Zennor had died and you w'ere keeping vigil by him. It seems to me very important. I must get hold of that book you printed."

"I suppose it would be a good idea." Stephen felt a peculiar reluctance all of a sudden to part with that black-bound book. "I'll see if I can find it for you."

"Thanks. Tomorrow morning, then."

Stephen was astonished at his own stab of furious anger. He was an even- tempered man and, although he was roused at rare intervals, it took a great deal to make him angry. Also, when that happened, he always felt cold as a block of ice. Never in his life before had he experienced such fiery murderous hate as flared up in him now.

SANT pretended not to see the vivid, if very fleeting, change in the other's face.

A strong revulsion of feeling seized the younger man. "Yes," he begged, "do come and take the thing away. I can't bear to remember I printed it, helped to perpetuate such foulness. It's coming back to me as we talk what it was all about, at least so far as I understood it. When I was working on it I was convinced Rosaina was somehow concerned— the human sacrifice— but there were a good many sacrifices mentioned, and she couldn't have been the same ‘golden woman' who died in Persia thousands of years B.C., or a Libyan princess in the time of Alexander the Great, or a slave in A.D. 50 ! And yet the book—"

Sant's blank calm face effectually concealed his thoughts.

"Yes. Do go on," he encouraged; "this is all most relevant."

"Of course," confessed Stephen, "most of it was gibberish to me. Uncle Mark claimed to have been reincarnated over and over again. 'He had to find something— or someone to complete a Triad— a mystic perfect Triad. It had to be three who were bound each to the other in some mysterious way. Then he could offer his last sacrifice through the medium of the Triple Link. His great object seemed to be the possession of a Key "

"The Key of Thoth?"

"Yes. That's what he was after— the Key of Thoth." He met Sant's grave eyes. "It's all pretty much of a jumble in my mind. I didn't understand one word in a hundred. But I do remember that he'd got to have some special sort of co-operation for his sacrifice."

"Stephen! What else— what else?"

Rosaina's voice was sharp with anxiety.

He looked at her rather vacantly, his brows drew together, he ruffled his thick brown hair. "It was fairly evident that he felt he'd got to the end of his search. There was a lot about his High Priest and the bond of blood to seal his bargain."

Sant's eyes were very cold, very remote. "I see." He looked intently at the other man.

"Damned if you do!" blazed Stephen suddenly. "It was my uncle's great secret, the goal of all he'd ever done or thought or lived for! No one— no one ever so much as guessed at his tremendous success— at the things he'd discovered."

"Stephen!"

Rosaina's cry brought him to himself. She shrank from his touch, turned to Sant with unmistakable appeal.

"He's worn out— as you are." Sant's voice was stern now. "You mustn't show fear, Rosaina, you mustn't feel fear ! It will injure him. If your love has any depth and reality you've got to help him. You can't leave him now."

"Leave him?" stammered the girl.

"Certainly. You left him when you turned to me then. Now listen to me, both of you!"

He looked into Stephen's dark eyes. Anger made them glitter. His thin face seemed a trifle squarer, his lips a trifle fuller.

The rough dark hair took a red gleam from the firelight.

"Stephen," Sant put a hand on the other's twitching one, "you're afraid too and you're giving ground to the enemy. It's no use keeping up any sort of pretense about this; we must work together, it's our wills against— the dead!"

"His sin-eater. I am his sin-eater."

Stephen spoke, not in horror so much as in warning and reminder.

"You were ignorant and foolish. You let Zennor trick you once— are you going to let him go on doing it, Stephen Lynn?"

The other got hastily to his feet, held out his hand.

"No!— no! I'm not! No, I'm all right again now and I'll fight him until I die."

"And that won't do, either." Sant gripped him strongly. "You've got to live. You've got to find out how to free yourself."

He turned to Rosaina.

"I won't disturb my housekeeper so late— or so early! It's almost three o'clock in the morning. You shall have
my room. There aren't any others ready. Stephen will do very well down here by the fire. I must go to Lamorna House at once."

He spoke with eyes on Stephen's face, saw gratitude and relief suddenly sharpen to suspicion. Some sort of struggle was going on in the young man's mind. Sant went off with Rosaina, and returned to find Stephen in hat and coat.

"It might be better if I went back with you, after all. You can—" he hesitated. "Oh— if— of course, if you prefer— no. I'll come! You can keep an eye on me then."

His companion regarded him with absorbed attention.

"Don't you mean you want to keep an eye on me?" he corrected. "Come if you will, by all means."

Again the younger man hesitated, then spoke in slow sulky tones.

"It would be better. The servants would think it queer if Rosaina and I were both here and you in possession at Lamorna House. Uncle Mark left like that!"

"Of course," Sant heartily concurred. "We'll go together."

THEY found Lamorna House abominably quiet— a challenging sinister quiet that met them on the threshold with all the force of swarming invisible assailants in possession of a stronghold. As they went through the hall and up the broad stairs, shadows seemed to peer and watch, to keep guard over the dead.

In the chamber of death they found the tall black candles still burning steadily at the foot of the bed. The head of the corpse lay deeply sunk into the pillows. On its face a yet profounder calm had settled. Sant looked down in silence. He hid his deep disquiet from Stephen, standing beside him; but, turning sharply, he surprised a strange smile dawning in the young man's dark eyes, a smile that spread as Sant watched it— loosening the fine curve of the mouth, aging and coarsening the eager face.

He faced the corpse and spoke a few rapid words under his breath. For a moment the look of infinite calm on Mark Zennor's face seemed to break and alter— as the surface of smooth water is ruffled by a sudden angry gust of wind.

But it was Stephen who answered Sant's words. What he said was unintelligible to himself— the words rushed from between his lips— his hands clenched— his whole body stiffened. Then, under the penetrating steady look with which Sant met his outburst he drew back. His taut muscles slack- ened. He looked almost stupidly bewildered.

"Sorry! Did you say anything? I felt dizzy all of a sudden."

"I didn't know you spoke Arabic!"

"Arabic!" echoed Stephen. "Why, I don't speak it— don't understand a word of it. What makes you say so?"

"Only that you cursed me very competently in that tongue just now."

Stephen's bewildered frown deepened to a scowl. "You seem as much off your balance as Rosaina. I've never spoken a word of Arabic in my life."

"Forgive me!" Sant put a hand on his arm. "I'm not playing tricks on you— it is he who is doing that. I wanted to prove something and I've done so. Come away. This empty shell he's left— everything here reeks of him— tainted— poisonous! Come, Stephen!"

Outside the room, Sant locked the door and pocketed the key. Instantly his companion's eyes blazed with fury, but it died down and faded at the older man's friendly smile and touch.

"Look here, Sant, I can't stand this. I'm all in a fog— can't seem to get a grip on myself. Can you give me something to make me sleep? If I could sleep, forget the last few hours, I might—"

"The very best thing," agreed the other.

THEY went downstairs again. In his own private study, Stephen switched on an electric radiator and produced drinks. An hour later he was sleeping heavily, stretched out in an easy-chair. Sant made for the library; he knew he must get hold of Mark Zennor's book before he was prevented.

He found it at last, sat down at a desk, and began to examine it. He read on and on. Dawn crept up to the tall, uncurtained windows. Warmth of the rising sun touched his cheek as he sat, fell on the printed page before him.

He got to his feet abruptly and flung up the nearest window, thrust out his head to breathe deeply of the keen salt air from the Atlantic. In the east a streak of yellow kindled behind glimmering ghostly bare trees. He faced the strong clear radiance. Ah ! How good the sharp sweet air— the untainted dawn! How cleansing after the abominable pages of Zennor's book ! He leaned against the window- frame, half closed his eyes, surrendered his tired mind and body to the spell.

A robin warned him. Young and bold and hungry, it fluttered to the broad sill on which his hand rested. Cheep! Cheep! Cheep! Cheep!, Sant's eyelids lifted. He caught sight of a shadow on a side-pane of the bay window and turned in time to snatch up the open book. Stephen stood beside the desk, a queer stiff automatic figure, his eyes wide open but glazed with sleep. As the book was withdrawn his lips drew back in a savage grimace and a blaze of vivid hate shone through the dreaming dark eyes. The hand out-stretched to pick up the book drew back with crisping crooked fingers like the talons of a bird of prey.

Sant leaned forward, looking deep into the black fixed eyes of the sleep- walker.

"No, Mark Zennor— not yet! I stand between you and this man you have betrayed. I fight for Stephen Lynn— for his body and for his soul."

Again hate leaped like white fire in the fixed eyes, and for a moment the mask of Stephen's face quivered, al- tered, expanded to hideous semblance of the dead.

Sant drew closer, put all his will into repulsing the assault. "Not yet," he repeated. "You dare not take possession of this human body now. The four hands of Adda Nari still hold the four elements from your grasp. You are not yet wholly freed from the Wheel. The laws of human life still bind and limit you."

Fiery hate died to blankness in the eyes opposite his own. He blew lightly in the set young face.

"Wake, my dear boy— wake !"

Stephen was bewildered, annoyed, and very tired.

"What's it all about? Sleep-walking! Never done that before. Heavens! What a beastly draft!"

Fie slammed down the open window against the still twittering robin and rang a bell.

"Those lazy good-for-nothing servants! Snoring away upstairs. They can jolly well come down and do their bit. I'll have enough on my hands now wnth funeral arrangements and all the rest of it."

He looked far more exhausted than before he'd slept.

"What were you working at? That book of my uncle's— eugh ! Better burn it— burn the whole library — everything!"

"Yes, I agree, but not until I've come to the end of the trail I'm following; not until I know how strong a link he made to bind you to him."

"That sin-eating charade?" Stephen's look was derisive. "Y'know we all got the wind up pretty badly last night. No man could believe in such mumbo-jumbo— not now, in broad daylight. Last night was different. After watching Uncle Mark all those hours— and he was a— well, he's gone now, no need to dissect his unpleasant character more than necessary. Anyhow last night's over and done with! As to the rest—"

"You mean you no longer feel in any danger?"

"Danger? No, except of making a fool of myself. Last night he hypnotized Rosaina and I believe he put some sort of a ‘come hither' on me too. Making the most of his last hours I suppose. I don't want to think of, or talk about, or remember last night any more."

"Perfectly natural and normal, but unfortunately your attitude gives Mark Zennor a clear field."

"What— with me!"

Stephen stared, then burst into a laugh. Sounds of steps in the hall interrupted him.

"One of the Seven Sleepers at last— butler probably," he went on. "Better go and tell him about Uncle Mark. He'll want to warn the maids and trot round pulling down blinds, etc. Servants adore deaths and funerals and all the gloom and wreaths and hushed voices and all the rest of it. There won't be tears, at least. No one in the wide world could regret Uncle Mark's death. There's the telephone, that'll be Rosaina— hope she slept better than I did, poor darling!"

IT WAS after the funeral that Sant missed Stephen.

"I can drive the car, of course," he told Rosaina as he tucked a rug about her knees. "But—"

She gave a shiver, nor was it the keen north-east wind that chilled her.

"We can't wait here in the church-yard for him. Let's go back.

A crackling log-fire and Sant's big yellow cat gave them welcome. Rosaina sank to a chair by the leaping flames and tossed her hat on the rug. She'd cast aside all the rich flaunting golds that Mark had insisted on, and in a dark tweed suit she looked less sophisticated and considerably more tired and fragile.

Haroon El-Rasheed inspected her hat with deep interest and a running commentary of sounds peculiar to himself, then leaped to her knee.

Sant smiled down on them both. "Not much of you visible now. I must see that Zennor's book is safe before looking for Stephen."

He crossed over to a bookcase and pulled out from behind a row of dusty folios a box clamped with silver, unlocked it with a key on a bunch in his pocket.

The box was empty!

"Gone! Stephen evidently made straight for it. It had a preface with elaborate detailed Instructions for reaching the hidden entrance to a vault or crypt beneath Lamorna House— Zennor had converted it into a sort of chapel."

She stared up at him.

"The book! Instructions! D'you think Stephen's gone down to that horrible place?"

"Sure of it. He's been trying to do It ever since Zennor's death. I dogged him like his own shadow— he'd no chance until this afternoon. I saw him slip away from the graveside, but I couldn't run after him tlien.

"I've made a copy of those Instructions." He put a hand into his breast- pocket and drew out a few thin crackling sheets from a case. "Impossible to find the place without this key. I'll have to follow at once."

"I must come too. Yes!— yes!" she got to her feet impetuously. "I can't wait here alone. You don't know what horrible thoughts I have."

"Believe me, I do know, but I ask you to stay. The danger is acute for all three of us, most of all for Stephen. For his sake I must go alone. I'm not powerful enough to give you protection if sudden attack came. If you hinder me or distract me and I fail— you and he are also lost, remember."

She met his eyes bravely.

"You're very clever, and very strong. I believe in you with all my heart. And I'll do my best to— to believe in myself too. But bring Stephen back to me ! Oh, bring him back !"

"BRING Stephen back to me !" An hour later her passionate appeal echoed in Sant's ears as if Rosaina's strained white face still looked into his, while eyes and lips implored, "Oh, bring him back to me!"

On the threshold of a vast and vaulted chapel he stood cold and stiff as the carven monstrosities within it, his eyes fixed on a great altar that faced the entrance. Before the altar a man was standing— a man who elaborately genuflected and abased himself. The man was Stephen Lynn.

Sant, who knew the value and the meaning of each gesture, knew also that he was too late to interfere.

"It would kill him outright now," he murmured; "he's in trance. Zennor's taken complete control. He means to strike at once without giving me time to prepare. Yet the Universal Agent turns to its ebb! He's broken his Rule. He means to sacrifice before his Hour."

He took a few steps into the heavy perfumed gloom. What light there was beat down upon the altar-steps, above which a great metal globe hung, sus- pended in midair by magnetic force, a globe that received long shafts of light from concealed sources and gave them off again in dazzling hypnotic points of fire.

Sant carefully avoided raising his eyes. As carefully he moved forward, choosing his steps over the bizarre mosaic of the marble floor. He knew the deadly trap of the symbolic tree whose reversed branches spread under his feet. He knew what dark magic lent iridescent gleam to the peacocks set within their topaz circles. His lips murmured the Words and a Word as he trod between the stippled ochreous coils of two serpents intertwined. His hands moved in strange rapid gestures as he followed a narrow track of alternating black and yellow tiles, setting each foot on the black, advancing with the sway- ing balance of a tight-rope walker.

And now he halted. On the chapel pavement before him glowed a full moon, red, ominous as spilt blood. He anxiously examined it. If the moon revealed— Yes! So faint that only an initiate might discern its awful significance, an ovoid luminous shadow moved within the confines of its own circumference, vaporous, restless, potent, dread symbol— the Orphean Egg.

Sant waited, watched a curl of bluish mist rise from the full moon's strange matrix, stood like a stone as it curled about his feet, his knees, his body, his stiffly erect head. Only with his will might he control this force— creator and destroyer before the earth was formed. Behind the dreadful veil that hung about him, his face showed the grimness of the ordeal. Vapor swirled and eddied swifter, denser every moment. Sant knew the pains of death, the pangs of rebirth, but he endured, and at last stood free.

Back to its living source the vapor sank as he moved forward to the low- est altar-step. He had received a baptism, and nothing in this place, dedi- cated to evil, might harm him in this hour.

He looked up instantly at the altar. The spare young figure knelt in rigid stillness now and every line expressed tense prodigious effort of concentration. A voice continuously rose and fell, but not Stephen's voice— the timbre was fuller and more richly modulated, a trained and powerful instrument whose deep notes held the sound of far-off stormy seas.

It was Mark Zennor's voice that rose and fell— rose and fell in magic compelling cadences! Zennor calling on his dark gods, reiterating his impious vows, drawing to his service a vast army of the damned.

Velvet-shod, Sant moved another step upward. And now he blotted out his own personality that it might make no impingement on the etheric waves of evil which the worshipper was drawing to himself. On all sides he felt strong pressure of occult power— subservient, dominated by the man at the altar above him.

"Bring him back to me!"

The words thrilled through his brain, for he could not obey them now. This man kneeling by the great Stone of Sacrifice was Stephen Lynn's human habitation merely. Within it, controlling, drilling an unaccustomed body to its ritual, was Mark Zcnnor's proud Satanic brilliant mind.

"Bring Stephen back to me!"

Impossible now. Zennor had long ago too thoroughly prepared his ground, too completely trapped his victim from the first moment of their contact. He listened intently. The words rapped out firmer, quicker, more peremptory now. The climax approached.

The great chapel, circular in shape, had walls that rose curving, darkly luminous, satin-smooth as the petals of a vast black tulip, to meet a vaulted roof— their polished surface broken by squat archways behind which darkness lay like a crouching beast of prey.

Above the huge slab of the altar-stone was a reredos of red alabaster, a screen some thirty feet by ten. It was powerfully illumined from behind, so that its carving stood out in bold relief and a trick in the lighting gave a sinister effect of constant movement.

This screen was a vivid presentment of a human sacrifice. Bound on the stone-altar, a woman appeared to writhe and quiver. Her long bright hair rippled down to a deep trough about the altar-base. Into this same trough trickled a thin dark stream of blood from a knife which pierced the victim's body. About the altar stood tall candles whose flames danced in frenzy.

And behind the candles' flare and flicker, at each of the four corners of the altar, a veiled figure towered. Menacing, gigantic, these figures were the only immovable objects on the screen, and they achieved by their fateful stillness — in contrast with the surge and movement of all else in the picture— an effect of final inescapable doom. Dark crescent moons poised above each veiled head of these four attendant genii bearing Hebrew characters which read— EARTH. WINTER. NIGHT. DEATH.

And now Sant saw the black-clad figure— the body of Stephen Lynn, torn and wrenched, trembling from head to foot in diabolic ecstasy, arms flung widw, head bent backAvard so that light from the suspended globe beat full and fiercely down upon the upturned face. Louder— louder rang the great triumphant organ voice, pealing out into the unclean silence of the chapel's gloom, beating against the curved and shining walls which sent back clashing paeans of tremendous harmony—

Thus have I conquered, ye Genii of the Twelve Hours!

Thus are all things subdued to my Will!

By vpisdom I have pierced Truth.

By intelligence I have cast down idols.

By strength I have bound Death in chains.

By patience 1 have fathomed the Infinite.

Now is the Universe wholly revealed to me.

Ye Terrible Ones! Princes of the kingdoms and heavens of Pharzuph, of Sialul, of Aeglun, of Aclahayr,

I, who have worshipped and obeyed, shall serve no more.

Princes of Earth, of Air, of Fire, of Water,

The Four Elements you rule are as dust under my heel.

I am invulnerable— beyond Death and Change forever.

The six wings of Bereschott cover me.

The Rock of Yesod beneath my feet.

Bow dowin in homage! BOW DOWN!"

Sant, his eyes on the tense convulsed figure, saw it sway. Its outflung arms dropped.

The dark head leaned back— back until Sant could see its greenish pallor and half-veiled eyes. Rigid, entranced, the spirit within him caught up into dark swooning ecstasy, Stephen fell back slowly, slowly into Sant's waiting arms.

"FRIDAY afternoon! A few more hours, Adrian— only a few hours now."

Sant glanced at Rosaina, got up from his chair and began to walk up and down his study. Presently he lighted a pipe, let it go out between his clenched teeth as he paced to and fro. He looked out across his garden where violets, anemones and jonquils braved February winds and tall daffodils danced to its piping. His absent gaze followed the course of a valley and rested at last on the stretch of ocean beyond. Gray, turbulent, troubled as his own thoughts, the Atlantic lay under a leaden sky. His brooding look dwelt on it as if in this vast element he found ease for his soul.

"Adrian!"

He turned back to Rosaina, sitting by the fire, his heart contracted with pity at sight of her. How altered since Zennor's death! Not all the tragic years of her marriage had broken her as these few days of torturing anxiety for the man she loved.

Sant's burden grew heavier as he met her eyes; she looked so lost, so wild, so grief-stricken; her body seemed transparent in the firelit dusk; her golden hair was lifeless and faded, the delicate lines of face and neck painfully evident, the amber eyes two deep pools of weariness. Body, mind and spirit could endure little more. And yet they must! And tonight. There could be no halt in the tremendous impetus of the occult rhythm of events. Zennor, through his chosen medium, Stephen Lynn, could not himself alter the impending climax now. Tonight he gained all, or lost all. There was no middle course.

He had challenged the Four Ancient Ones, and must prove their master or be for ever enslaved. Tonight he must achieve the goal for which he had striven since his first incarnation on earth by offering the Perfect Sacrifice to complete the Triad of his protection.

Tonight! That much Zennor had revealed through Stephen on the day of the funeral while Sant watched in the chapel. And because it was tonight, Sant knew his enemy feared him and his influence; for Zennor's own baneful star would not be at its zenith until the next moon's waning, in the Tenth Hour, called Malaen.

The genii of that Hour were strong and slaves to Zennor's will. They had been the heat of his blood, the shadow of his body, the breath of his nostrils when— in his first life on earth— he had, in shaggy beast-like form, run on all fours through forests of the north, forests dug up now as coal from under the crust of the world. Tonight these genii would serve him well. The Hour was favorable— but less favorable than the Tenth Hour, called Malaen. Zennor would have been stronger in the next moon's waning.

He went back to Rosaina, drew up a chair beside her. No hint of anJsiety showed in the tranquil face he turned to her. He did not doubt her courage now, but he doubted whether the frail hold she had on life would carry her through the ordeal required of it. And she must live. She must defeat Zennor on this plane while in the flesh. Divorced from her body, he could not help her. Her ego and Stephen's too would be incorporated with Zennor's, made one with his damned soul.

She voiced his thoughts.

"I shouldn't have lasted another twenty-four hours. Another night. The night, oh God ! Adrian!"

He bit hard on his pipe-stem and nodded.

"Even though you sat outside my door to keep watch, to prevent his com-ing to me, he sent his devils to torment me. Your drugs gave sleep to my body but my spirit suffered. In the shadows—in the silence I could see my body lying there, while I— myself— was forced to listen to what They said— what They said !"

"The main thing was that you slept. Your reason was saved in spite of all he could do."

He had never let her see how peril- ous he knew those dreams of hers to be. He only marveled at the strong beautiful balance of her mind that re- tained its sanity in spite of them.

A BUMP at the door heralded the sturdy old housekeeper with a tea-tray. She was the only servant Sant had permitted to stay on since the ceremony he had witnessed in the chapel. He refused to expose two younger maids to the danger of Stephen's presence In the house, or, rather, to the Satanic malice of the mind now in possession of Stephen's body.

"I'll go myself to let Mr. Lynn know that tea is ready," he told the old servant.

Mrs. Poldhu nodded. She was a rather formidable old woman, afraid of no one and given to expressing her opinions very forcibly indeed. She'd summed up Stephen as "the spit of that old toad, his uncle Mark Zennor" and had flatly refused to speak or look at him.

"Plaze yourself, sir. Tesn't no consarn o' mine."

Sant left Rosalna setting out the tea-things. Haroon Er-Rasheed lay before the fire, bestowing passionate attention on one large paw which failed to meet his standards of cleanliness. Mrs. Poldhu waddled off to get more coal for the dying fire.

Sant searched the garden in vain.

Satisfied that Stephen was no longer there, he hurried indoors again. He hadn't been in the least concerned about the tea question but had seen, from the window, that Stephen was warily approaching a gate on which a blackbird sang in the dusk. Sant didn't wish a repetition of a savage little incident he and Rosaina had witnessed yesterday when Stephen had revoltingly injured a dog that had snarled at him.

That was his voice! Sant hurried. The door of the study, where he'd left Rosaina, was open.

"Stand still, little fool!"

The words rang out.

"This is to punish you for locking me out at night. Now, you yellow beast— jump!"

Sant leaped to the door and was in time to see Haroon Er-Rasheed between Stephen's hands, his belly flattened to the ground, ears back, golden eyes black with terror. At the word "jump!" the animal shot forward as if from a gun.

Rosaina stood, white, agonized, unable to stir a muscle. Her shriek and Stephen's laugh synchronized with Sant's lightning dash. He caught up the yellow cat from the fire on which it crouched, its eyes glazed and fixed on Stephen's face.

The animal stubbornly resisted Sant. It fought to free itself, struggled furiously to obey the will of the mocking devil in Stephen's eyes. Sant held it in Iron hands, and faced its tormenter.

"Mark Zennor!" his voice was barely a whisper. "You exceed your powers. Release this animal— I lay my command on you!"

In Stephen's eyes such cold blind hatred flared that Rosaina cried out again. But Sant moved nearer to his enemy, stared him between the eyes— stared until the dark fire in them was quenched, until their lids drooped. In sullen obedience his hand brushed the big cat's head. He muttered a low- breathed word.

The Persian jumped half the width of the room, halted to turn eyes of blazing yellow fire on Stephen, dashed like a crazy thing through an open window, dashed across a lawn, up over a wall, and away.

Stephen also vanished from Rosaina's sight.

He went slowly, but his exit was even more spectacular than that of the unfortunate beast. Again she cried out in stark terror, for he disappeared without moving at all.

"He is here with us, Rosaina. He is perfectly visible to me. But you are, in part, subject to him. He has intoxicated your vision by a trick. Will yourself to see him— here, take my hand."

A touch of it, and she regained control. She saw Stephen walking toward the door.

Sant looked after him as he went from the room.

"He lost control too. I've tried for that revelation from the start. Oh, it was an infinitesimal moment of anger merely, but enough— enough to work on. He's at a disadvantage in his borrowed flesh."

Rosaina trembled, but with anger now, rather than fear.

"Adrian! Your poor cat — won't you go and look for him?"

Her indignation burned so fiercely that she couldn't fathom his apparent indifference. He gave her a long keen look.

"You are very angry. Good! It will stimulate you. But don't worry about Haroon. Mercifully he wasn't injured; the fire was almost out and his fur's thick. He'll forget when— when we've saved Stephen."

She was goaded to new activity. The shock of the beautiful friendly beast's punishment, remembrance of his glazed eyes fixed on Stephen's grinning face, and his shining yellow fur with gray smoke curling up about his body, stung her to fierce anger and revolt.

"You're right. He shall not take Stephen from me— he shall not! I'll fight. I'll fight to the end now. That poor cat's eyes— Stephen shall never... oh I I'm ready, Adrian ! That devil shall not win!"

He knew her present condition could not last, but it all helped. Anger would die down, her mood of hot reckless indignation cool. Only staying-power counted. But this would strengthen her will. Everything turned finally on that.

"There's work for both of us to do before midnight. And I want to emphasize once more that it's very important you should go of your own free will tonight. I must remain here, working for you, helping to strengthen your will with my own. But it is Zennor's chosen Hour and I may not interfere with what he does. Don't evade Stephen. Offer yourself a free victim for the sacrifice. And concentrate ceaselessly, ceaselessly on your purpose to save Stephen."

"Yes! Yes!" she whispered, "I must hold him! Save him!"

"Hold him, save him," emphasized her companion. "And now there's no time to lose. You've got those books and papers? Good. Concentrate for your life— and his. No need to lock ourselves in tonight. Stephen will be at Lamorna House— until he comes for you."

He was at once absorbed, drawing strange symbols on ancient brittle papyri where faint tracery of lettering showed. After examining these faint marks through a glass for minutes at a time, he repeated them aloud. At the last word— all he said being perfectly unintelligible to the girl— he would scratch a new sign on the papyrus under his hand with an alder twig which he kept charred at a naked flame on his desk.

He'd been at this for two days and two nights, slaving like a man pos- sessed, muttering, writing, glaring at the dirty old papyri, transported to a vrorld Rosaina couldn't conceive of.

She recollected the yellow Persian's queer interest in these literary labors, how he'd leaped up at the faint rustle of twig on paper when a new symbol had been drawn, how his eyes, their pupils distended to the edge of the iris, had followed the movements of some invisible moving thing about Sant's chair.

Poor beautiful Haroon! She bent to her task with tightened lips.

By slow degrees she became aware of her surroundings. When first Stephen led her to a throne-like seat, she could make out nothing in the pungent dusk. Now the great chapel was revealing itself; and, instructed by Adrian though she was, her heart stood still at the revelation.

Her throne was in the exact center of the great circular floor. Behind it, and on either side, curved the shining walls.

Before her stood the altar with its reredos which, from this distance, she saw only as a burning patch of light.

She scarcely glanced at the great dazzling globe of metal in midair, so afraid was she of its will-benumbing magic. She fixed her gaze, rather, on the man who moved to and fro before the altar in its refracted rays— going about his awful business.

Her chill, slender hands clasped the snakes' heads of polished ebony that formed two arms for her seat. The elaborate ritual that was to culminate in her death was begun. She recalled Adrian, shut up in his study, bent over his desk, concentrating on her, sending out his strong will to aid her own. Strengthened, steadied, she then deliberately thrust aside this mental image and gave her whole attention to Stephen and his profane and terrifying preparations.

Mark's sin-eater— Mark himself now, save for the thin veil of flesh that masked his hell-born vicious soul. It was Stephen's straight strong body there, kneeling at the altar. It was his dear hands, his dark head, his face and eyes and lips. Oh! it was everything— and it was nothing. The mad cruel smile, the eyes' wild glare, the towering merciless pride that blazed behind this fleshly screen were Mark's alone.

Mark's sin-eater. And how deep was every sin of the dead printed upon this face and body of Stephen Lynn! The voice that rang in deep imperious rhythm was altogether Mark's. Stephen's had been notably clear, eager, flexible, with a trick of rising inflection that she adored.

Ah! This was Mark! That he moved and spoke in Stephen's guise made him more awfully Mark Zennor. Not a glimpse of the real Stephen. Not a spark of his own ego burned in the temple of his body; its altar light was quenched and Mark's dark soul was in possession.

Rosaina's courage wavered. Suppose Adrian was wrong? Suppose Stephen could not, after all, return to his habitation of the flesh for the promised moment? Suppose she failed to recognize the moment if it came? What had Adrian said?

"Stephen will come. He must come. Zennor may not offer sacrifice without first allowing Stephen to return momentarily to his own body once more. Beyond all question you will see him again in the flesh."

Fear drove hope away, rode her leaping thoughts.

"He is not here— the man I love is not here. This is a devil, a monster, it is Mark. He has tricked Stephen, destroyed him, thrust him down to hell— his eyes— Stephen's kind gentle eyes— that cat, how his eyes were held by Mark's!... Stephen's too, he must obey, torture himself, he is a slave— a slave like that animal! Stephen! But there is no Stephen— he has no body, no soul, he doesn't exist! Stephen!"

But love still struggled to believe.

"I must wait. One moment there will be, one brief moment! I shall meet him face to face in the living flesh. My dear! My beloved! And I will hold him fast — fast for ever. No one shall take him from me. He will come and I will hold him fast— fast "

And now the chapel lights grew dim. The suspended dazzling globe of metal dulled to a pale moonglow. Black candles, tall watchful guardians about the altar-stone, bowed trembling heads of flame, bowed down to their sockets, wavered— died. Only the reredos still blazed, its restless secret fires more brilliant, more incandescent as globe and candles failed.

Qtephen turned from the altar, advanced with stately purposeful deliberation, down the five steps, across the chapel floor. Now he stood before Rosaina and in his brilliant eyes she saw Mark's demon enthroned, triumphant.

"Come !" he commanded. "I am ready. You are chosen to share this Hour with me."

She felt his fingers close upon her own; their heat burned her, their cruel strength appalled. This was Mark, all Mark indeed. How well she knew that fierce hold, how her nerves shrank at its familiar possessiveness!

He led her to a thin, blood-red crescent of moon that gleamed in its first quarter on the marble floor. Vast eagles' wings outstretched in fiery lines behind the wicked knife-edge of the moon.

"Stand here."

Obediently she placed her feet upon the sign. She felt its poignant blade's sharp agony. The High Priest, hands of iron on her shoulders, faced her with rapt cruel face down-bent.

"Receive her, oh Prince and Ruler of the Air! This is the victim appointed to fulfil my Destiny. Before Time began I chose her from all the worlds that are. Her blood shall seal my vow."

She felt the beat of great wings; the air about her vibrated and fanned her coldly on the cheek, cold as the breath from mountain heights, cold to the heart it struck— but the High Priest's face of triumph chilled her very soul.

He led her to the east, where a half- moon showed— a fountain of living water rising beside it. Here again he dedicated her, calling on all the waters of the earth to witness his power.

By the three-quarter moon dark earth was strewn, and, standing here, she knew the smothering darkness of the grave. Only the unrelenting hand that guided her, the deep voice that pealed in trumpet-call, summoned her again from what seemed her tomb.

And now he set her feet upon the last ominous moon in whose full orb moved that potent deadly cloud— soul of all that is— ageless— indestructible— accursed.

A brazier of fire stood close by. The High Priest drew a tiny phial from the folds of his robe, shook its powdered contents on the red coals. Flame leaped in a twisting clear blue pillar to the roof, spread across it, streamed down the walls again.

The High Priest's voice rolled in thrilling music above the elements' fierce roar;

"Rulers of Fire — above the earth, within the earth, about the earth!

Michael! Samael! Anael! Hear me now!

The appointed Hour is come! The Victim is prepared !

Receive my Sacrifice! Receive my Sacrifice! Receive my Sacrifice!"

As the third loud cry rang echoing round the chapel's flaming walls, one single spear of glittering white fire thrust upward from the cradle of its being— from the deadly ovoid cloud within the full red moon. The priest's hand closed swiftly about the fire-spear, bent it to brush Rosaina's forehead, released it with a muttered word. In- stantly the spear vanished and all the fiery walls and roof grew dark once more.

Down to his knees sank the High Priest. His lips touched the red moon's rim. Three times he did obeisance, three times he murmured words of power. Then he rose and faced the victim,

Rosaina, at touch of the shining spear, felt deadly mortal chill invade her body— a sense of doom paralyzed every faculty.

It was too late to struggle, too late to fight! Stephen was lost! And she must die ! She must let go— let go— let go...

She stood watching the High Priest as he moved from her, up the five steps, up to the altar. He reached It, turned to face her, lifted his arms until his black silken cloak stretched like wings on either side of a scarlet sheath-like robe. Higher leaped the hellish lights behind the reredos. Before its strong pulsating evil, Stephen loomed dark and tall and terrible. He waited for her. He summoned her. She must obey— obey him.

From the caves of darkness that lined the walls between its broad squat pillars, shadows thrust and crowded, worshippers from hell, incorporeal, soundless, shapeless, fluid as water, bodiless as smoke, yet, beyond all words, instinct with power.

The High Priest's congregation was assembled. Rosaina the Victim was summoned. Cold and darkness below, above, on every side. She moved to the altar like driftwood borne on the ocean tide.

Now she was at the altar steps. Each one's ascent set her a world's width farther off from Stephen. Now she stood in the balefire glow of the altar- screen. The High Priest's hands lifted her, laid her on the altar-stone.

At last she saw the figures on the gleaming quivering reredos, saw herself in the bound victim there, saw Stephen in the High Priest who stood beside the sacrificial stone. And behind the veils of the Four about the altar, she recog- nized the lewd companions of her dream.

A swift pang of longing tore her for Adrian's help. How sure he had been! How utterly she had believed that Stephen— Stephen himself— would return if only for an instant. Now, turning to the wickedly intent face bent over her she saw Mark, and Mark alone.

Stephen was lost— for ever lost. And she must die and go out in the darkness too. Thin biting cords were bound about her. A knife-blade winked and flashed. Now indeed the end was come. Her eyes stared up into the face bent over hers.

Sudden rending pain stung her failing senses. A veil seemed snatched from before her eyes. Her heart's slow beat quickened to furious pulsing life. Nerve and muscle strained to break the bonds that held her.

"Stephen! Stephen! Stephen!"

Her voice rang through the gloom. The black smooth walls seemed to quiver in response. All the hurtling swarming shadows jostled closer.

"Stephen! Stephen!"

Again the dark walls trembled. Closer pressed the demon shadows.

"Stephen! Come to me! Come to me!"

The High Priest's face bent lower. Dark eyes looked into her own. A faint urgent whisper reaehed her ears.

"I have come... from hell... to you. Hold me! Save me!"

"Stephen!" she cried again. "Ah, this is you indeed! Your eyes that look at me. Stephen! I will hold you. I will save you. Keep your eyes on mine. I will never, never let you go!"

And now she died a thousand deaths. Delusion hurled her from world to world through awful space. Fire burned her flesh from her charred bones. Water drowned her beneath dark mountainous waves. Heavy earth buried her in earthquake shocks. But in flame and rushing water, under the earth or above it in the illimitable aching kingdoms of the air, she saw one thing clearly. She saw the face of Stephen Lynn. Nothing— nothing else.

Fighting, struggling, holding the gates of her will fast locked against Mark's vieious power, she felt a hand in hers. It was Adrian's strong clasp.

Adrian's voice spoke across the roar of fire and tumult of water, of crashing rocks and howling winds.

"The Hour is about to strike. Hold fast, hold fast!"

Stephen's face grew clearer. Its look altered. He was smiling down at her. She could feel his warm breath. His strong gentle hands released her from her bonds. His voice spoke, assuring her of safety. His arms enfolded her as she sank, faint with rapture... the world about her fading....

"BUT Adrian! You did come to me!" she protested. "I saw you, heard you, felt your hand in mine."

"Probably. All of me that really is me. But my body didn't move from this room, this table, this chair you see before you."

Rosaina looked round the room. Sun streamed in from open windows. A blackbird's exquisite liquid song opened the very gates of heaven to its listeners. She turned to Stephen once more.

He put out a hand to touch her own.

"Yes! Still here, darling."

"I can't— I can't believe it. The three of us together at last— safe— happy— free! Free!"

"And Mark " she shuddered.

"Tell me, Adrian, I want to know before we forget him— utterly. What happened— what does our freedom mean— to him?"

Sant put out a quick warning hand. His answer came muffled, almost a whisper:

"Forget, forget, Rosaina! His dark soul is in bondage. It is not safe, even in thought, to follow him now."

Stephen's arm drew her to him. His eyes adored her.

"Rose, golden Rose! Remember only that we are happy— free— at last."

__________________

12: The Dragoman's Secret

Otis Adelbert Kline

1891-1946

Oriental Stories, Spring 1931

Just seven of these colorful tales of the Dragoman were written. Another can be found in the Past Masters 35 anthology.

I HAVE found that there are but three kinds of women in the world, effendi: those whose memory readily departs from us; those whose memory we deliberately put away from us; and those who, were we to live beyond the age of a thousand, we could never forget.

Such a woman was Mariam— a pearl of great price and a jewel among a million— yet for that she was not of the true faith, I nightly ask Allah to forgive me for cherishing her memory. I have had many singular and startling adventures, but none to quite compare with those which befell me when Mariam came into my life.

You would hear the tale, effendi? It is one which I have never dared relate to a Moslem; yet I have longed, these many years, to unbosom myself to an understanding friend. You are of a different faith, and might sympathize. But can I trust you with the secret?

Well then, here is the coffee shop at Silat, where we can sit in privacy and comfort, away from the glare of the noonday sun.

Ho, Silat! Two shishas stuffed to overflowing with the best Syrian leaf, and coffee, bitter as aloes, black as a Nubian at midnight, and hot as the hinges of Johannim's innermost gate.

Aihee! You, who know me as Hamed bin Ayyub, the bent and wrinkled dragoman, should have seen me in the days of my youth— tall and straight as a Rudaynian lance, with hair of raven blackness, a bold and handsome countenance, and the heart of a lion. Those were the days when rare and interesting adventures befell me.

As I told you, effendi, I have at times attained considerable wealth. There was one time when, through a series of singular circumstances, I fell heir to the wealth, the home, and the beautiful slave girl of a rich young goldsmith.

For two years I lived with her in great joy and happiness, at the end of which time she bore me a daughter. But when she presented me with the child, Allah saw fit to receive my beloved into His clemency.

As I was unable to care for the child, I fared with her to the house of my uncle, who graciously took her into his harim, and whose women gave her loving care. Then, as my bosom was constricted with sorrow, and my mind so distracted with grief that I no longer had the power of peace, I sold my house and all that it contained, and having converted all my wealth into gold, purchased a camel with a shugduf litter and left the city for the purpose of making the pilgrimage to Mecca.

The Jerusalem caravan had already departed, but the great caravan from Damascus was on its way, and I knew that by crossing El Ghor, the Jordan, and camping for a day or two on the Hajj Road until it came up, I would be able to join it.

But alas for the plans of men when they run contrary to the will of Allah Almighty. It was written that I should not complete my pilgrimage, for the first day of my journey had not yet ended when I was beset by a band of fierce harami, whose contemptible livelihood is gained by plundering honest men.

I drew my simitar and fought desperately, sending two of their black souls to scorch in Johannim. But I was tumbled from my camel by a cowardly blow from behind which laid my head open, and would have split it as a knife divides a melon had not my turban been stuffed with gold pieces.

Not content with taking my camel and my treasure, those greedy and murderous dogs actually stripped the clothing from my body, leaving me naked and apparently dying, as food for the vultures and jackals. In this condition I swooned away.

When my senses returned to me, I first became conscious of a swaying, lurching motion, which apprised me that I was riding on the back of a camel.

I opened my eyes, and my senses whirled and were like to leave me once more at what I beheld. For bending over me, her gaze solicitous and tender, was a ravishingly beautiful young girl. Her eyes were twin stars of loveliness. The purity and whiteness of her alabaster brow put the beauty of the crescent moon to shame. Her cheeks combined the velvety softness of the peach with the delicate tint of new-blown roses. And her lips were redder than new wine, with seductive curves that were more intoxicating.

But my eyes were not destined to feast on her loveliness for more than a moment, for as soon as she saw that my senses had returned she quickly veiled her face with a blush of becoming modesty.

I closed my eyes once more, pretending to sleep, but glancing at her from time to time beneath my lowered lids. Upon finding that I could not beguile her into lowering her veil by this subterfuge, I was about to give off shamming and speak to her, when there suddenly resounded near at hand the wild shouts of raiders, mingled with the reports of firearms and the clash of blades.

The girl gave a little scream of terror as the curtain of the litter was ripped aside by a huge black hand, and a giant eunuch, longer than lumber and broader than a bench, mounted on a tall dromedary with magnificent trappings, leered in at us, rolling the whites of his eyes horribly, his blubber lips drawn back in a hideous grin.

"Salam aleykum, Mariam Khatun," he mouthed. "I, Suwayd, the humble slave of Khallaf al Tamim, bring you greetings from my illustrious master."

"Back to your master, black dog!" she retorted. "Tell him that I am not for such desert scum as he, nor do I fear him. Let him release my servants and permit me to resume my journey, and all will be overlooked. But if he persist in his evil intentions, then will death morn with him in the morning and night with him in the night, nor will he or those who ride with him, live long to boast of this foul misdeed."

The eunuch chuckled contemptuously.

"Not for nothing is my master named 'Khallaf al Tamim,' he said. "Khallaf the Strong takes what pleases him without fear or favor. He but sent his humble slave to ascertain if you were really the Lady Mariam."

So saying, he suddenly tore off her face veil.

During this conversation I had been lying back on my side of the litter, unnoticed by the eunuch, but at sight of this outrage, Allah vouchsafed me strength to sit up. Jerking the veil from his grasp and catching him by the throat, I said:

"For this base art, O ugly abortion of a mangy hyena, you die!"

"Not by your hand, O whelp of a rabid wolf!" he replied, easily twisting my hand away and then jerking me across the girl's lap and completely out of the litter. Weakened as I was by the loss of blood from my wound, I was as a babe in the hands of the black giant, who bent me back over his knees and coolly drew his jambiyab to slit my throat.

At this moment there rode up beside us a huge, dark-skinned, blade-bearded fellow, nearly as large as the eunuch who held me, and almost as black. He was richly dressed, and armed to the teeth, and bestrode a milk-white she-dromedary worth a small fortune in any souk in the land. I recognized him instantly from his description as Khallaf al Tamim, a Jabarti or Moslem Abyssinian, leader of a band of desperate cutthroats whose depredations were spoken of with awe and trembling wherever men gathered. He was reputed to have a large and magnificent harim in Hail, and to be under the protection of the Sharif of the Wahabis.

"What is that, Suwayd, which you have pulled from the litter of the Lady Mariam?" he asked.

"A cowardly son of flight who crept in to hide," replied the eunuch with the keen blade of his weapon against my gullet.

"A moment, Suwayd," said Khallaf. "I will tell you when to cut his throat. Let us first learn who he is."

The eunuch, who was evidently a blood-thirsty villain, mumbled something to himself, and his master reined his white dromedary between us and the litter. Lifting the curtain, he looked in, and I observed that Mariam had replaced her face-veil.

"Allah's peace and blessing upon you, Mariam Khatun," he said deferentially. "Your slave, Khallaf al Tamim, would learn if the life of this young dog of a Badawi is of value to you."

"No peace and no welcome to you, O black African monkey," she replied spiritedly. "Release him and those of my slaves and followers your scurvy cut-throats have left alive, that I may resume my journey."

"That I can not do, O lady," replied Khallaf, "much as it grieves me, your love-slave, to disobey your lightest wish. I have been commanded by the Sharif Nureddin Yusuf to bring you to Hail to stand trial for sorcery, heresy and proselyting among those of the one and true faith."

"You lie, O Jackal of Abyssinia!" she retorted. "This raid is of your own choosing and for your own purpose."

The brow of Khallaf contracted.

"Your sorcery has told you this, my lady," he said. "I will admit, then, that this expedition is of my choosing. And the reason is that, disguised as a eunuch, I saw you in the hamtnam in Jerusalem, whither I had gone in feigned attendance on one of my female slaves to learn why my women who visited the baths were so impressed by your beauty. It was there I became your love-slave, and there I resolved to possess you. And though Khallaf the Strong takes that which he desires, yet would he prefer that you come to him willingly."

"Neither willingly nor unwillingly shall Khallaf al Tamim possess me," she replied.

"For the present," he replied, "we will let it rest at that. Women are prone to change their minds with the shifting of the winds. But you have not answered my question. Is it your wish that this hider behind your skirts be kept alive?"

"He is nothing to me," she answered, "yet I would be merciful, even to a dog."

"The quality of mercy," replied Khallaf, "is an attribute of Almighty Allah. Humbler creatures, I among them, seldom possess it. Ho, Suwayd! You will take this pig away and slit his throat."

Weakened though I was, I began struggling violently in the grasp of the huge Nubian, feeling that the hour for my death had indeed come. It was true that I was nothing to this girl but a penniless, helpless wayfarer whom she had befriended, so why should she, who did not wish to be placed in the position of asking a favor from Khallaf, sue for my life?

But my struggles were as futile as though I had been a bird in the jaws of a serpent. With a grin of fiendish joy, Suwayd turned his beast to haul me a little way off, that I might not be slain within sight of the girl.

But we had scarcely started ere there came a cry from the litter of the Lady Mariam.

"Stop! Do not slay him."

"Oh, ho!" said Khallaf, with a knowing grin. "And what is this dog to you?"

"He is— he is my brother," she faltered. "Two days ago he was wounded by raiding bandits, and I have been caring for him in my litter, on the march."

"Your brother!" he sneered. "A likely story! You who are a seventh daughter of a seventh daughter!" He shouted to a dirty, unkempt robber with a hennaed beard who stood a little way off. "Ho there, Humayd! Bring me one of the prisoners."

A moment later, the redbeard rode up, leading a Bada-win cameleer by a rope, looped around his neck.

"Mark well what I ask you, slave," roared Khallaf, glaring down at the prisoner, "and speak only truth if you would not die where you stand."

"I hear and I obey," replied the cameleer, shaking with fright.

"Then tell me the name of this prisoner?" thundered the Jabarti, pointing a blade finger at me.

"Alas, my lord, I know it not!" quavered the cameleer. "Two days ago we found him, sorely wounded, and robbed of all his possessions, lying naked and unconscious on the trail near the Hajj Road. My mistress took pity on him, and ordered that we clothe him from our stores and place him in her litter, that she might care for him."

"So! We begin to get the truth!" grinned Khallaf. "Take him away, Humayd."

He swung on me. "Your name, dog!" he demanded.

"You name me a dog," I replied defiantly, "so let that name suffice you, though I am not of your mongrel breed."

"What! You yap at me, cur? Well then, you shall have the treatment of any dog who snarls at his captor. Bind his hands, Suwayd. Then let him walk beside your beast with a rope around his neck. And if he falls—"

The big Nubian grinned knowingly. Then he made his dromedary kneel, none too gently bound my hands, and put a noose around my nedc. Though I was so weak I staggered like a man drugged with drink, I was dragged away with the caravan, knowing that to fall would be to die.

ii

STAGGERING, stumbling, choking in the dust from a hundred camels' hooves, I managed to keep my feet as I walked beside the mount of the huge eunuch with a rope around my neck. My wounded head throbbed unmercifully, and I was constantly assailed by a terrific thirst, incited by my wound and augmented by the rays of the sun which beat down from the steel-blue sky with terrific heat. And to add to my afflictions, fierce biting flies and pestiferous gnats made merry with my unprotected face and hands.

The caravan stopped at noon, and I, who had been traveling on will-power alone, fell into a merciful unconsciousness. Had I been forced to continue but a few moments longer, my life had been forfeit by the rope.

When my senses came to me once more it was evening. I was lying, unbound, among the other prisoners. They offered me coffee and freshly baked bread, which I took gratefully. After I had eaten, the cameleer who had been questioned by Khallaf, lent me his chibuk and a pinch of tobacco. After smoking, I returned the pipe to its owner, and pillowing my head on my arm, fell asleep beside the fading embers of the fire. It seemed that I had not slept more than a moment, when I was aroused, bound, haltered, and led away once more by Suwayd, the eunuch.

My strength had been increased by food and rest, and the night was cool, for which I thanked Almighty Allah as I trudged along with the caravan.

We traveled until dawn, prayed the dawn prayer, made coffee and bread, and after a brief rest, pressed onward until noon.

For many days and nights we continued thus, traveling from midnight until noon, and resting from noon until midnight. At the end of that time, we came to Hail, the Wahabi stronghold in the midst of the Nefud desert.

During all this time I had not been permitted to see or speak to my beautiful young benefactress. But she was constantly in my thoughts, nor did I wonder that Khallaf, or any other man who had seen her charms, had become her love-slave, for I was more sorely smitten than ever before or since. If, when I have been received into the mercy of Allah, I find a Huriyah of the Virgins of Paradise, who is but half as beautiful as she, then will I be content, and praise Allah forever.

We were hurried to the house of Khallaf, and I down to a damp and evil-smelling cell in the night-black dungeon beneath it.

I was well aware of the fact that the Abyssinian ruffian would not have kept me alive for a moment, had he not thought to fit me into his plans. He believed that my life was of value to Mariam— that by threatening her with my death he might win her consent if not her desire, to enter his harim.

And so I laid a plan of my own. I did not know to what length the girl might go to save my miserable life. I did know that she had condescended to request it of this black monster whom she despised, and that I was thus twice beholden to her for my very existence. Being a man of honor, there were but two things for me to do in the circumstances. I must either escape from Khallaf, or take my own life. My plans were made accordingly.

The only entrance to the dungeon was guarded by an aged, hook-nosed, gray-bearded Wahabi, who spent much of his time sitting on the bottom step of the stairway, smoking his chibuk. At irregular intervals he patrolled the corridor, casting the yellow rays of his lantern into each of the cells and examining the inmates.

I waited until I judged it must be near midnight, then went to the bars of my cell and waited for him to make his next inspection. He came, presently, shuffling along in his loose slippers and puffing at his chibuk. He started back a little when he saw me staring at him through the bars, but I called to him reassuringly.

"Come close, uncle. I have a message for your ears alone."

"What dark secrets you have, keep to yourself, O pig who prays without washing," he replied.

"Nay, but good uncle," I persisted, "this is to your advantage, but it would not be were I to shout it through the corridors."

At this, he came a trifle closer.

"I have here," I said, indicating my handkerchief, a corner of which I had knotted and thrust into my sash, "a precious jewel worth a king's ransom— a jewel that will buy you your heart's desire, be it whatsoever it may."

"You lie," he mouthed, but an avaricious gleam had crept into his eyes, and I knew that he half believed me. "But had you such a jewel, what would that profit me?"

"Come closer and I will tell you," I replied.

He stepped up more closely and I drew the handkerchief from my sash.

"The jewel for my freedom," I whispered to him.

"First let me see it," he replied, holding the lantern high.

"Here, look for yourself," I said, and thrust both hands through the bars of my cell door, extending the handkerchief toward him and making as if I were endeavoring to undo the knot.

He bent over eagerly, holding the lantern still higher. In a trice I had the handkerchief twisted around his neck, the ends drawn taut, so that he could not cry out, but only made queer, gurgling noises.

"The door!" I said, fiercely. "Unlock it quickly, and do not reach for your simitar or cry out— or you die!"

He fumbled for the key, while I gave him just enough air to keep him conscious, and presently finding it, inserted it in the lock and turned it. As the door swung inward, I dragged the half-choked guard in with it.

To bind and gag him, and take his simitar, was but the work of a moment. I then locked him in the cell, picked up his lantern and quickly made my way up the stairs.

On reaching the top of the stairs, I cautiously opened the door a little way. Just in front of me was a hallway, at one side of which a fat bowab snored on a low diwan. Beyond him was the door which I knew led into the garden.

Leaving my lantern behind and drawing my simitar, I edged past the door. Closing it softly behind me and watching the bowab with bated breath, I tiptoed to the next door. It was closed by a huge bar, which I succeeded in sliding back without noise. Then I opened it, stepped out into the night, and closed it noiselessly.

The garden was bathed in moonlight, and the sweet scent of blossoms was like a breath of Paradise after the stench of the dungeon from which I had just escaped. I was thirsty, and in the center of the garden a fountain splashed musically. But I forgot its allure when I saw a tall figure, carrying a long rifle, arise from beside it and slowly walk toward the garden gate.

Crouching low, I crept through the shrubbery until I was beside the path along which the guard was sauntering. His crunching footfalls drew nearer— passed me. The path was bordered with whitewashed stones. One of these I caught up, and leaping out behind him, brought it down on his head. His knees crumpled under him, and he fell in a heap. I caught his rifle to prevent the noise of its falling, and laid it beside him.

Divesting him of his head-cloth and burnoose, I donned them, and taking up his rifle, walked to the gate. I stood there for a moment, leaning on the rifle and looking about as a guard might have done, but seeing no one in the garden, I quickly slid back the bar and stepped out into the street.

Once out of the garden, I walked swiftly, not knowing in what direction I was going, but bent on putting as much distance as possible between me and the house of Khallaf before my escape should be discovered.

Scarcely had I passed the limit of the garden wall, ere I met a stranger, who saluted me with the "Salam," and asked if I could direct him to the house of Khallaf. Afraid to arouse his suspicions by hurrying on, I paused to answer his question.

But at this moment I heard a stealthy footfall behind me, and knew that I was in a trap. I tired to whirl and engage my unseen antagonist, but a heavy, evil-smelling sack was drawn over my head and arms, and I was thrown to the ground. Then my hands and feet were securely bound, and I was carried for a short distance up a few steps and through a door into a building where the footfalls of my abductors echoed hollowly, as if it were unfurnished.

One of my captors greeted some one with the words: "Ishtar Baraket," which means: "Ishtar bless thee," and was answered in kind. Then I knew that I was not in the hands of godly men, but had fallen into the clutches of idolaters and casters of magic spells.

Presently I heard a gruff voice say:

"You have him? That is well. He is said to be a close-mouthed fool, but the cords and a few hot coals will set his tongue to clacking."

iii

WITH the foul-smelling sack still over my head, I was carried through several rooms, and finally put down on a hard tile floor. Then the sack was taken off, and I faced a group of stern-visaged men, dressed like the Wahabis, but evidently not of them, for of all the Arabs, the Wahabis are the most stria believers.

One of them, a huge, thick-waisted fellow with Persian features and a wiry, iron-gray beard, said:

"What have you done with the Lady Mariam? Where is she concealed? Speak quickly and truthfully, O slave of the Black Jackal, or it will be the worse for you."

"I have done nothing with her," I replied.

The big Persian pointed significantly toward two stout cords which depended from a rafter above my head, and to a pan of glowing charcoal near by.

"Will you speak without these?" he asked.

"She was captured by Khallaf al Tamim," I replied, "but I know not where she is concealed."

"We know she was captured by your Jinn-mad master," he replied, "and you know where she was hidden. For the last time I bid you speak."

"Khallaf is not my master," I answered. "I was traveling with the caravan of the Lady Mariam when he captured it. Just now, I escaped from his clutches, only to be made prisoner by your men."

"That is a lie," he snarled. "Too often have I seen the Black Jackal's garden bowab not to recognize you. We will see if the cords and coals will bring the truth to your tongue."

Despite my protests and struggles, my shoes were removed and I was strung up by the thumbs, so that the tips of my toes barely touched the floor. I gripped the cords with my hands, thus drawing myself a few inches higher, and easing my thumbs, bur one can not hold himself up thus for a long time. Just as I was beginning to tire, and would have let myself down on my toes, the Persian pushed the pan of glowing charcoal beneath them.

A moment more, and the cords were cutting deeply into'my fingers, while the heat from the charcoal scorched my feet painfully. I drew them up, and the motion sunk the cords deeper into my fingers.

"Now will you speak?" asked the Persian.

"I can not tell you what you ask," I groaned.

"You will beg to be allowed to tell me soon, O father of lies," he replied.

Presently my fingers relaxed. Human flesh could stand no more. A searing pain told me my toes had touched the charcoal. I drew them up, but the motion increased the strain on my aching thumbs.

Just then a man entered the room. He saluted all present with the greeting of the idolaters: ''Ishtar Baraket." And they replied in kind. Then he seated himself beside the huge Persian, and glanced up at me. Our recognition was simultaneous, for he was the cameleer who had befriended me in the caravan, and who had evidently escaped from Khallaf as he entered the town.

"Why do you torture this man?" he asked the Persian.

"He is the gate-keeper of Khallaf," replied that worthy, "and we would learn from him the secret of where our lady is confined."

"Then cut him down," said the cameleer, "for he can not tell you. He is the wounded pilgrim whom our mistress befriended."

"You are positive?"

"By my head and beard!"

The Persian kicked the pan of charcoal from under me, and with his keen jambiyah severed the cords. So overcome was I with pain and exhaustion that I slumped to the floor. One of the ruffians tossed my shoes to me, and I donned them with great difficulty and pain because of my blistered feet and lacerated hands. Then, at a sign from the Persian, one of the men helped me to my feet and led me into another room.

For some time he remained there with me, and I heard the murmur of voices, so low that I could only catch a word now and then. But I gathered that they were trying to decide what to do with me. That I now knew them for members of that secret cult which all true Moslems despise, made me extremely dangerous to them. Yet there were some who feared to do away with me because I had been befriended by their mistress, and they might thus bring down her wrath on their heads. Presently the talking grew louder—became a Babel. The evil crew seemed about evenly divided as to whether I should be kept alive, or slain.

At length, those who would have me slain won, and I heard the gruff voice of the Persian, as he ordered me strangled and buried in the garden.

When I heard this sentence, I sprang up, and dodging the man who had been sent with me, bounded through the rear door. I came out into the garden, but was pounced upon by a guard stationed there. A moment more and the man I had eluded came running out accompanied by another who had been chosen to act as my executioner.

This man, who had been ordered to strangle me, carried a thin, stout cord in his hands. While the others held me, he made the strangler's loop and came up to cast it over my head.

Life was dear to me, and I was desperate. So as my executioner approached I kicked him in the belly and at the same time flung out my arms, throwing over the two men who held me. The wall was but a few feet away, and I reached it in an instant. Leaping up, I caught its rim with my lacerated fingers, drew myself up, and dropped to freedom on the other side.

Like a frightened hare, I scuttled off down the street, not knowing which way to run, but bent only on getting as far from that den of ruffians as possible. I had scarcely taken twenty steps, however, when I heard a great hullabaloo behind me, and loud cries of: "Stop thief! Catch the robber!"

By this time, morning had just dawned, and the call to prayer was sounding from the minaret of a near-by mosque. A few people were stirring in the street, and all of these, aroused by the cries of my pursuers, sought to detain me and joined in the chase. Soon I had a crowd of more than fifty people after me, all shouting: "Stop thief!" at the top of their voices. Stones and tiles were hurled at me from roof-tops, and snarling curs snapped at my heels. Presently a youth stuck his foot out from a doorway and tripped me. As I fell, a score of persons pounced on me.

I was dragged to my feet by the big Persian who had ordered my death a shore time before, and who seemed bent on accomplishing it in public now. Two of his henchmen held my arms, while he led the cries of: "Death to the thief! Stone him!" which came from the throats of the multitude. A stone whizzed past my ear, and some one threw an overripe pomegranate with poor aim, for it missed me and struck the Persian full in the mouth.

A second stone bruised my shoulder, and a third struck my chest, knocking the breath from my body. I am positive that all would have ended for me, then and there, had not the wait and his watch come up at that moment.

The wait, a tall, important-looking individual with a large turban and a bushy gray beard, strode into the center of the disturbance with his stout fellows knocking the rabble right and left.

"What is this brawl?" he demanded.

"We have captured a thief," said the Persian.

"By whose testimony?"

"Mine and others."

"Well then, take him before the kazi, that he may be judged according to the law. If he is found guilty he will pay the penalty soon enough without the aid of your sticks and stones."

He signed to two of his burly fellows, who seized my arms and dragged me away.

The kazi, a short, pot-bellied Wahabi, whose round and rubicund countenance showed the effect of much good living with little endeavor, stared at me for a moment and said:

"Of what is this man accused? And who will bear witness against him?"

"I bear witness," said the Persian. "He is a thief."

I had it on the point of my tongue to denounce the Persian and his companions as idolaters, and thus not only win the sympathy of the crowd, but compass the destruction of my enemies. Then I suddenly remembered that these fellows, no matter what they had done to me, were the followers of Mariam engaged in an attempt to rescue her from the clutches of Khallaf. It followed that to denounce them would be to lessen if not absolutely to cut off her hope of rescue. I resolved, therefore, that no matter what happened, the identity of these men would not be revealed by me.

"You say this man is a thief," said the kazi, addressing the Persian. "What has he stolen?"

"Why, just now he stole my head-cloth and burnoose from my house, and escaped over my garden wall."

"You lie, swine of Iran!" I retorted. "A Persian pig never wore clothing such as this."

"I have worn them for a year, O stench!" he said.

"You saw them for the first time today, O offal!" I answered.

"May your falsehoods return and throttle you, O liar!"

"May your beard turn to a nest of maggots and devour your lying tongue!"

"Enough of this abuse!" said the kazi, sternly. "You, Persian, say that this Badawi stole your headdoth and burnoose. Have you recovered them?"

"No, O fount of wisdom. He still wears them."

"But how am I to know that he wears your head cloth and doak?"

"I testify that they are the property of Maksoud, the Persian," cried one of the men who had captured me.

"And I," cried the other, "also certify that they are Maksoud's property."

"The Sunni law," said the kazi, thoughtfully stroking his beard, "ordains that for an offense of this kind, a man must part with his right hand. Take the prisoner, therefore, and strike off his right hand, seeing that the wound be properly seared so he will not bleed to death."

"We hear and obey, O paragon Of undemanding," replied the two burly ruffians who held me, and were about to hurry me away to carry out the sentence when there was a clatter of hoofs and a company of horsemen rode up. At their head was Khallaf the Jabarti.

"Way for Khallaf the Strong!" cried the people. "Way for the blood-brother of our lord, the Sharif!"

"What is this, kazi?" asked Khallaf, reining his Awasil mare to a sliding halt. "Where got you this man?"

"Just now he was brought to me, accused of thievery, excellency," replied the kazi, "and I have sentenced him to pay the penalty according to the Sunni law."

"The fellow is an escaped slave of mine," said Khallaf. "Turn him over to me, and I will be responsible for him, and for his ample punishment."

"I hear and I obey, O protector of the poor and blood-brother of our Sharif," replied the kazi, respectfully.

Two of Khallaf's men quickly dismounted, and after binding my hands behind me, threw me over a saddle-bow.

The Abyssinian was about to ride away when he suddenly spied in the crowd the cameleer who had befriended me on the march, and who had later identified me to the followers of Mariam.

"Seize me that man!" roared Khallaf, and it was no sooner said than done. The cameleer was bound and thrown over a saddle-bow, and the cavalcade moved away.

iv

BACK at the house of Khallaf, I was thrown into the selfsame cell from which I had escaped the night before. But this time, the Jabarti took no chances. In addition to the old hook-nosed Wahabi who patrolled the corridor, a burly guard stood, naked simitar in hand, in front of my cell door.

I asked for food and drink, and was given a crust of stale bread and a cup of water.

Several hours later I was led from my cell, each arm held by a powerful warrior, and taken into a magnificently furnished room— the salamlik or reception room of the Abyssinian. He was seated on a luxuriously cushioned diwan, smoking a shisha, while one lissom slave girl fanned him with a palm leaf and another proffered sherbet and coffee on a golden tray.

"Bind the dog to the pillar at my right," directed Khallaf.

I was hurried forward, and my hands were drawn back as far as they would reach around the thick pillar, and made fast with a cord.

A moment later the cameleer was brought in. At the order of the Jabarti he was similarly bound to the pillar at the left of the diwan.

Khallaf took a sip of sherbet from a tiny golden cup.

"Away, all of you," he said, "and send Suwayd to me."

The four warriors and two slave girls departed, and shortly thereafter the huge black eunuch entered, carrying a brazier in which charcoal smoldered, and a small pair of bellows. A long simitar hung at his side, and two curved jambiyahs were stuck in his sash. On his ebony features was a look of such pleased anticipation that I knew he was about to commit some act of fiendish cruelty.

"Heat the pincers, my faithful servant," directed the Jabarti, "and while they are heating, slit the throat of this cameleer. He must be gotten out of the way quickly, as we have other important business at hand."

"Harkening and obedience, excellency," said the huge Nubian with a broad grin.

He put the brazier on the floor and began blowing the charcoal with the bellows. Projecting from the coals were the long handles of a pair of pincers.

When he had the coals glowing brightly, the eunuch put down his bellows, and rising, walked toward the cowering cameleer. Deliberately he drew a jambiyah from his sash, and tested the keenness of its edge with his thumb, while the poor fellow alternately wept and pleaded for his life.

Suddenly he stepped up to the doomed man, and seizing his beard with his left hand, tilted his head back, exposing his throat. The unfortunate wretch uttered a gurgling shriek as the keen blade was drawn across his gullet.

The big Nubian stood there for a moment unconcernedly; then he released his grip on the beard, permitting the lifeless head to fall forward.

"A good stroke, Suwayd," said Khallaf. "Now make ready to deal with the other."

The eunuch once more bent beside his brazier, and blew the charcoal up to a blaze with the bellows.

Then the Abyssinian clapped his hands, and a shapely young girl, swathed in diaphanous harim garments, was led in by a black female.

"Welcome, Mariam Khatun," said Khallaf. "I have at last captured the young Badawi in whose welfare you are so deeply interested. You will be seated here at my feet, that you may witness what occurs to those who oppose my will."

"I sit at your feet? I?" retorted the girl. "To sit at the feet of a baboon would be preferable. I will stand."

So saying, she wrenched her wrist from the grasp of the black female, who was attempting to drag her before the diwart, and dealt her a buffet across her ear that sent her sprawling.

"Let be, Lenah," said Khallaf laughingly to the black girl, "and depart."

Scrambling to her feet, the negress salaamed to her master, and hastily left the room.

"And you, little tigress," said Khallaf, "may stand if you wish, as you can see what happens to this presumptuous Badawi standing as well as sitting. First, his tongue, which has named me a mongrel dog, will be torn out by the roots with hot pincers. Then his eyes, which have dared to aspire jto the woman of Khallaf the Strong, will be gouged out with the red-hot blade of a jambiyah. After which, when a sufficient time has elapsed for him to appreciate the full enormity of his misdeeds, his throat will be cut, even as that of yonder cowardly cameleer."

"Is there no help for it, but that you perpetrate this foul injustice?" she asked. "That you torture and murder an innocent man?"

"Why, as to that, it lies within your province to say," replied the crafty Khallaf.

"My province?"

"None other. Remember that Khallaf the Strong is your love-slave. Requite his love, and your lightest wish will be his law."

The eyes of Mariam flashed fire above her white yashmak.

"As to that, O great black gorilla," she said, "I should prefer to share his torture and death."

"Perhaps you will change your mind after you have witnessed his agonies," said Khallaf. "Proceed, Suwayd."

The big Nubian, who had been industriously plying his bellows during this conversation, now pulled the pincers from the brazier. Their jaws glowed white-hot as he advanced toward me with a look of fiendish delight.

Seizing the point of my jaw with his left hand, he pushed it down. I moved my head with it, keeping my mouth tightly dosed, whereupon he held the hot pincers beneath the end of my nose, causing me to jerk my head back. My mouth flew open, and he inserted the pincers between my teeth, holding them apart, and searing my lips and tongue.

"Now, my loud-talking youth," he said, "we'll have your tongue in a moment."

He was peering into my mouth and spreading the jaws of the pincers when, like the very tigress Khallaf had named her, Mariam bounded to my rescue. In her hand was a slender dagger she had snatched from her bosom. It rose and fell, buried to the hilt in the breast of Suwayd, who with a loud shriek and a look of horror on his face, slumped to the floor, the pincers clattering from his hand.

Whipping out his simitar, the Abyssinian leaped to his feet just as Mariam cut the rope that held my arms around the pillar.

The hilt of Suwayd's simitar projected from beneath his huge carcass. I seized it, and came on guard as Khallaf descended on me, a thundercloud of wrath and a demon of destruction.

Sparks flew from our clashing blades as we cut and parried, and although my antagonist was larger and stronger than I, these odds were somewhat evened by my superior skill and greater agility.

There came the sound of running and shouting from beyond the door, but in a flash Mariam had reached it and drawn the bar.

Fierce anger flared in Khallaf's eyes when he found himself unable to instantly reach me with his blade. Accustomed to cutting down men of less skill by his hammer- and- tongs methods, backed by his enormous strength, he was both astounded and annoyed by my ability to elude his terrific rain of blows, and to return them in such good measure that he was constrained to spend as much time in parrying as in cutting.

For my part, I knew that we were evenly matched for the moment, but because of my wounds and privations, his greater strength and freshness must prevail in the end.

I was reaching the limit of my endurance, when Fortune suddenly interposed in my favor, for Khallaf stepped squarely into the brazier of smoldering charcoal in which Suwayd had heated the pincers. It must have burned instantly through his paper-thin harim slippers, as he uttered a howl of pain, and for an instant, lowered his guard.

In that instant, I smote his neck with all my remaining strength. Allah guided and aided my arm, for his scowling black head flew off and rolled away, while his immense body pitched to the floor.

But scarcely had I rid myself of this enemy, ere the door was broken down, and a company of armed men poured in. At their head was Maksoud, the Persian, who leveled a pistol at my head and pulled the trigger.

v

SIMULTANEOUSLY with the report of Maksoud's pistol, there was the click of steel beneath its barrel. Mariam, seeing his purpose, had struck it upward with her bloody dagger.

"Fool!" she said. "Another move to harm this youth who is under my protection, and I'll have you laid by the heels and beaten to death with the kurbaj."

"I crave forgiveness, O Voice of the Great Goddess," said Maksoud, contritely. "This Badawi is the possessor of dangerous knowledge, and being a Moslem, might divulge it."

"As to that, I will assume all responsibility," replied the girl. "What of this black baboon's household?"

"The men are dead, my lady," said Maksoud. "The women and children are imprisoned in the harim."

"Lock them in the dungeons with food and water for two days," she ordered, "all except the black slave girl, Lenah. Then strip the house, and make ready for the journey."

"Harkening and obedience, O Oracle of Ishtar," replied Maksoud, and departed with his men to carry out her commands.

In an unbelievably short space of time these sons of idolatry had stripped the house of its valuables, the rich loot of Khallaf's many raids, and had made a caravan ready for departure.

Maksoud, with his face blackened and all but hidden by his kufiyah or head handkerchief, which he had drawn across his countenance in the manner of the lisam, wore a suit of Khallaf's magnificent apparel and rode his milk-white she-dromedary, thus readily passing for the Abyssinian, for they were of about the same build.

A big negro named Mustafa, who was among the followers of Mariam, wore the clothing and took the part of Suwayd the eunuch, who always accompanied his master on his journeys.

Mariam rode in a litter. Lenah the black slave girl rode in another, bound and gagged. Those of Mariam's followers who had been inhabitants of Hail, but who were now leaving it forever, made up the balance of the caravan.

Wearing Badawin garb, I rode the Awasil mare of Khallaf beside the lady's litter.

We had completed a day's journey, rested, and were preparing to resume the second, when Mariam called for Musayn, the 'alim.

The graybeard came with pen, ink-case and paper, and she bade him write a note as follows:

To Sharif Nureddin Yusuf:

Greeting!

And after, know that this, the slave girl of Khallaf the Black Jackal has been sent to you on an errand of mercy and warning. Mercy, that you release the harim of the Jabarti, whom I do not hold responsible for his crimes, and who are locked in his dungeons. Warning, that you gaze on the earthly remains of the villainous Abyssinian and his ruffians, and meditate on the fate of those who attempt to take by force a Virgin of the All-Powerful Mother Goddess.

Attempt to follow and you will be as Khallaf. Be warned, and I prophesy that you will attain The Peace,

Mariam Khatun.

Just as our caravan departed, the slave girl was dispatched in the opposite direction with the note, riding a dromedary and carrying a day's provisions.

We traveled a five-day journey across the desert after that, until we came to a wady where I was compelled to dismount, and ride in a litter blindfolded with Mustafa watching me.

At the end of the seventh day, my blindfold was removed as we entered a pleasant village situated in a grove of palm trees which was watered by a stream that trickled through a narrow valley. The houses were small, but in the center of the village there rose a great temple of the finest white marble, with pillared porticos and a dome of polished brass.

During the entire journey I had caught but fleeting glimpses of the Lady Mariam, always veiled and muffled in her traveling clothes. But now she drew the curtain of her litter and summoned Maksoud.

"You will house this young Badawi in my dwelling," she directed, "while I repair to the temple to give thanks to our Great Mother Goddess for my deliverance. On your life, see that he is treated with honor and respect."

So saying, she closed the curtain of her litter and rode on, while Maksoud, who seemed little pleased with his commission, led me to a small but neat house near the temple. Here the Persian and I were ushered into the salamlik by an old and wrinkled eunuch who was a hunchbacked dwarf. When my conductor had made known to him the wishes of his mistress, he clapped his hands, summoning slaves, male and female, who brought us fruits, sherbets, coffee and pipes.

Presently there came to the house a messenger who spoke to the eunuch in a language I did not understand. Upon hearing his words, Maksoud excused himself and left.

I judged that the conversation had alluded to me, as both messenger and eunuch had glanced at me from time to time.

As soon as the messenger left, the eunuch clapped his hands once more, and two Mamelukes entered. To these, he gave instructions in the same strange tongue, and they hurried away.

Presently one of the Mamelukes returned, and bowing low to me, said:

"The bath is prepared, saidi."

"You will be pleased to accompany this slave, my lord," said the eunuch, "that you may be prepared for the test."

"The test?" I asked, bewildered. "What test?"

"All will be revealed to you in good time," said the hunchback, mysteriously.

Puzzled, I arose, and followed the Mameluke through a corridor into a room of marble and carnelian, where a hot bath had been prepared. The steam that arose from the water carried the scent of the rarest and most luxurious of perfumes.

The Mamelukes proved to be skilled bath attendants and masseurs, who scrubbed me with hot water and cold until my skin glowed with the roseate tint of a summer sunset, after which they anointed me with sweet-smelling unguents and cosmetics. Then, while the one tendered me sherbets and broths, the other dressed me in handsome and costly garments that would have done honor to an emir.

I then returned to the salamlik, where seven graybeards, attired in long black robes, and wearing black turbans, the fronts of which were adorned with crescent moons— symbols of Ishtar cut from mother-of-pearl— awaited me.

Then, conducted by the hunchbacked dwarf, who had in the meantime decked out his twisted body in festal array, and followed by the seven graybeards in solemn procession, I went out into the street.

From the temple, the tones of an immense gong resounded through the village in measured, throbbing cadence. Then there poured forth from the houses, and from the shops in the souk, men, women and children, all of whom marched to the temple, in step with the strokes of the gong.

The hunchbacked eunuch fell in step, I with him, and the graybeards who followed us did likewise.

When we arrived at the temple we avoided the main entrance, into which the village populace was pouring, and went in by a side door. Here a hoodwink was securely fastened over my eyes. Having been warned not to touch it no matter what might occur, nor to speak unless spoken to, I was led away by two unseen conductors who held my arms on the right and left.

They took me down a stairway into what smelled like a musty subterranean animal den. Here my conductors brought me to a halt, and I distinctly heard the approaching pads of a large beast coming stealthily toward me. It stopped just in front of me and sniffed. Its fetid breath fanned my face. Then it began to make low, moaning noises, and I heard the rattle of steel.

Suddenly the hoodwink was jerked from my eyes. Standing just in front of me was a huge, black-maned African lion, rattling the bars of its cage as it endeavored to reach me with its huge paws.

My two conductors were of the black-robed fraternity, but wore, in addition, black masks that concealed all fearures but their eyes.

One of them spoke in solemn, sepulchral tones:

"Before you, O youth, is a dangerous path. It may lead you to love or to death. Only the great Mother Goddess knows. You are desired by the Oracle of Ishtar for the one night of love which is vouchsafed all her handmaidens by our goddess. But the final choice rests with Ishtar alone. If she accepts you, then will you consummate this love, but if she rejects you, you will die beneath the claws of this fierce beast, and its belly will be your tomb.

"You may turn back now, and escape, unhindered and unharmed, for it is written that those who come to the ordeal must do so willingly. Or you may go on, and stake your life on the issue. Consider the matter, therefore, and name your choice."

I looked at the great beast, sheathing and unsheathing its sickle claws through the bars and licking its slavering jowls in anticipation of the pleasure of rending my flesh and drinking my blood. Then I thought of the lovely Mariam, and knew that, rather than lose this lovely creature, witch and idolatress though she was, I stood ready to die not one, but a thousand deaths.

"I am ready for the ordeal," I said.

The hoodwink was drawn over my eyes once more and I was taken up the stairway into a room filled with a thousand faint rustlings and whisperings, as if it contained an immense audience who waited tensely in awe-stricken silence for something to happen. The air was heavy with the odors of sweet incense, in which I, who had been an attar, detected the sandalwood of Hind and the musk of Cathay.

Here I was helped to mount three large steps, and caused to kneel, after which my hoodwink was removed.

I was in the huge auditorium of the temple, kneeling on a wide semicircular dais that faced an immense statue of Ishtar, wrought from white marble. Save for the feeble light cast by seven candles that flickered in front of the statue, the entire room was in darkness. Just in front of the candles, seven pots of incense smoldered. Behind me, and on each side, I could hear the faint rustling and whispering which is characteristic of a large crowd tensely awaiting some unusual event.

Suddenly there sounded the low wailing of a hautboy in minor melody. It increased in volume, and was accompanied by the jingling of sistrums and the booming of kettledrums. Between the dais on which I knelt and the altar that stood before the image of the goddess, another larger dais was rising from the floor. Like the one I occupied, it was shaped like a half-moon. On this dais were seven girls, robed in flowing, translucent white garments. The one in the center stood with bowed head, arms crossed on breasts, while the three on each side of her jingled sistrums and danced a slow dance of many postures.

In front of each girl, a candle burned and a small pot of incense smoldered. As the platform came up above the level of my own, it stopped, and my heart gave a sudden bound as I recognized Mariam as the central figure of the group.

When the platform stopped, the music ceased and the girls posed as rigidly as if they had been statues. Then I heard a rustling sound behind me, and six men came up out of the darkness, three taking places on the dais on each side of me. I noticed by the candle-light from the other platform that all were dressed exactly as was I.

As soon as they took their places, Mariam turned and faced the image of the goddess. Bowing low, while the three girls on each side knelt, facing her, she said:

"Great Mother Ishtar, I have caused to be brought to thy temple the man of my heart, whom I have chosen for the night of love which thou vouchsafest all thy handmaidens. He hath signified his willingness to forfeit his life if he displeases thee, and now awaits thy pleasure and thy decision. I beseech thee, O Mother Goddess, that thou wilt grant him his life, which out of his love for me he hath placed in the balance, and thus permit thy handmaiden and thy oracle her heart's desire."

Having finished her petition, Mariam prostrated herself before the idol, and the six dancing girls did likewise.

Then there sounded from behind the immense statue, the whir of many wings, and a flock of white doves flew out above the two platforms. Once, twice, thrice, they circled. Then they slowly descended, hovering above my head and those of the six men who were on the dais with me. Presently one alighted on my shoulder. It was followed by another and another, until the entire flock of white doves had either perched on my body or alighted near me, to strut about, puffing and cooing.

Mariam did not look toward me, but somehow seemed to know just what had occurred, for she arose, and spoke once more to the image:

"Great Mother Ishtar, I thank thee."

Lights suddenly flashed on in the temple, and a great cry went up from the multitude:

"Ishtar has spoken! All glory to Ishtar!"

Mariam and I were placed side by side on a huge litter, and borne at the head of a procession to her house. Here a great feast was spread, and for several hours we acted as host and hostess. Then the guests took their leave, and we were alone.

Of that night of love, effendi, my voice will ever remain silent, though my heart will always sing. It passed so swiftly that it seemed to last for but a moment, yet in it was consummated the sum of a lifetime of desire. My last memory was that, when morning dawned, I fell asleep, my head pillowed on the snowy breast of my beloved.

When I wakened, I was riding in a shugduf litter on the back of a camel. My head ached as if I had partaken too freely of bhang. Looking out, I beheld, riding ahead of me, Maksoud the Persian.

I shouted and he turned. Then he rode back and handed me the lead-rope of my camel.

"Just ahead of you," he said, "is El Ghor, and beyond that, the Jericho road to Jerusalem. The pack camel that follows you carries all the valuables of which you were robbed, for it was Khallaf the Strong who robbed you. It carries, in addition, precious stones and gold equivalent in value to half the loot taken from the Abyssinian, for it was you who slew him. Say nothing to your Moslem brethren of what has occurred to you, and so will you attain health, wealth, and the peace. Ishtar Baraket."

And so, effendi, there passed out of my life, Mariam, a pearl of great price, a jewel among a million. And though Allah might vouchsafe me a thousand lifetimes, I could never forget her— never cease to love her.

Ho, Silat! Bring the sweet and take the full.

____________________

13: My First Case

Edmund Leamy

1848-1904

By the Barrow River & Other Stories, 1907

An Irish author and Member of Parliament. Originally published in an Irish journal, and published a posthumous collection. I cannot trace the first publication.

I HAD just been admitted a solicitor, and had been induced to start practice, or, rather, to look for it, in a town in one of the midland counties, where I had been persuaded there was a good opening for an attorney, the name by which members of my profession were then generally known. It was in the good old days before examinations became the stiff ordeals that they have been for many years, and I must confess that my attendance in the office where I was supposed to be serving my time was not as regular as it might have been. However, with a fair share of assurance, which the old clerk in my master's office impressed on me was the chief secret of success, I opened my office, put a brass plate on the door, and installed as my clerk a young fellow of twenty-one or thereabouts, who had had some slight experience in the business of a country office. Day followed day, and the hoped for client never came. My clerk spent the time writing text— "this indenture," and "whereas," and other important words, which would figure in the deeds he expected one day to be called on to engross— but he at least had the satisfaction of drawing a salary, not a very large one, it is true, but it was something. As for me, I confess I was beginning to get heartily weary of waiting, and to feel almost ashamed of the brass plate on the door.

Sometimes a step sounding in the hall would set my heart fluttering; but this only announced a lady who wanted to know did we want eggs, or cabbage, or other articles of commerce. This, of course, was dreadfully disappointing; still, it was consoling to know that someone had found the house.

It was more assuring when one or two came in to know if "Torney Brown was in," although that was the name of a rival practitioner long established in the town. It gave my clerk the opportunity of stating, in impressive tones, "No, this is 'Torney Malone's office," which he and I flattered ourselves was an excellent advertisement, and would some day have good results. Then came one day, a long, gawky-looking countryman to know when the Quarter Sessions were coming on, and what time had he for issuing a process. This was downright cheering. I asked him into my own office and made him sit down. I wrote out the date of the sessions and the last day for service on a sheet of notepaper with my address printed on it at the top. This induced him to tell me his case, in which, I need not say, I became deeply interested. It was a simple case of trover of a saddle, but I think I made as much out of it as if it were a question involving a thousand pounds. I examined and cross-examined him, like, I persuaded myself, an old hand, and felt certain that I had deeply impressed my client, for so I loved to think him. At last apparently satisfied, he rose to go.

"Well, good evenin' to ye now, yer honour, and good luck, and myself 'ill come again before Thursday," as he moved towards the door.

Then he hesitated for a second, and looking back he asked:

"Aren't you 'Torney Brown, yer honour?"

I felt nettled, but controlling myself said quietly:

"No, I'm Mr. Malone, as you'll see by the notepaper you have in your hand."

He looked a little sheepishly at the notepaper, and then said as he moved off:

"Well, yer a very civil gentleman, anyhow."

Thursday came, but my client did not turn up. The sessions day came, and although I had no business I thought I ought to put in an appearance in court. Amongst the first cases called was that in which my client, as I have called him, was plaintiff—his attorney was Mr. Brown. I fear I went back to my office in rather better humour that I otherwise would have done, when the barrister, as the County Court Judge was called then, dismissed the case, and with costs, against "my client."

After this, weeks passed and no one came near the office, and I began to long even for the step of the vegetable woman, but towards dusk one October evening, just as I was about thinking of leaving the office, where I had been sitting before the fire whiling away the time with a novel, my clerk came in with a gleeful face to inform me that a gentleman desired to see me on legal business. My heart jumped into my mouth. I quickly hid the novel, put on my most professional appearance, seated myself at my desk, began to write, and was so engaged when the gentleman was shown in.

He was a man, I should say of five and forty, and had all the appearance of a country gentleman. I handed him a chair, which he took, and asked him what I could do for him.

His business was quickly explained. His aunt, an old lady, who resided with him, was dying, and desired to make her will. She wished to leave everything to her nephew—the gentleman who was consulting me, and who gave his name as Mr. George Ralph Jephson, "but my aunt calls me Ralph," he added. "So I suppose," he said, "it will not take you much time to prepare a will leaving everything to me? I should wish you, also, to come out with me and witness the execution of it. I suppose your clerk could come also?"

I replied that I would prepare the will according to his instructions in a few moments. I took down the name of the intending testatrix and his own information as to the nature of her property. Half a dozen lines were quite sufficient to dispose of it, as it was all to go, without any reservation or condition, to the one person. I got my clerk to make out a clean copy, and when this was done, he and I, and Mr. Jephson got into the latter's dog cart, which a small boy was holding outside the office door.

Of Mr. Jephson I knew nothing, save that he had recently taken the house and demesne of Longfield, which had been untenanted for many years, owing to a tragedy that had taken place there, and it was said that he had come from Dorsetshire. His house was about nine miles outside the town, but the road was good and the horse a fast goer, and we did it in a little over the hour. A short, winding avenue led up to the house, which looked gloomy, as the only light visible escaped through the fanlight over the door.

This, when he pulled up, was opened in answer to Mr. Jephson's knock by an old, rather slatternly woman. He showed my clerk and me into the dining-room, where a bright fire was burning, and, requesting us to be seated, said he would go up to see if the lady were ready to receive us. He returned in a few moments, ushered us up the stairs, and, turning down the right corridor pushed in a door that was not fastened.

The room, which was not over-well furnished for so pretentious a house, was lighted by two candles. On a bed raised not more than a foot from the ground, and placed in a corner behind the door, lay a woman of at least seventy years old. She was very small, and her face had a very gentle expression, and, notwithstanding her advanced age, was wonderfully fair, and had but very few wrinkles. Her eyes were still bright, and it was evident she must have been a very pretty girl.

There was no one else in the room save Mr. Jephson, the clerk, and myself, and the door was closed. I produced the draft will and said, addressing myself to the lady:

"You wish to make your will?"

"Yes; oh, yes."

"And you wish to leave everything to your nephew?"

"Yes, to Ralph— to Rafy— everything."

"Then please listen, madam, while I read this, it is very short."

"Bring the candle nearer your face and let me look at you," she said.

The request surprised me, but I could not well refuse it.

"No, no, you are not like him, my— Rafy; but he had blue eyes like yours— blue eyes, and you could see the gold glint in his hair."

This speech perplexed me. Mr. George Ralph Jephson, who was standing in the shadow behind me, although inclined very much to grey now, had evidently had very dark hair, while his eyes were of a deep, almost dark grey.

"May I read the will?"

"Is everything given to Rafy?"

"Yes; listen—

"I, Eleanor Glasson, devise and bequeath all the property, real and personal, I die seized and possessed of, or to which I may become entitled to in expectancy, reversion, or remainder, to my dear nephew, George Ralph Jephson."

"Say to Rafy; write Rafy. Will not that do?" interrupted the old lady in a tone of mingled tenderness and eagerness.

"But I had better put in his full name," I said.

"Well, then, read it again."

I read.

"Not George! Ralph— Rafy. It is to Rafy."

"You see, she never called me George," said Mr. Jephson, in a low voice, "tell her it is all right."

Before I could reply, the old woman said:

"Let me look at you again," and she laid her hand in mine. "Bend down and let me look into your eyes. Ay, they are like Rafy's blue eyes. Will you let me kiss you for his sake?" and she put up her little wasted hands against my cheeks and kissed me. "I knew you wouldn't wrong Rafy, would you?"

"No, no," said I, much touched and somewhat confused, and then turning to Mr. Jephson, I said, "There must be something wrong."

"Perhaps you had better come downstairs with me and I'll explain," said Mr. Jephson in, I thought, a slightly agitated tone.

We went to the dining-room, and Mr. Jephson having carefully closed the door, stood with one elbow resting on the fireplace, and addressed me.

"Over thirty years ago a cousin of mine, another nephew of Miss Glasson's, whose name was Ralph, and of whom she was passionately fond, eloped with a girl beneath his position, and his father proving unforgiving the young couple went to the United States. A short time after arriving there the news of his death by drowning came home. It nearly broke my aunt's heart, for she had favoured the marriage out of her love for Ralph, and now seemed to think she was in some way responsible for his death. For a time she was bereft of her senses and was under surveillance; when she recovered she seemed to give her whole affection to me, and insisted on my dropping the name of George and calling myself Ralph, which I am entitled to do, as it is my second name. At times she used to speak of him to me and only to me, and she used to talk of the difference between his eyes and mine; of late she very often speaks of him, and, as is often the way of old people, forgets he is dead, but I am the only Ralph in the family now, and it is to me that she intends to leave what she has."

"I should like to talk to the lady by myself if you see no objection," I said.

"I fear it would only excite her," he replied, with a faint suggestion of annoyance. "I have told you everything she can tell. She is ready to sign the will if you will witness it."

"But if, as you say, she believes the other Ralph is still alive it appears to me it is to him she desires to leave the property."

"If that is your opinion and you will not accept my statement, I suppose there is no more to be said," he answered rather gruffly.

I rose to go and signalled to my clerk.

"You will let me offer you a glass of wine," he said; "and I should be glad if you will stay and dine with me. Your drive home is a pretty long one."

I accepted the wine and some biscuits, as did also my clerk, and then, when I declared we were ready for the road, Mr. Jephson said he would drive us himself.

I thought it was rather strange he did not offer to send the coachman, as he had himself already covered the road twice that day. But as he and I sat in the dog-cart in front he volunteered an explanation. He did not wish, he said, his servants to know too much about his business. But this appeared to me rather a curious explanation. There was nothing about the business that required concealment, I said to myself.

"And that is the reason why I wished you to bring your clerk with you. I like to have discreet people, and not babblers about me, and I always make it a point whenever I can to employ professional men."

This was intended, no doubt, as flattering, and I fear I was not above being pleased with it. I knew after that it was also intended as a hint that he expected I would not speak about the business which had taken me to Longfield.

When we arrived at my office he offered me a fee of five guineas; but I refused this on the ground that the business in which he had employed me had come to nothing. Saying good-night in a cordial way Mr. Jephson drove away.

It would seem as if this case brought me luck. The very next day a defendant in a rather bad assault case came in to engage my services. I appeared for him at the Petty Sessions and made what, I flattered myself, was a very good defence. Anyhow, he was acquitted, and I had the satisfaction of reading in the local paper, the "Midland Gazette," "that the ingenious defence and the brilliant speech made by Mr. Malone on behalf of the accused proves that he is a valuable acquisition to our local Bar."

After this, business began to come in pretty rapidly, but, to my regret, my clerk, who was very anxious to settle in Dublin, got the chance of a situation in the then well-known firm of solicitors in Dame Street, Messrs. Wrexham & Co. I gave him, as he deserved, an excellent character, which procured the place for him.

He had left me about a month, and something like two months had elapsed since Mr. Jephson's visit, when I read in the obituary column of the "Irish Times" the announcement of the death of Miss Glasson, of Longfield House, Co. —. I had, of course, often thought of the little old woman of the sweet face and the undying love for Ralph of the blue eyes, and I began to wonder if she had made any will and, if so, who was the legatee. But, after all, the matter was one in which I had no concern, yet I felt gratified somehow, that she did not execute the will which, acting on Mr. Jephson's instructions, I had prepared for her. I addressed myself to my increasing business and the matter soon passed from my mind.

Some weeks after this announcement in the Times, my clerk one day brought a card into my private office, saying:—

"The gentleman desires to see you, sir."

I looked at the card. "Mr. Wrexham." It was the name of the solicitor to whom my first clerk had gone.

"Show him in," I said.

Mr. Wrexham, after a courteous salute, took the proffered chair and plunged into business at once.

"You are doubtless aware," he said, "that Miss Glasson died at Longfield House a short time ago?"

I nodded assent.

"She was very wealthy; left about £30,000. The whole goes by her will, to her nephew, John Ralph Jephson. My firm has, however, been instructed by Mrs. Ralph Jephson, the widow of another nephew who died two years ago—"

"Two years ago?" I exclaimed.

"Yes— we have been instructed by her to contest the will on the ground of undue influence. We have accordingly entered a caveat, but, to be frank with you, I fear we have not much evidence to go on. We know that the late Miss Glasson entertained a very strong affection for Ralph Jephson, and always intended to make him her devisee and legatee— she had no power to dispose of her property except by will— but she was living with her nephew, George Ralph Jephson, and had been bedridden for some time. He kept away every other relative from his house. He took this place in Ireland, brought her hither, and it was not until the announcement of her death that her other relatives knew of her whereabouts. It chanced that your late clerk was given the draft caveat to make a clean copy of it for lodgment in the office of the Court, and the name attracting his attention he mentioned to my head clerk the scene he had witnessed in Miss Glasson's room. The clerk related the story to me, and that accounts for my presence here to-day. I fear," added Mr. Wrexham, after a pause, "that a fraud has been perpetrated, and that the will for which probate is sought does not express the wishes of the deceased lady."

"Who prepared and witnessed the will?" I asked.

"A solicitor and his clerk."

"And the solicitor?"

"A young fellow named Devaney; he lives in the next county—do you know him?"

"He was admitted as a solicitor the same time as I."

"Mr. Jephson seems to have a preference for young practitioners," said Mr. Wrexham, with a smile, and he added: "Do you happen to know anything about Devaney?"

"Well, I have heard he does little business, and he is, I fear, addicted to drink. Otherwise he is a good fellow."

"Just the kind of man to be made the innocent instrument of a fraud; and now I feel certain that a fraud has been committed on the poor lady who is dead and on the relatives whom she wished to benefit, and, of course, your evidence is all-important. I could, of course, have written and sent you a subpœna, but I thought it more courteous to wait on you myself. The case is listed for the day after to-morrow, when I hope it will be convenient for you to be in Dublin."

I confess I should have preferred that my evidence were dispensed with, but I had no doubt that in some way or other a fraud had been perpetrated, and the sweet face and the recollection of the poor dead lady's trust in me appealed irresistibly to me.

When the case came on I saw for the first time the widow of Ralph Jephson. Beside her sat her daughter. She was rather petite, exceedingly pretty, and her face bore an unmistakeable likeness to her dead grand-aunt. I was taken with her at once, and, I must confess, I found it very difficult to keep my eyes away from the quarter where she was seated.

The evidence against the validity of the will was, except mine and my clerk's, very slight. It was deposed to by the servants who had been in the employment of the deceased that she always spoke of making Ralph Jephson her sole heir, but these servants had left the employment more than two years ago. They had to admit, on cross-examination, that Mr. George Ralph Jephson was sometimes called Ralph, but they denied that they had ever heard the testatrix so describe him.

I deposed to what I have already stated, but I was unable to say that I considered the testatrix had not testamentary capacity. I could only say I believed she wished to leave her property to Ralph, and not to George Ralph, Jephson.

This brought the judge down on me, and he asked me why, if that was so, I didn't carry out her intentions? That it was my duty to do so. I had not seen it in that light, and felt very uncomfortable as I left the witness-box.

Then came the witnesses for the defence. Mr. George Ralph Jephson swore his aunt had habitually called him Ralph; that occasionally she called him George; and had frequently promised to leave him everything, and that it was by her directions he went on both occasions for a solicitor. What he told Mr. Malone about his cousin Ralph was, he believed, true, and he was surprised to learn now for the first time that he had not been drowned, as was reported, and had only recently died.

Then came a servant whom I recognised as the woman who had opened the door for me. She wore mourning, and scarcely lifted her veil as she kissed the book. She gave her evidence nervously, and she began by explaining that she was never in a courthouse before. She swore she attended deceased, and that the latter had frequently said that she would leave everything to her nephew, Mr. George Ralph Jephson; that sometimes deceased— but that was only lately, a few weeks before she died— rambled about little Rafy, as she called him, that was drowned. As far as she could judge, the lady was in her right mind.

Mr. Devaney, solicitor, proved that he attended with a will prepared on the directions of Mr. Jephson, and which left everything to him. He had never seen testatrix before. He had no reason to doubt that she knew what she was doing. He read the will slowly for her. It was very short, and she said she understood it thoroughly, and she added that she wished to leave everything she had in the world to her nephew there, pointing, as she did so, to Mr. Jephson, who was standing at the side of the bed near witness.

Mr. Devaney's clerk gave similar evidence, and it appeared as if there was no more to be said. But Mr. Daunt, Q.C., who had let the previous witnesses off, I thought, rather easily, proceeded to cross-examine the clerk very closely.

"You had never seen the testatrix before, I suppose?"

"Never."

"But you took a good look at her when you did see her?"

"Well, I looked, of course, but I did not notice her very much— there was not very much light."

"Oh! there was not very much light," said Mr. Daunt, steadying his spectacles and fixing his gaze on the clerk. "How much light?"

"One candle."

"Only one candle when the testatrix was making her mark! Was that the reason she gave for not signing her name in full?"

"No. She said when Mr. Devaney asked her if she would sign her name, that she did not know how to write, but that she thought her mark would do."

"Did not know how to write!" interrupted the judge. "I thought testatrix was a lady of position."

"So she was, my lord," said Mr. Daunt.

"And did you take particular notice of the testatrix?" said counsel, addressing the witness.

"Well, not particular. I mean, I did not notice very much of her; but I noticed her hand and her finger when she was making her mark."

"Oh, you did! Tell the Court and the jury what you noticed," said Mr. Daunt, catching the edges of his gown and pulling them forward.

"I noticed that her hands were very coarse for a lady, I thought, my lord," said the witness looking up towards the judge. "And I saw that her forefinger had a deep mark along it, as if it had been badly cut or crushed some time or other."

"Come," said Mr. Daunt, leaning forward and looking the clerk full in the face. "Do you think you would know the testatrix if you saw her again?"

A buzz of excitement ran through the crowd.

"If I saw her again? Sure she's dead."

"Sure she's dead," said Mr. Daunt, echoing him; "but if she wasn't, do you think you could recognise her?"

"I think I might."

"And if you saw the hand and the finger would you recognise them?"

"I would."

"Are you sure of that?"

"I— I— well, I am sure. I believe I would."

"But Mr. Daunt," put in the judge, "this is an extraordinary course you are taking. The plea you have put in on behalf of your client is undue influence."

"Quite so, my lord; but the case is an extraordinary one, and I ask your lordship to bear with me for a moment in the interests of justice."

The judge nodded.

"My lord," continued Mr. Daunt, "would your lordship be good enough to request the witness, Agnes Marvel," that was the name of the servant who had been examined— "to come forward?"

"But, my lord," said Mr. Star, Q.C., who was on the opposite side, "this is quite irregular. My learned friend had an opportunity of cross-examining Agnes Marvel when she was in the witness-box."

"I shall call her forward, and then, if Mr. Daunt puts any question to which you take exception, I shall be happy to hear you, Mr. Star."

"Thank you, my lord," said Mr. Star, as he resumed his seat.

"I do not intend to ask any questions," said Mr. Daunt. "So my learned friend need not have been in such a hurry to interpose."

"Come forward, Agnes Marvel!" said the crier.

The woman came and stood near the clerk who was giving evidence.

"Lift up your veil, madam," said Mr. Daunt.

She did so with trembling hands which were encased in black cotton gloves.

"Now, will you be good enough to remove your gloves."

"What is the meaning of this?" said Mr. Star, Q.C., jumping up.

"My lord, I make this request on my responsibility as counsel."

"Where is the objection, Mr. Star?" said the judge.

The woman removed her gloves. Her face as she did so became deathly white, and without a word of warning she fell back, and would have fallen on the witness-table if the crier, who was standing near her, had not caught her in his arms.

There were cries of "Water!" and "Take her out into the air!"

"Perhaps, my lord," said Mr. Star, "an adjournment of the court would be agreeable, as it is near luncheon time."

"What do you say to that, Mr. Daunt?" asked the judge.

"May I ask the witness one more question, my lord."

"Yes."

"Did you, witness, see that woman's hand?"

"Yes."

"Was that the hand that signed the will?"

"I believe so."

The excitement in court was now intense.

"I think," said the judge, "we should go on. Bring in that woman if she has recovered," he continued, addressing a policeman.

The woman was brought in.

"Now," said the judge, turning towards Mr. Daunt, "you may repeat your question; but first let me warn this woman. Agnes Marvel?"

"Yes, my lord."

"The question which counsel is now about to put concerns you. Listen to it."

Mr. Daunt repeated the question, and the clerk answered it as before.

"Do you think you could recognise the features?"

"Now that I look at them I believe I do; but I won't be positive."

"My lord," said Mr. Daunt, "may I recall Mr. Malone?"

"For what, Mr. Daunt?"

"That he may describe the appearance of the lady whom he saw—"

"My lord! my lord!" interrupted Agnes Marvel, "if ye promise not to hang me I'll tell the truth. 'Twas I signed the will— 'twas I signed it, and there's the man that tempted me," and she pointed to where Mr. George Ralph Jephson had been seated, but in the excitement he had succeeded in escaping.

There is no need to pursue the narrative further. Suffice it to say that the false will was set aside, and luckily, one made some years previous, and which was in the custody of a solicitor in England, was forthcoming. By this all the property of the late Miss Glasson was bequeathed in trust to Ralph Jephson and his children in equal portions should he predecease testatrix. The whole, therefore, fell to Miss Blanche Jephson.

But it may be interesting to state that Mr. Daunt was as much surprised at the denouement as anyone else. He had intended to put only a few questions to Mr. Devaney's clerk as a matter of form, but the statement of the latter that the testatrix had said she had never written a line in her life aroused his curiosity, and when the clerk described the finger of testatrix a light suddenly flashed on his mind that made his way clear. With the acuteness and habit which come from long practice, he had taken note of the witness, Agnes Marvel, as she came to the stand to take the oath. She had, of course, to remove the glove from her right hand before taking the book in it, and he saw the disfigurement of the forefinger. Seeing that he had no case otherwise, he determined to hazard everything on the chance that Agnes Marvel had signed the will and not Miss Glasson.

_____________________

14: The Awakening

Owen Oliver

(Joshua Albert Flynn, 1863-1933)

Adventure, June 1911

I WOKE suddenly in a strange place—a long room with light oak carving. I was lying on soft cushions on the floor. A rug had been thrown over me, but I was dressed There were two long rows of sleepers— men, women, and children—and a number had been put at the head of each. Mine was "214,713, London." One or two numbers had a name underneath, but mine was not there. It was Elsie Anderson, if I remembered my self rightly; but my memories did not come readily.

My left-hand neighbor was holding my wrist. He was " 184, Government, George Raynlor." I remembered the name, and when I raised myself on one elbow, to take a good look at his face, I remembered him. I had met him once at an at-home. He was a nice fellow and I liked him. He had said that he hoped we should meet again.

Then I noticed a manuscript in my right hand. I pulled it out and read the title: "The History of the Years of Sleep: 1916-1920. By George Raynor."

I gave a sharp cry. If it was 1920,I had slept for four years!

I made an effort to remember what happened to me. I was going to town for a singing-lesson, and there were swarms of little green flies at Dulwich Station. They stung people, and the people whom they stung fainted. I screamed and tried to beat off the flies with my handkerchief, but they flew upon me—and that was last thing I remembered. I must have fainted; and the faint had lasted for four years! Perhaps longer, for more years might have passed since Mr. Raynor wrote the history.

How had I corne to this place? Where was it? Who were the other sleepers? Why did he put the book under my pillow? Why did he hold my hand? I guessed that it was a big hospital or building where they had put the sleepers for their security; and I thought that Mr. Raynor had brought me there because he knew me, and that he held my hand because he expected me to be frightened when I woke alone. I was frightened so frightened that I dared not move or call. For I did not know what might have happened in all these years, and something dreadful must have come again to send Mr. Raynor to sleep.

I lay still for a long time, shivering and listening. I heard no sound but the faint breathing of the sleepers. I thought that everyone but myself must be asleep. Then I heard a howling somewhere outside, the howling of wild beasts. It came nearer and nearer, till at last it was outside the window. The window seemed to be'a good way above the ground, but I wasn't sure. I clung to Mr. Raynor's arm and begged him to wake, but he did not stir. He and the rest were evidently in a deep faint or stupor. I gave a scream, and then I fainted, too. The noise had gone when I recovered.

As oon as I was able to rise I got up and staggered to the door, but dared not open it. I staggered toward the windows, but dared not look out. I feared to find the the world in the possession of the howling beasts, or of some unknown monsters. I went and shook Mr. Raynor again, and called in his ear, entreating him to wake, but without the slightest effect.

I sat down again on my cushions— I seemed to have been made more confortable than any one else, and I was sure that I had to thank Mr. Raynor for that— and took up the "history"; but I was afraid to read it and learn what horrible things had come to pass— perhaps to find that I was all alone. I prayed a prayer that some one might be still waking in the world and come to me. And then I heard voices in the passage.

At first I thought they came in answer to my prayer, but, after listening for a few moments, some instinct checked the call on my lips. I went, cold with fear, and lay down hastily and covered myself and the book with the rug, and pretended to sleep. "They are enemies," I told myself. "Enemies! If they should come in—!"

They came in, and I peeped at them under my eyelashes. They were a red-faced, elderly man and a gray-haired lady, with a pale, handsome face and cold, cruel eyes. It was she whom I feared. I think I should have spoken to the man, if he had been alone, though I did not like him.

"SINCE you will see him,"he said, speaking as if she had annoyed him, "there he is!" He jerked his head toward Mr. Raynor, and she knelt beside the unconscious sleeper.

"He is due to wake in three days?"

"Yes," he answered; "and the girl the day after, according to the books; but the reinoculations do not always last their full time, you know. She might happen to rouse a day sooner; two or three days even."

"Oh, she!" said the woman scornfully. "She doesn't matter. She goes to-night, with the rest of them."

"You can't dispose of them all," the man protested. "We must have some to fight the cursed wolves. It's no use shaking your head. We must, I tell you! We needn't rouse them all, but I can't get along without a few thousand men. The beasts are getting too much for me. You know what it was like coming here."

"Yes, yes," she said. "You can have your men; but we don't want women; at any rate, not her. She dies to-night!"

"Very well," he said rather sulkily. " The women can go—those of this batch. You'll have to save some of the later sections, or you'll have a mutiny. But it doesn't matter about her in particular. She's just an ordinary, stupid, pretty girl, so far as I can see. The only point is that he has an infatuation about her. The important question is, what are you going to do about him? I rather like the chap, but—"

"I don't know," she said, rocking herself to and fro. "He has disobeyed three times. I gave my word that the third time he should die— He is so like my son!"

"I suppose," the red-faced man commented, "your son was like you. If he is, and he wakes and finds that you have made away with this '214,713, London' of his, he'll kill you! If you must wake him, why not wake the girl and let him have her? He'll be all right then. If you kill her and spare him, he'll be our worst enemy. I warn you."

"He'd be my enemy anyhow," the woman said bitterly. "He would not' serve me as I need service, for his own life, or even for hers. They must go to-night with the rest of their batch. Keep 6,000 men— no women and children; 2,000 of them in London. The rest in the usual proportions. Telegraph at once. Yes. He must die. But he's like my son!"

She bent and kissed him, laughing a strange laugh. It reminded me of the howling of the beasts. Then she rose.

"My last weakness," she said. "It's over. I shall go on to the end now, do not fear."

"I've never feared anything all my life, except you" the red-faced man said. "Sometimes I think you're the salvation of the world. Sometimes I think you're the Devil! I don't know."

"I don't know myself," said the gray haired woman.

Then they went, and I fainted again.

WHEN I came to, I judged from the light that it was the afternoon. I felt weak and ill and very thirsty, and so terrified that I could not think properly. I believe I should have simply lain still and waited to be killed, if Mr. Raynor had not been before my eyes and if I had not felt sure that I owed my life, so far, to him.

"They shall not kill you!" I declared, and sat up and clenched my teeth and hands, and made myself consider what I could do to save him. I decided that the first step was to read the history, which would probably enable me to understand the situation better.

It was a long story— far too long to set down here; but the main points were these.

The fly— but some people said it was a poison-dust, not an insect— appeared everywhere, all over the world, August 24, 1916, and stung people into a dense stupor. Nearly all the inhabitants of the earth went into the sleep, the account said. Those who remained awake were almost all clever, cruel people. They formed new governments, and called the head people "Powers." The Chief Power in England was the gray-haired woman. Her name was Ashbury. She did not wish the sleepers to wake, because she wanted to go on ruling. So she proposed to kill them. The Power of the World, an American Jew named Abrahams, who had been a hotel-keeper and considered a bad and unscrupulous man, but who was really a good one, would not agree to this. But, when the sleepers seemed likely to wake, he had to inoculate them, to make them sleep longer, because there wasn't food for them.

He tried to grow food, but the harvests were bad, and the dogs, who had become like wolves from hunger, overran the country. There were pestilences and storms, and those who "woke" were in great trouble; but at last there was a good harvest, and, after most of it had been sown for the next year, he thought it would produce enough to keep everybody. So he persuaded most of the "wakers" to go to sleep too, until it would be ready, so as to economize supplies. That was how Mr. Raynor came to go to sleep. He did not know if he would wake, for the Chief Power was plotting to depose the Power of the World, and if she did, she was sure to kill most of the sleepers.

He had rescued me, and the "disobediences" for which she wished to kill him were all on my account. There was a Chief Physician, and he was a good man and had helped him, and liked me. He was one of those left awake. He said that he meant to dance at my wedding with Mr. Raynor. (The history made it quite plain that Mr. Raynor was in love with me.)

He called me "pretty little 214,713, London." The sleepers had all been numbered, and I suppose the "wakers" had been numbered first, because Mr. Raynor was 184.

ii

I DECIDED at once that I would try to find the Chief Physician. The history said that he lived in the building where we slept. (It was the War Office.)

I opened the door and looked into a very long corridor, paneled with brown wood. It was quite empty. I lifted Mr. Raynor in my arms and staggered out with him, and went up-stairs. On the walls there were printed plans of the floor. There were only numbers on them, but one or two had been written across in red ink, "Captain of Guard," and so on. On the top floor I found "Chief Physician" marked on one.

I opened the door, and staggered in. Mr. Raynor was big and heavy, and I am only small. I was so exhausted that I fell; and then I heard a voice—a kind voice that did not frighten me. " 2-1-4-7-1-3, London! Good girl!"

"Water!" I begged. "Water!"

"I can't move, my dear," the voice said.

I wiped my eyes and looked up, and saw a gentleman rather like my father, bound to a chair; and I got up somehow and tried to untie him.

"You'll never do it with those little fingers," he said. "There's a penknife in my waistcoat pocket; left hand; my left; the lower one. That's right!"

I cut the knots and he got up and staggered about, stamping and shaking himself to get rid of his stiffness. He asked if I had read the history, and I said yes; and he told me what had happened afterward.

Mrs. Ashbury had gone to America, with a shipful of armed men, to try to kill the Power of the World; but he had been prepared, and had taken them by surprise as they Avere landing, and defeated them.

So she and those who were left had come back in another ship. She had broken away from the other Governments, and those in England who did not agree with her had fled abroad, or had been killed, unless it was a party in Lancashire, led by a "Suffragette lady," who had been one of the Powers under Mrs. Ashbury, but would never agree to harming the sleepers. He did not know her fate. Mrs. Ashbury and her followers meant to wake only enough of the sleepers to fight the wolves— and perhaps a few women and children later— and to kill the rest. He had refused to help in the slaughter, and they had to get another doctor to help them. So they threatened to kill him with the first batch that very night.

"I'm afraid they will, little one," he said; "and you, too. We might possibly get away by ourselves; but not with— our burden." He shook his head at Mr. Raynor, whom I had lifted on a couch. "I don't suggest your going alone," he added, "because—"

"Because, if I would, I'm not worth saving," I said. "No. Of course I wouldn't leave him; and you wouldn't, because— he trusted you; and I do. But can't you wake him?"

"No; not till the three days are up. We must try to save him till then."

He considered for a long while with his chin on his hand.

"I can think of only one way," he told me at last, "and I fear it requires courage beyond your power, my brave little lady."

"If there is only one way," I said, "of course I must try. What is it?"

He did not answer my question at once, but thought again, staring at me as if he did not see me;

"I WANT you to understand the situation," he said. "It is fairer; and, besides, you may see some better plan. It would be possible to get out of this building. There are guards at the doors, but we could get through a window on the ground floor. There are thousands of empty houses where we could hide, if we once got away and if we escaped the wolves—and the human wolves, the followers of the Chief Power. If you and I were alone, there would be a chance; a poor one, but I think our best. With our friend here to carry, there would be no chance at all of escaping so." A howling rose in the distance, and he took me to the window looking down Whitehall to Big Ben. "Lookl" he said; and I looked, and clung to him.

A large party of armed men— about two hundred— were coming from Parliament Street in our direction. Innumerable wolves— dogs of all kinds and sizes, and yet changed from dogs— were following. Sometimes they approached so near that the men faced round with fixed bayonets, or axes. Sometimes a few ran by the side of the party and snapped at men till they were stabbed; and then the other wolves rushed upon them and devoured them.

"They go in flocks," he told me, "but they rush down all the streets in turn; and with our friend to carry we could never get away from them, or from the patrols. No, we can't escape that way."

"What is your plan?" I asked.

"We might hide in chimneys, or under the floors; but they would be sure to trace us. It's a poor plan."

"Yes," I agreed. "What is your plan?"

He looked at me again for a long while. Then he told me.

"That you should go back to your places," he said, "and let them think that they kill you. They propose to do it by injecting poison. If they have not changed its prescription— you must risk that— I can inoculate you with an antidote. It will take away all power to move, and a good deal of your sensibility; not all. You will suffer— suffer in body and in mind, my poor child, but you will live. In a day or so you and he will wake. You are both young and active, and he is bold and resourceful. They will probably give up watching the dead. You may escape then— escape, I hope, to a long and happy life together."

"And you?" I asked. "You, dear friend?"

"Oh, well," he said, "I had to die anyhow."

"I will take no chance of safety that you do not share!" I declared. "He would not, if he were alive— awake, I mean. I answer for his honor. And he shall not wake to find that I deserted you!"

"I shall go out and chance escaping the wolves," he stated. "You see, it would be no use inoculating myself. When they found me unbound and yet unconscious, they might suspect my plan, and— and make sure of me! Probably of you and of him, too."

"They shall not find you unbound," I said. "I will bind you as I found you, and inoculate you. Then I will inoculate him; and then myself. And when I wake— if I wake— I will come to you."

"Ah, my dear!" he said. "You are brave! But are you brave enough?"

"I have to be!" I said.

We ate and drank. Then we carried Mr. Raynor back to his place, and the Chief Physician inoculated him, showing me how to do it. He marked the place on his own flesh and mine when we went to his room. He kissed my forehead. "The good God strengthen you!" he prayed.

Then he sat in his chair, and I bound him. "If we live, I will be a daughter to you," I promised, "and he will be a son." Then I inoculated him. He went quickly into a stupor.

"Hide— the syringe— before you— go— too— numb," he gasped faintly. Then he said no more. Even his eyes did not move, but they were open, and I believed that he could still see and hear.

"I shall be brave," I told him. "Do not doubt me."

I kissed his forehead, and went out into the deathly stillness of the empty corridors, and back to my place. I must have screamed if I had not bitten my lips.

The good God must have given me strength, as the Chief Physician said, for I never faltered in my resolution. I wrote on the history what had happened, so that Mr. Raynor might go and rescue the Chief Physician if he woke and I did not. After that I sat by him for a few moments, with my arm round his neck, and my face against his.

"I hardly know you," I said, "but you love me. And I love you. God help us, dear!"

Then I lay down, covered myself with the rug, dug the syringe into my flesh and pumped in the antidote. I only just succeeded in removing it, the numbness came on so quickly. Then I lay waiting; motionless, unable to stir an eyelid or make a sounfd, and yet dimly conscious of everything round me— more than dimly conscious of fear. The light grew dimmer and dimmer. I heard the wolves howl four times before I became unable to distinguish Mr. Raynor's face; once more, and then it was quite dark. I heard them howl three times more; and then the death-dealers came, talking to one another unconcernedly, as if they went about some routine task.

There were eight of them. Two women and a man carried lanterns. Three men had large syringes. A lad carried a pail of fluid from which they replenished them. The red-faced man watched. They went along the room in pairs, one holding the lantern while the other knelt by the sleeper and made the injection— two strokes of the piston with a pause between. One pair came to Mr. Raynor and another to me at the same time. I was too numb to feel pain when the great syringe dug deeply into my flesh, but it was well for me that I could not scream. As it was, I made a faint sound.

"Must have been near waking," the injector said, putting the rug over my shoulders again. "Well, she's safe for another four months." Evidently he had not been told that he was administering anything but the usual sleeping-injection. To the credit of my countrymen and countrywomen I would record that it is now clear that Mrs. Ashbury deceived them about her intentions, and that very few of them realized that she intended to kill the sleeping world.

"Make him quite safe," the red-haired man commanded, nodding toward Mr. Raynor. "He's a dangerous man."

"He's had the usual dose," the operator answered. "The Chief Physician always said that more was dangerous."

The red-faced man made no comment, and they passed on, finished their work, and went out. The wolves howled right under the window just then. Soon afterward I went to sleep. I felt as if a weight were crushing me; and I thought that perhaps the antidote had failed. I did not seem to care about myself— it would be good to be at rest, I thought— only about Mr. Raynor and the Chief Physician.

iii

IN the early light I woke in great pain. I remembered that the Chief Physician had said that I should suffer. I was glad that Mr. Raynor was unconscious. I thought that if I woke fully I should wake mad. Presently some men came in, and I feared that I should go mad in my stupor.

They did not look at Mr. Raynor or me. Some one called out "214,717" and "214,725," and they carried off two sleepers, both big men. I suppose they were selected to wake and fight the wolves.

"You can leave the doors open," the voice called. "The wolves won't matter now."

Then I think I did go mad for a time. I seemed to be struggling with a tempest of pain and fright, till I became unconscious once more.

I woke, still racked by sharp pains, to find the gray-haired woman kneeling beside Mr. Raynor. She was crying. I tried to call to beg her to keep out the wolves, but no sound would come. When she went, however, she closed the door. I forgot my pains in my thankfulness that we were safe from the wolves, and slipped back into sleep. Sometimes I roused a little at a pang of pain, or rather, after it. For I knew that I had been hurt, rather than felt it. Sometimes I dreamed of green fields, and brooks, and music. Sometimes I dreamed that stones were being heaped and heaped on me.

The dawn of another day was beginning when I became fully conscious again. The pains were not so violent, and presently they left me almost entirely. I could not hear Mr. Raynor breathe, but I thought that he did. The others were still— quite still. I could not speak, but I could move my eyelids. I blinked and blinked. Presently I could move a little finger; then all my fingers. Gradually the use of my limbs returned, and I sat up, aching all over— not violently, but with a kind of cramp, and feeling as if I had just come to from "gas" at the dentist's.

Mr. Raynor was still "sleeping," and the Chief Physician had said that he would not wake until some time after us. So I was not worried on his account, after I had ascertained that he really breathed—which was the first thing I did. I was too weak to lift him, and I thought that probably the guards below were gone, and the wolves. So I decided to go up-stairs alone and untie our kind friend, if he still lived. In case I should never return I wrote on the cover of the history and put it beside Mr. Raynor:

I have gone for the Chief Physician. If I do not return, I shall have died. If we live, I will do what you wish. God bless you. 214,713, London.

Elsie Anderson.

The corridors were empty, but I felt sure that I heard wolves upon the floors below, so I ran as fast as my shaking legs would carry me. I found the Chief Physician alive and evidently coming to, but not able to speak. I unbound him and rubbed his hands and bathed his face. In about half an hour he could just stand. Then I heard a sound in the corridor. Pit-pat, pit-pat! I shut the door, and the wolf came and scratched at it and whined and barked. It went away and came again. At last the Chief Physician stumbled to a cupboard and got two axes and two revolvers.

"Take some for him," I proposed; for, of course, I knew that we should go down to Mr. Raynor at all risks.

"He won't wake yet," our friend assured me. "It's no use burdening ourselves. We shall have to fight our way, I expect." He seemed quite cheerful at the prospect of the struggle. "Use the ax when, you can, and take the revolver in your left hand. We'll settle this one first. I'll jam his head in the door. Get ready!"

He opened the door a little. The wolf— it had been a big bull terrier—forced its head through the opening, and I brought the ax down.

"That's one!" said the Chief Physician. "Come on!" And we went out. Strange to say, I had no fear; I felt like a machine.

There were no other wolves on the two upper floors, but some were coming up the stairs from the second floor, where Mr. Raynor was. They retreated before us, growling and snarling. About twenty waited at the foot of the stairs. We had to reach a door some twenty yards^along the corridor. We shot three of the beasts, and the others fell upon them; then we made a rush and reached the room. One wolf tore my dress, but the Chief Physician killed him. Another got half through the door after us and caught the Chief Physician's boot, but I blew out its brains.

Mr. Raynor was breathing very faintly. The Chief Physician listened to his heart and felt his pulse. He shook his head several times, and I gasped for breath.

"I do not know the exact effect of the poison and the antidote on a sleeper," he said at last. "I hope he will wake, but— I do not know. I have done my best, Elsie."

"You have done your best," I said, "your very best, dear friend. But if he does not live I do not want to. Is there nothing you can do? Nothing?"

"If I could get a stimulant from my room," he said, "it might help him. There is nothing really wrong. It is a question whether his heart is strong enough to outlast the struggle between the poison and the antidote. The heart beats more feebly in the sleep, you see. Are you brave enough to be left?"

"I am brave enough not to let you go alone," I answered.

We went to the door, and peeped out. The wolves had gone. So we decided to take Mr. Raynor up-stairs again, carrying him between us.

We were half-way up the first stairs when we heard a terrific howling overhead, and the shouts of men, and a few women. The wolves had evidently gone up above; and the "wakers" had gone by another way and were pursuing them in force. The fight for which the Chief Power had awakened some of the slumberers was beginning. Shots were fired, and we heard the blows of axes; the wolves seemed to be running along the corridor to the stairs.

"Back to the room!" the Chief Physician cried. But as we reached the corridor the voice of the Chief Power rose above the others, and with one accord we fled down the next staircase. For we thought that she might come in the room to look again at Mr. Raynor. We feared her more than all the wolves.

We reached the main hall, breathless and staggering with our burden; and then the wolves overtook us. They were too terrified to do any harm, but swept on like a sea, knocking us down on the slippery tiled floor and running over us. The pursuers followed in the rear, smiting with their axes, till the wolves were killed or had got through the doorway, running over one another, three, four, five high. Then we sat up, and the guards formed between us and the doorway, waiting for orders from the gray-haired woman.

She stood at the foot of the white marble stairs, with little streams of red blood running down them, and faced us. She was motionless, like the statue of some evil deity. Mr. Raynor opened his eyes and moved his lips. The Chief Physician and I knelt, holding him between us. He smiled faintly at me, and I smiled at him, putting my arm round him and drawing him against me.

"We live for a moment together," I whispered; "and perhaps— afterward." For I saw in her eyes that she would kill us.

There was a long silence, and all waited with their eyes on her.

She moved her lips silently before she spoke. She addressed the Chief Physician.

"Traitor!" she said in a dear, stem voice. "Traitor to us all!" She turned to the rest. "He cabled to Abrahams!" she told them, and there was a fierce murmur.

"Yes," the Chief Physician told her. "I cabled to the Power of the World— your master and mine. It is you who are the traitor— traitor and murderess!"

"Your Power of the World has not come," she taunted him. "He does not govern England, and you are a traitor to your country."

"You are a traitor to mankind!" he answered. "He will come, and then he will kill you!"

"And now," she said very quietly, "I will kill you."

"I expected nothing else, " he said. " But, if there is a spark of womanhood or humanity in you—"He was going to ask her to spare us, but she cut him short.

"There is none," she said, "for traitors! Kill them!"

The crowd advanced upon us, but she made a quick motion with her hand. "Take them outside," she commanded, passing her hands over her eyes. She sank on the marble steps with her dress dabbling in the blood, and the men seized us and dragged us through the doors. Our arms were round one another, and they did not separate us.

"All in vain," the Chief Physician muttered; "your courage; and yours!"

"And yours," said Mr. Raynor, "old friend!"

"No," I said. "Not in vain, not in vain, my dears! There will be an awakening!" And I kissed my lover and my friend, and they kissed me.

iv

AND then we passed through the doorway, and the wolves rushed upon us like a stormy sea. There were thousands of them— tens and tens of thousands, wolves that had once been dogs, all kinds, all sizes. They covered the wide road and more, for they ran on top of one another. They came from both directions, and from each way a great army of men and women pursued them in serried ranks, axes in hand— axes dripping red.

The guards dropped us and ran within the doors. The wolves knocked us down, as before, and swarmed over, us; swarmed in heaps that crushed us and almost stifled us; rose like a great wave to the top of the doorway and fell in, one wave after another.

I caught a glimpse of the marble stairway, and wolves were pouring down that, springing at the throats of those who tried to pass up it. I saw the gray-haired woman fall with a dozen holding her. Shrieks and shrieks and shrieks came from inside.

Outside, the men and women, coming both from Charing Cross and from Westminster, slew and slew. Every now and then a rush of the wolves— those that were not driven into the building or killed— swept them off their legs. The men and women closed up again and still slaughtered. I can see one little fair-haired woman now, smiting and smiting and smiting. She was a mistress from my old school, and she had always been such a gentle little thing; but the wolves had killed her child.

They killed the heap on top of us, throwing them aside as they slew them and smiting the next. We rose red with the slaughter, and a man, also red, held out his hand to the Chief Physician— a stout, panting, disheveled old Jew man, who seemed to be directing everybody.

"You are the Chief Physician," he said, "aren't you? They showed me your photo. I am Abrahams; I came at your call."

They stood there, forgetting every one but themselves, and talked, while the others went into the War Office to finish the last of the wolves. They would have slain the human wolves, too, I think, if any had been left; but there were none. They knew the Chief Power only by her dress.

The Power of the World told how he had come with a handful of men, at the Chief Physician's summons. If England did not rise to support him he must die, he knew.

"We run that risk every day," he said, "and I believed in England."

His belief had been justified. The people had gone over to him everywhere, as soon as they knew what Mrs. Ashbury intended; and though hundreds of thousands of sleepers had been poisoned under her orders— her tools mostly believing that they were merely using the sleeping injection— he had been in time to stop most of the slaughter.

About thirty thousand of the first batch of sleepers had already roused and joined him. He was clearing away the wolves and seeking Mrs. Ashbury and the remains of her Government—who, it seemed, had not heard of his arrival—"to clear them away, too." But their fellow-wolves had done it for him.

"We are saved," he declared, "if we can get through the next few days. We have to draft the people to their homes without losing trace of them, and to get the food supplies distributed to them. We must work, work, work! Nothing like work!" said the stout, disheveled, big old Jew man, who I looked like a butcher. I had expected a noble patriarch, and I felt disappointed in him— then. Now I know that he is greater than all the rest.

Mr. Raynor and I had said little all the time, only held hands tightly and looked into each other's eyes.

"You are mine," he said. "Dear— I do not know your name, but you are mine."

"It is Elsie," I told him. "Yes. I am yours."

And then the Chief Physician touched the arm of the Power of the World.

"Here are two of our best," he said. "They will work."

The Power of the World held out his hands to us, and smiled; and then he seemed no longer an old Jew, and something more than a man.

"You are doing the best work in the world," he told us; "just loving! Never leave off, my dears!"

That was his text and the battle-cry that led us through the struggle of the next fortnight. "For the love of those who sleep!" he urged, when some grumbled at our privations. " For the love of those who suffered to save you!" he told those who woke, when their weakened bodies halted at their labors —for we worked till we dropped in those days. "For the love of your old leader!" he pleaded, when even we who were round him thought his counsels too hard.

His last words as Power of the World—in the speech by which he restored the old rulers and resigned all power and place— were the same.

"The best work in the world," he said, "is the work that all can do—just to love one another. I have done only that. But if you think you owe anything to me, who owe everything to my faithful followers; if you think that the waking of the world is due in any part to my efforts, make it a world of love and good-fellowship—a world that was worth making!

And so, because all the world loved him. every country all over the earth passed one great law of peace and fellowship and goodwill; and, to mark the fact that the days of war and strife were over, the calendar of the years was started afresh; and I, Elsie Raynor, formerly Anderson, wife of George Raynor, Secretary of the Traffic Reorganization Board, write this account in Year One of the Awakening.

__________________

15: The Chair That Smiled

Edith Rickert

1871-1938

Adventure June 1911

"THIS room," said the housekeeper, "is never shown."

The tourist whom she had been conducting through the long upper gallery of Selward House stood obstinately in front of the low oaken door to which she referred.

"It is not a private apartment?" he insinuated. " I should particularly like to see it." He held out a sovereign as inducement.

Mrs. Green turned her back upon the golden temptation and said haughtily: "It is not in my power, sir. The room has not been opened since I can remember."

She turned to move on, but the visitor remained standing with his feet wide apart and his hands in his pockets. His boots, his clothes and his chin proclaimed him a successful American.

"Indeed?" he said. "That is odd. But I suppose there is always a way to do these things. Is Sir Charles at home?"

She was obliged to come back to him: "No, sir, he has gone to the meet."

"And you are sure you have no key that would unlock the door?"

"I know my own keys, sir."

He shifted his ground: "Well, is there no other member of the family?" He absently played with several gold coins in one palm.

"There's only Miss Elizabeth, sir; she's in the garden. But I couldn't trouble her—"

The American's face suddenly twinkled: " See here, my good woman, if you'll kindly get the young lady to step up here, I'll bet you fifty dollars— that's ten pounds— she'll find a way to let me into that room! And if she doesn't, you shall have the fifty anyway. So you stand to win in either case."

If Mrs. Green thought she was dealing with a madman, the two notes that he held out to her vouched for a degree of sanity. Besides, she reflected, she ran no risk except of Miss Elizabeth's anger. The young lady knew no more than herself where the key of the room was kept— if indeed it had not been lost before any of them was bom.

She pressed a button in the wall, and to the footman who appeared gave the brief direction that he should look for Miss Elizabeth in the garden and ask her whether she would be so land as to come to the house a moment.

She then conducted the persistent intruder back to the entrance-hall, and with him awaited her lady's pleasure.

He was especially interested in a full-length portrait that hung over the chimney-piece.

"That was the first Sir Charles," she told him, "who founded the fortune of the family and built the house in the days of Queen Elizabeth."

"Is it allowable to ask how he obtained the money?" asked the American, with a curious, dry smile.

"In the wars against Spain," she answered curtly.

"Indeed? And the present Sir Charles— any resemblance? "

"Sir Charles is clean-shaven." Only the promise of the two five-pound notes kept her civil.

He moved to the next portrait: "And the red-haired young lady dipped in pearls is the founder's daughter?"

"His wife," began the housekeeper, but was interrupted by a fresh voice, asking haughtily: "Did you wish to see me?" He turned to face a pretty girl in white linen, not so unlike the portrait he had been studying.

"Miss Selward?" He bowed and handed her a card upon which she read the name Ramon Stanley, and a New York address.

"I must plead a desire to see your secret chamber— not due, as you might suppose, to idle curiosity." He paused and began again, with his curious smile, "What should you say if I were to tell you exactly what is, in that room?"

SHE looked at him with some slight interest: "Cobwebs, I should say. How do you know? I never was in it myself and I don't know what's there— do you, Green?"

"No,madam,"said the housekeeper, "but I have heard my grandfather tell as how it was haunted. He used to say as your grandmother, Lady Maria, was the last as ever entered the room. What she saw nobody ever knew, but she came out screaming and was took with convulsions and died within the day. It hasn't been unlocked in my time— not to my knowledge."

"Do you know whether there is a key?" asked Miss Elizabeth, with evident curiosity; and as Mrs. Green shook her head, she turned to the stranger: "At least, I should be interested to hear you tell what you think there is in the room."

"I don't think," said he. "I know, almost as well as if I'd seen 'em. I may be wrong in a few details. There's a "big round table covered with gilt and embossed leather, supported by three lions of painted leather."

"Leather!" exclaimed the girl.

"And lions!" gasped the housekeeper.

"Over this should be hanging seven lamps— also of leather— representing the Seven Deadly Sins; if they were lighted, the flame would come out of the mouth of each—"

The girl was wide-eyed now and Mrs. Green dumb with amazement.

"On the table," he pursued calmly, "is a big wine flagon built like a Spanish galleon of the Armada— also of leather. And a dozen— there should be a dozen— tankards shaped and painted like grinning faces, with pointed hats for their covers."

"Still of leather?" asked Miss Selward.

"All of leather," said he. "And round the table are leather chairs, a dozen of them, shaped and painted to look like men, so that when you sit down you seem to sink into the arms of a human being— so I understand—"

"Of all the madness!" exclaimed Miss Selward.

"For that reason," said Mr. Stanley, " you can perhaps pardon my eagerness to learn whether I am right. Not that I have much doubt myself. But. I thought it worth a trip across the ocean to make sure."

"Tell me how you knew," she commanded.

He considered a moment: "Therewould be no point in my doing that until the case is proven. Afterward, I should be bound to explain." He added meditatively: "And each of the chairs has a ring on the forefinger of the left hand; and all the faces have eyes that follow you round the room, and one, it is said, has a smile that comes and goes—"

He stopped and added with a change of tone, "I'm not making up all this stuff, you know."

Miss Selward hesitated: "Have you any theory as to how my grandmother came by her death?"

He answered without hesitation: "Yes, a theory— which the room itself would prove or disprove."

Miss Selward made up her mind: " Green, I'm going to have a look for that key in the study. I know where father keeps all his keys— it can't do any harm. Do you suppose it's labeled 'Haunted Chamber'?"

She moved away, followed by the housekeeper's protest— words quickly muffled, however, by the arrival of the promised notes in her palm.

Stanley had had time to examine all the portraits in the hall before Miss Selward came back breathless: "They were all labeled but these," she said. "Father's most methodical. I don't believe he knows what these are himself. They are clumsy and old enough— it's a chance."

She ran up the wide oak stairway, quickly followed by Stanley; and by the time that Mrs. Green had labored up to them in the gallery they had already tried and rejected half the bunch.

Suddenly Stanley, who had been wrestling with the stiff lock, looked at the girl: "It turned!"

"Open— open!" she cried eagerly.

Still he hesitated: "Do you know, I don't quite like to; I begin to doubt my own statements now. I'm afraid I shall be made out a liar after all."

However, he was perhaps unconsciously pushing harder than he realized, for a mere touch of her hand above his bent shoulder sent the door inward with a crash.

The room was darkened by a green cur¬ tain hung across a large window opposite the door, but this curtain was full of rifts and holes that admitted strong rays and patches of light.

Miss Selward, who had leaned eagerly forward, fell back with a suppressed scream and clutched the housekeeper's arm. Stanley himself, looking in, gripped the doorpost hard, so strong was the illusion upon him that a company of men sat drinking at the round table, while over their heads shadowy monstrous dragons or crocodiles threatened descent upon them.

The next moment, triumph was uppermost. "By George!" said he. "What did I tell you?"

"Mercy on us!" ejaculated the plump housekeeper, feeling that the emergency was altogether beyond her. "Shall I ring for help, madam?"

"What for?" asked Stanley. "No, we'll just wait to get a little live air into the place, so that we don't all die of suffocation; and then we'll look round and see how nearly I was right."

The air that came out into the draughty corridor was peculiarly dead, full of dry rot, attesting that the room and its windows had been shut for generations.

STANLEY was the first to enter. With a careful avoidance of the ghastly seated figures, he crossed to the large window and cautiously tugged to draw one of the green curtains aside. It first resisted, then tore under his hand with a great cloud of dust, then gave way above so that he had barely time to dodge its folds. Half blinded and choked, he groped his way back to the gallery, where the two women stood coughing, the younger with her handkerchief over her mouth.

"One good thing," said Stanley, when he could speak, "the germs are probably as dead as the air. Shall we explore further?"

"I'm not sure that we oughtn't to wait until my father returns," said Miss Selward. But curiosity overcame her: "There can be no harm in looking."

"I want to prove that my list was right," said Stanley, whose eyes had been busy. "Look now, isn't it so? Here is the leather table supported by lions; on it the galleon and the twelve leering mugs; above it the seven Deadly Sins to give light; and round it the twelve chairs like Elizabethan dandies with frills and slashes. They have even the rings that I spoke of on their forefingers. By George, notice their eyes— they look alive! Can you make out which is the one that smiles? "

He went from one chair to another trying to discover minute differences in their seeming sameness. Suddenly Miss Selward said faintly: "Open— the window— please!"

While he struggled with the rusty catch he heard a slight thud and turned in time to see her sway and fall into the chair at the head of the table.

For a moment he was paralyzed, not at the sight of her fair head drooping sideways over the leather arm, but at the expression of the painted chair-back that looked and leered above her shoulder. There could be no doubt which chair it was that smiled!

"For God's sake," he cried to the housekeeper, as he rushed toward the two women, "get her out of that!"

But Mrs. Green stood like a wooden image, and Miss Selward straightened herself with an effort to speak naturally: "I'm all right; I was only a little faint. Do you know, this ring looks as if it were set with real rubies? And it's loose— I believe it would come off—"

She got no further, for Stanley was bending over her, white as chalk. Before she could exclaim, he had caught her by the arms and dragged her from her place so violently that they both nearly fell over. To save them, he clutched at the table and set all the tankards rattling. The nearest one rolled to the floor. From one of the dragons above something was jarred loose and fell with a snap on the table, but nobody looked at it. Both women stared at the stranger, who was wiping his forehead, with his eyes shut. "By George!" said he. "That was a near go!"

Miss Selward was the first to recover her composure. "Now," she said, "will you kindly explain? "

Stanley opened his eyes with a slight start: "It's all right— only don't sit down again. That was the Queen's chair. You mustn't sit in the Queen's chair."

"What queen?" said she.

"Elizabeth. That's the chair that smiled. No mistake about it. I saw it plain as day."

Miss Selward looked back at it. "It isn't smiling now," she said gravely. "You must have imagined. In fact, I'm not sure now which of these two I sat in. But I can soon tell; it was the one on which the ring was loose."

She turned to see, but Stanley caught her arm without ceremony: "Don't! Wait till I tell you something."

Her attention was diverted by a clatter of hoofs in the court below the open window. "That will be my father," she said, and then: "Green, will you go down and ask Sir Charles to step up here at once? And not a word to the servants, please."

The wooden image came to life with a gasp of relief and waited for no second telling.

"Now," said Miss Selward.

"Perhaps you did not notice," said Stanley, "that my Christian name is Ramon?"

She nodded. "Spanish," she said. "I wondered a little."

"I am of Spanish descent," said he, and in that moment she saw his race in the quality of his bearing. "But my people, have been settled in America for generations. You have no idea how this furniture came to be here? No? Well, I have the story of it in a small tin box full of parchments— three hundred years old and more. The family didn't know what was in them— we've always been country gentlemen, not scholars; but when I went home from Johns Hopkins I stumbled upon the box in my father's safe and tried to figure out the contents. They were written partly in Spanish and partly in Latin, but I couldn't make much of 'em, so I got the bright idea of bringing 'em over to an expert at the British Museum. Now I have neat copies in duplicate, one of which I shall be happy to lend your father some day— if he is interested. Among the papers was a plan of this house as built by the first Sir Charles, and an inventory of the contents of this room. Hence my visit to-day."

"But how in the world-?"

"It's easy when you know. Your ancestor happened to be an ardent admirer of Queen Elizabeth; mine, the first Raymond Stanley— he was an Irishman in the service of King Philip of Spain— happened to be one of the countless victims of Mary Stuart."

"It sounds like a fairy-tale!" she breathed with parted lips.

"IT'S plain history," said he, "the kind of fact that's stranger than fiction. Just listen to this. When poor old Philip found his Armada show was no good, he was pretty near broken-hearted; and that was the time Raymond Stanley went to him with a neat scheme for revenge on his old enemy Elizabeth— a little gift of furniture for her palace of Hampton Court, or Staines, or where you like. He had happened to come upon a leather-worker— of Cordova, I think it was— and between them they devised this pretty suite for the Queen and her maids of honor. There's a little delicate irony in the design, do you see?— a hint at the taste of the Virgin Queen and her ladies for the knees of courtiers, in the light of the Seven Deadly Sins— that's pretty near a brilliant idea, isn't it? Not to speak observing the wine in a Spanish galleon.

"I don't know whether the plan was to drug the drink— plenty of dare-devils about, seminary priests and others, who would have undertaken it for a handful of silver. I could tell you the names of some of them— Enpglish and Irish soldiers of fortune, Harry Young and Hugh Cahill, Moody, Walpole, Edmund Yorke— a dozen or more, generally of Sir William Stanley's regiment. Sir William was Raymond's uncle— but never mind all that; you shall read it later. This splendid gift was shipped for England under Captain Middleton, I believe; and Raymond Stanley and some of the others went with it. Off Ushant they encountered an English man-of-war, commanded by one Captain Charles Selward-"

"Ah!''said the girl. "Now I begin to—"

"They fought— naturally. Selward was the better seaman— the Maria Reina was pillaged and sunk— most of the crew drowned. Middleton and Raymond Stanley were picked up by French fishermen. Afterward Stanley came to England in disguise and by his own account haunted Selward House awhile, trying to get possession of his stuff or to take revenge on the English captain, whom he terms 'that insufferable pirate and enemy of God.' He failed. In fact, in our old papers— written for his son with the express command that that young man should follow up the feud as he saw his chance— he says that Selward, with the aid of the devil, saw through the plan and betrayed it to the Queen, who thereupon was so 'mewedup in her chamber' that no stranger could come into her presence. When he found that the Queen had not only knighted Sir Charles but had bestowed the furniture upon him for his pains, he lost heart, and went back to Spain. His son may have been a lazy rascal or a pious chap— anyway, nothing happened except that the papers and the name Raymond in its Spanish form have been handed down until now."

"But why did he want the Queen to have the furniture? And why were you so alarmed when I sat in that chair?" asked the practical Miss Selward.

"That's the cream of the plot," said Stanley, but was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor. He turned to confront a short, stout man in mud-splashed hunting pink, whom he rightly assumed to be Sir Charles.

"Hoity-toity!" said this individual, after a hasty glance about the room. "What's all the row?"

Stanley's answer was to seize his gray felt hat and drop it on the floor. Then, seemingly oblivious of father and daughter, he knelt and fumbled for some seconds, rising rather flushed but calm. "I have just caught a mouse," he observed amiably, and showed a beady-eyed, gray snout wriggling between his thumb and forefinger. "It was a lucky chance I happened to see it. If you don't object, we will try an experiment before I explain myself."

He went up to the chair from which Miss Selward, when she had fallen into it, had brushed away some of the dust.

"If you will kindly stand by the table, you will be able to tell me whether my impression of a smile was a delusion or not."

He sat down deliberately and leaned back.

Miss Selward half put out her hand: " But don't— isn't it— dangerous?" she gasped.

The huntsman was speechless, seemingly on the verge of apoplexy at these strange doings in his house.

"I know the risk," said Stanley calmly. "Watch me. You observed that the ring was loose and were on the point of playing with it when I grabbed you. A loose ring is a great temptation for idle fingers— especially a beautiful ring set with rubies. Watch my hand." He leaned away from the chair-back as the girl had done, and, holding the squeaking mouse firmly between his thumb and first two fingers, set it upon the ring, using it as a sort of pad, and proceeded to twirl this round and round.

Miss Selward clung to her father's arm, rather faint.

In two or three seconds Stanley held out his palm toward them, with the mouse upon it, limp and dead!

Miss Selward was fast losing her self- control. "Father, father!" she sobbed hysterically. "He saved my life! I was going to play with the ring!"

"——!" said Sir Charles, and nothing more.

"IT'S this way," said Stanley. "Each ruby is set in a circle of tiny stilettos— tipped with poison. I wasn't at all sure it would have kept its strength so long, but I thought best to be on the safe side. Old Raymond saicl it would kill a cat in ten minutes and a human being in several hours. All the other rings are of painted leather; this is of real gold and rubies, as you see. This fact was to be pointed out to the Queen, and the hope was that, with her love of priceless toys, she would sit down and grab it before she thought of a possible trap."

"Let us get away from this horrible room!" sobbed the girl.

"——!" said the huntsman. "I think it's time!"

"But, say," asked Stanley, rising from his chair, "did either of you notice the smile?"

It seemed they had, not unnaturally, been absorbed in watching the mouse.

"Well, I guess we aren't in a state to experiment any more to-day. But I like to fancy that old Raymond planned the grin for the spectators after her Majesty had toyed with the ring long enough. We can look into that another day; there may be a spring that releases a smile upon the leather."

He perceived that the old gentleman, with his daughter on his arm, had halted majestically by the door and was adjusting a monocle, surveying the stranger as if he had that' very moment first discerned his presence.

"And what am I to do for you, young sir? " he demanded.

In an instant there was a curious atmospheric change. From the eyes of Ramon flashed the wild spirit of his Irish-Spanish ancestor encountering the choleric face of Elizabeth's old sea-dog; then the Twentieth Century returned, and the young American laughed: "Why, I guess you can sell me this lumber-room stuff— that's all. I've taken a fancy to it and I'll give you a good figure—"

"Sir," interrupted the enraged British householder, "I'll do nothing of the sort!"

"Oh, yes, I guess you will," said Stanley easily. "We don't want to rake up an old quarrel, but I've got about as good a claim to it as you have. I might get the British law to work op lost property— or treasure- trove, or some such thing. I can prove it belonged to us all right."

"I think," said Sir Charles, swallowing his indignation in an access of dignity, "that it is high time to prove something!"

"Quite right, papa," said Miss Selward, now recovered sufficiently to be her own mistress. "You shall have the whole story of how we came to break into the Bluebeard Chamber. But first you are going to ask Mr. Stanley to tea and let him wash and brush off the dust of centuries, and then we can have explanations by the drawing-room fire—"

"I will not sell him anything," growled the British father, marching ahead.

Miss Selward flung a look at Stanley that said quite plainly, "We shall bring him to time"; and to the hunched shoulders of the pink coat she remarked: "You seem to have forgotten how nearly your daughter shared the fate of the mouse. I should think you'd be glad to get rid of the chair that smiled; anyway—"

"——the——" was the growl that ensued.

But Miss Selward held out her hand to Stanley as a peace-offering. "I think we'd better bury the hatchet," said she. "Probably the ownership of the furniture will adjust itself in time."

IT WAS not a matter of great surprise in England and America when such an adjustment shortly after took place.

The bride insisted that the leather furniture be kept in seclusion, and the ruby ring thickly swathed in bandages and shown with great care. But whether the chair smiled in reality or in imagination is a point upon which there is dispute to the present day. Some people see it and some don't— that is all.

_____________________

16: The Ball of Fire

S. B. H. Hurst

1876-1937

Oriental Stories Summer 1931

HE WAS known as Ben Mohamet, a powerful, fighting Afghan of the stern Durani Clan, and he swaggered, as night fell, along the bank of the river Ganges, sacred to the Hindoos, in the holy city of the Hindoo religion, Benares, which is the oldest city in the world.

He turned along a street leading from the river. With an oath he kicked a sacred cow out of his way, paying no more attention to the shrill cries of Hindoos than he would have paid to the same number of chattering monkeys. He was a tough person with a reputation to sustain, a Mohametan who worshipped one God, and who loudly proclaimed that the other creeds of India were offal. But he was more than this, and while his tough reputation was useful, the stain on his skin and the beard on his face were absolutely necessary— if he wished to live and continue in business. For underneath it all he was the famous Sinnat of the Indian Secret Service, known to a few intimates as "Bugs."

It began to rain as he walked in the general direction of the Bisheswar. He turned to the left from this "central holiness," and walked along another street, of stone, six-story buildings, of riches. This ended among huts of the very poor. Near one of these huts he waited. He had an appointment.

The rain and the dark had driven the wretched population of the district into their crude shelters. There was no one in sight. Then Bugs heard footsteps, and turned, expecting to see Shir Ali, who, though a real Afghan, was Bugs' friend and associate in the Service. Instead, he saw a fat man of criminal appearance, who approached cringingly and began to beg.

"Big man, I am hungry. Bot garib, very poor am I, and my poor wife is sick. Help me, I beg of you!"

"You are fat!'' sneered Bugs.

The man came closer, his pawing hands waving ashe pleaded. Bugs felt like hitting the fellow, who was apparently a professional beggar, but he was waiting for important news from Shir Ali, and he had no wish to start a row in that particular quarter, where Hindoos might pour out like rats to attack one lone Mohametan! So Bugs backed away toward the door of one of the huts, swearing profusely in Pushtu. He backed into a puddle of water, and slipped. As he slipped the fat man jumped for him. At the same moment another man jumped out of the darkness of the hut. Bugs had no chance to use the gun under his arm. Before he could attempt to draw it he was struck in the face with a stone. He felt the blinding impact in a flash of agony. He fainted, for the first time in his life.

He recovered consciousness, lying on his back on the floor of the filthy hut, and tightly bound. Some one had just kicked him.

"Outwitted you, eh, Sinnat?" sneered an English voice. "You traced me all the way from Burma to Benares. Then you disguised yourself as an Afghan. But you are not so clever as you think you are! And now you are at the end of your rope!"

Bugs, gritting his teeth in pain, did not answer. The English voice continued, after another kick:

"You know who this is, don't you? The 'renegade Englishman,' eh? Once an officer and a gentleman in the army! Rather clever, what? To get you, I mean! It has not been done before!... You are in a hut owned by professional thuggee. The fat beggar and his pal! No god, no honor and no religion—and no pity (particularly that!) is their creed! As you know! Very amusing. They will deftly dispose of you, and by this time tomorrow your corpse will be floating gracefully down the Ganges.... I wonder how much you guessed about my activities in Burma. You were after me, I think, for the murder of two Buddhist monks. Did I do that or did I hire some of my friends among the wizards of Burma, who so hate the Buddhists? Guess, Sinnat! You have a few hours to lie here, and nothing to do but guess. You pride yourself on your knowledge of Burma. Perhaps I know it better! Now I can go back there. You are out of the way. And with the help of my wizard friends I shall get what I am after—which with all your fancied intelligence you know nothing about!"

Bugs said nothing. The Englishman, once Captain Armstrong, kicked him again, saying:

"I am going now, leaving you alone with the two thugs."

Armstrong turned away. As an afterthought he kicked Bugs again. This time his foot struck Bugs' head, and Bugs again lost his senses.

BUGS awoke to hands fumbling in his clothing, and the voices of the two thugs.

"There is no money on him," growled one. "Only this little gun under his arm."

"Better not keep that," answered the other. "If we tried to sell it it might be traced to us. This man doubtless has many friends!''

"He has!" another voice shouted. Into the hut another man literally threw himself, like an enraged grizzly— a grizzly armed with an Afghan knife, and skilled in its quick use. The thugs, taken utterly by surprize, had no chance against Shir Ali. Their lives left them. And Shir Ali, with the same knife, was carefully cutting the ropes that held Bugs.

"Hold steady, sahib! It is dark in here, although the dawn is on its way. You have been here hours. And I waited hours, my soul in my mouth with anxiety. Into many huts did I go growling, seeking thee. But no trace of thee. My heart would beat and then stop. Many excellent husbands have thought I was after their wives this night! It was funny to hear them!... Steady, sahib. Just one more bit of rope. Ah, here it is... Yes, I waited, wondering. But so often does our business make one late that for some time I did not worry. Then I began to seek. You had told me to meet you in this street of low people. At last, as I crept cautiously, I heard these dead things making talk concerning thee. Then I knew thee for near dead and helpless. So, I came, and attended to the business of sending two thugs to hell. Now, sahib, I will attend to thee."

Shir Ali lifted Bugs to his feet.

"Come! You are dizzy and sick. Lean on me. I will get thee to the hospital!"

Bugs was able to walk, but he was terribly weak. He leaned on the big Afghan.

"Thanks, friend!' be murmured.

"Nay! Do not try to talk. See, let me lift you.... Here is the door of the damned place. And now, the street. See, the night is nearly done. The dawn is lifting. Let's hope we meet no police! Hindoo police in this part of town, thanks to the loving-kindness of the English. Why don't they leave us of Islam to settle with the kissers of sacred cows?... Ah, in luck! There comes a ticka gharri! We will ride!"

A one-horse hack of decrepit appearance, both as to animal and vehicle, dawdled out of the gloom. The driver slept comfortably. Shir Ali grabbed the horse. The driver woke up. He took one look at his prospective fares and reached for his whip. Shir Ali transferred his grabbing to the driver.

"Be good, heathen," said Shir Ali conversationally, ''and drive us to the hospital."

'Na! Na," wept the driver. "I drive no Afghans. Mine is a decent hack! I am a Hindoo!"

"And that," grunted Shir Ali, as Bugs managed to open the door and get inside, "is meant for an insult! A Hindoo, eh? Well, so is a monkey! They are all the same breed! But I won't hurt you!"

As he spoke, Shir Ali climbed to the driver's seat. With one hairy arm he encircled the driver's body, saying, "One little shout for help, Monkey, and you will never shout again! Your ribs will be powder!" With his other hand Shir Ali took the reins. He shook them and the old horse ambled slowly forward.

"Sit steady, sahib— it will not be long!" he bent down and said to Bugs. "This diseased hack is no doubt Hindoo, also, though it seems like another insult to call even such a wreck a name like that.... Keep quiet, insulter of hacks," this to the driver again. "You said this was a Hindoo hack! Why revile thine only means of livelihood? Behave, and perhaps I will pay thee for the ride! Who knows?"

The dawn broke over Benares in flashes of splendid crimson. The first rays of the sun made a glittering crown for the minarets of the Mosque of Aurangzeb, which that Mohametan emperor had erected years before as "an insult to all Hindoos." Shir Ali called the outraged driver's attention to this fact.

"Look and weep, Hindoo. Ah, the muezzin calls to prayer! I regret that I am otherwise occupied, Caller of the Faithful! Also that I am in very bad company! Very low company! God help the morals of this poor horse! Corrupt association with a Hindoo has even deprived him of the use of his legs! He tries to trot, though, poor devil!... Sit still, driver, lest you fall off!... Ah, here is the hospital!'

The driver managed to laugh.

"This is a sahibs' hospital— not for horse-thieves like thee!"'

He had observed an English policeman standing at the corner.

"Shabash!" exclaimed Shir Ali. "This monkey has guts— when he sees help in uniform! Yet, Hindoo, since thou art poor and no Brahmin, I will pay thee for the tide. We have decided, my friend and I, to patronize the hospital of the sahibs.... The sun rises. Here, Hindoo of low caste, is eight annas for thee!"'

"The fare is a rupee," wailed the driver, who had received double what he would have asked a co-religionist.

"The fare will be nothing and there will be nobody to drive thee to the dogs' hospital if you holler! One more word and I take back my money. I may even take the horse! And the hack, too—as payment for my outraged feelings which riding with thee has damaged. Drive away!"

The driver obeyed.... A young doctor stood at the door of the hospital, watching the wonder of the sunrise.

"Ah," he saw Bugs' eye. "A nasty wound! I can not keep you here, but I will do what I can to help you before sending you to the native hospital."

"Please tell Doctor Walters that Mr. Sinnat wishes to see him immediately," answered Bugs.

"Great Scott!" gasped the intern, startled to hear an educated English voice issuing from such an Afghan apparition.

BUGS came out from the anesthetic to find Doctor Walters smiling.

"You won't lose your eye, Bugs!"

"What! I thought tt was gone!"

"So did I at first. Bur it's going to be all right now. It was a close call, though. Take it easy for a few days, and you'll be all right!"

"In my business,'' drawled Bugs, who was feeling somewhat like himself again, "one can never take it easy. Where is Shir Ali, that big Afghan who brought me here, and, incidentally, saved me from a nasty death?"

The doctor grinned.

"Just outside this room, and very suspicious of me! I think he wanted to superintend the operation. Had to be awfully diplomatic to get him out of the operating-room. He has been growling ever since, like a big dog."

"Send him in!" laughed Bugs.

Shir Ali was admitted. He looked gravely at Bugs and raised a huge hand in salute. He spoke solemnly.

"Before God, sahib, this is a hell of a place! It's so damned clean! A man is afraid to breathe here, much less spit. But God is good! You will not lose your eye! And now we will go hunting again, you and I. That fellow!"

"As soon as the doctor lets me out of this," answered Bugs.

"Shabash! Rest you, sahib!"

Shir Ali left the room. Bugs closed his eyes and thought of Armstrong. Armstrong who had personally captured Thibaw, the last king of Burma, at Mandalay. Who was with Thibaw when he died. Who then, to the surprize of his friends, resigned from the army and disappeared in the mysterious maze of Burma. A series of murders of Buddhist priests had followed. Bugs had got on Armstrong's trail, had chased him across Burma and to Benares. Then Armstrong had outwitted Bugs, as Bugs had never been outwitted before. Armstrong had bragged that the wizards of Burma— who hate the Buddhist priests—were helping him; and he had said that Bugs did not know what he was after. Bugs did know. Armstrong was trying to get the Ball of Fire, known also as '"Thibaw's Pet," the greatest ruby in the world. But the wizards? Were they helping Armstrong? There were thousands of them, and at their head was the Devil of the Chin Hills. Bugs had visited this mysterious and powerful person. He was the only white man who had ever done so. He would visit him again, as soon as he could get to him. Five years before he had made a treaty with this black pope of wizardry. Yes, he would use Armstrong's bragging to defeat him.

"A HELL of a country,'' commented Shir Ali some weeks later. "You say we came here to visit the biggest wizard of them all."

"Shir Ali shivered slightly.

Like all Afghans he was desperately afraid of the occult. "Well, sahib, this is the sort of country that only devils would inhabit!"

"You will go no farther,'" answered Bugs. "Wait here for me till I return."

"But, sahib?"

"Wait at this camp till I return," repeated Bugs.

Shir Ali saluted.

Bugs went on alone. He had had no word or trace of Armstrong, who of course believed Bugs was dead. No longer disguised as an Afghan, Bugs travelled in the guise of a "gone native," poor white hobo.... It was a long trail. No more steamy jungles, thronged by parrots and monkeys, but a desolate region which even the monkeys had abandoned. Rocks that lay scattered as if by the hand of some playful god. Towering hills crested with eternal snow.

It was night and Bugs was very tired when he began to climb out of a defile so narrow and cruel that a horse could not have passed through it. There was no sound but that of the little stones falling and the uncanny, ghost-like whining of the mountain wind. He climbed the walls of a gorge that rose a thousand feet on either side. A few stars showed through the top of the gorge, making it seem like a thin slit cut in the roof of the world.

About two-thirds of the way up this precipice he came to an opening— a tunnel worn by a small river millions of years ago. Bugs entered the tunnel. He rested to regain his breath. Below him the gorge lay black and silent and awful as the bottomless Pit.

Bugs got to his feet, sniffing the smell of smoke. He walked along the tunnel. Presently it showed the dim red glow of a weird inferno. Bugs followed its twisting way until he came to a fire, over which crouched a very old woman, who took no apparent heed of him. Her withered fingers poked at the fire, and she mumbled and muttered to herself. She might have been one of the witches of Macbeth, flung into this far place from the tip of the poet's pen.

"I have come again, Mother," said Bugs in the Shan dialect.

She pretended to see him for the first time. Her face was the face of a mummy, but it cracked in a smile.

"So I see!' she answered. "It was the day before yesterday when you were here last, wasn't it?"

"It was five years ago!" answered Bugs.

"Was it?" she cackled. "Well, and what are five years to one who has seen more than two hundred— as I have?"

"Just a day and a night, Mother! Just a day and a night! I have come again, Old Wisdom, for a talk with the Devil of the Chin and the Arakan," replied Bugs.

The old woman suddenly "pointed," like a dog scenting game. She was not looking at Bugs, but in the direction he had come. Bugs, startled, could see nothing. Then he heard what the old woman had heard first. The sound was something like that made by a water buffalo— a buffalo climbing a diff! A grunting, heavy breathing. Dislodged rocks falling into the chasm. An oath in Pushtu, half suppressed. And the face of Shir Ali peering round a corner.

"Who is this?" demanded the old witch.

"My man," answered Bugs, who was half laughing, half angry.

"Sahib," grunted Shir Ali, saluting. "I know you will give me hell for this, because it almost amounts to disobeying orders!"

"Almost?" interrogated Bugs.

"Well!" Shir Ali threw back his head. "I have disobeyed thee, then— because, by Allah, I love thee! Could I sit and wait while you went alone into hell? And hell it is— this place and the trail I have followed behind thee! And with the big devil waiting for us. However," Shir Ali coughed to hide his emotion, "however, what matters it so you don't have to die alone. Damn it! Leave it to me, sahib, for I will swiftly investigate the entrails of that big devil. Have I not kept my knife sharp?"

Bugs slapped him on the shoulder.

"Good man!" he said. "But take thy tongue between thy fingers. Come along!... Fare thee well, Mother of Many. When I grow old maybe I will come here again to talk with thee. Then we will sit by the fire together, and tell of what we have seen during our journey down the years!"

"Farewell, King's man," she nodded gravely. Then she laughed shrilly. "And farewell, big dog that follows his master, even when told to stay in the kennel. Good dog! Fine dog! Ha, ha!"

THEY went deeper into the tunnel. It twisted and turned, as the ancient river had worn it. Everywhere was the pungent smoke. As the tunnel became almost too dark for progress another fire gleamed. At the second fire crouched an old man. As they drew near to him, Bugs saw him draw in his head like a turtle and crouch closer to the fire. When they reached the fire he neither looked up nor moved. Shir Ali made no comment, much as he was tempted to shout the stimulating war cry of Islam. For Shir Ali had never been so scared in his life.

Presently they saw a larger fire. Bent figures of men shuffled away into the shadows, until only one crouched by the fire. The firelight flickered on his hideous mask. It was the High Priest of all the wizards of Burma, the Devil of the Chin Hills.

"You know me?" asked Bugs.

The mask nodded. It was not lawful for any one to see the Devil's face.

A smell of unpleasant age permeated the cavern, about which huge bats flickered as if domesticated.

"I made a treaty with you!" said Bugs sternly. "Have you kept it?"

"Yes, King's man!"

"Have your wizards killed any pongyis?"

"No, King's man!"

"Have they given aid to a white man who is killing them?"

"No, King's man!"

"You know about this white man, and what he is doing. Your words have told me you know. And I know you know all that happens in Burma. Where is this white man?"

"I am glad you came," answered the Devil of the Chin quietly. "I sit here like a spider in his web, and all news tomes to me. My wizards have sent me word that this white man is you; using your name and rank! White men look much alike to careless eyes. I was puzzled, because I know you, and know you would not seek my wizards' help to kill pongyis. The word has just come in that this white man who is impersonating you is at Powingdaug!"

"Thanks, great Devil,' said Bugs quickly. "I must get to Powingdaug at once. You have a secret way out of here which is nearer to Powingdaug than through the chasm. Show me that way. It will remain secret!"

The mask nodded. Out of it came a weird, high-pitched shout. A powerful young hill man, a servant, appeared.

"You will guide my friend and his man," the Devil of the Chin Hills said to the young hill man.

The Devil of the Chin Hills got to his feet.

"Come," he said to Bugs. "I have been troubled. For the Buddhist priests, who have been at war with us for centuries, are saying my wizards did the murders. I have kept my treaty with you, King's man, and given you all the information I have. Now I help you with the secret way out of here, and a guide. Be swift, friend, lest the Buddhists persuade the government to make war on my wizards. Be swift, and capture this murderer who is impersonating thee!"

Bugs and Shir Ali followed the Devil of the Shin Hills and the guide up an incline that led to a ledge on the edge of another precipice, where there was nothing but the dark and the stars. The Devil of the Chin Hills shouted again, and more servants appeared. Shir Ali, who had been growing more and more uncomfortable, raised his hand. The battle-cry of Islam was on his lips, but Bugs pulled down the hand.

"Be silent!' he admonished.

"But, sahib, I did not understand a word of thy talk with that Devil. And here is the jumping-off place of the world. Here! And the whimper of a little wind, which may be the breath of the dead! It is better to fight and die like men than to—"

"Be silent!"

The men brought a large basket and a long coil of stout rope. The guide jumped into the basket and was lowered over the fear-inspiring edge of the precipice. Bugs looked out and down. He stepped back hastily, a dizziness assailing him. The wind began to blow cold. It was a dreadful place. Shir Ali could contain himself no longer. His voice rose in the familiar shout. He stood there like a giant of some distant age, a faint starlight glittering on his waving knife. The Devil of the Chin Hills laughed. Shir Ali took a step toward him, but Bugs interposed.

"If he laughs like that again," roared Shir Ali, in Pushtu, "God will have one devil less to think about!"

"My man does not understand," said Bugs urbanely to the High Priest of wizardry. "Get into the basket," he ordered Shir Ali, as the men pulled the empty basket on to the ledge again.

"But, sahib, who remains to guard thee!"

And again Shir Ali, in the throes of an uncontrollable fear of the unseen, sent his voice pealing toward the stars.

"Get in!" said Bugs.

Shir Ali obeyed.

"There is but one God, and here on the brink of hell I proclaim Him!" he shouted as he disappeared in the basket.

The basket came back. Bugs said farewell to the Devil of the Chin Hills, and got into it. It was lowered evenly, but it was a weird sensation. Shir Ali and the young hill man waited at the bottom of the precipice.

"Come on," said Bugs. "We run as we have never run before!"

Powingdaug was two hundred miles away. The secret route would save two days' travel.

THE servant of the Devil of the Chin Hills was young and powerful, and accustomed to heavy travel through a country generally considered impassable, while Shir Ali was also a man of the hills— but Bugs gave them a taste of real going. He allowed hardly a pause through the secret trails. Only four hours' sleep.

Shir Ali kept up gallantly, but when the rocks and barren places gave way to forest and valley the Devil's servant lagged behind. He had no interest in this curiously mad white man, and wanted to leave him.

"Go back to thy devil of a boss, weakling," panted Shir Ali, "'and tell him what real men are like. And learn to worship one God, and not to quit as long as your heart beats!"

The Burmese, who did not understand one word of Shir Ali's speech, lagged further behind. Bugs waved him away, and he turned back gladly.

"Come on!" Bugs shouted to the Afghan. "We have neither time nor breath for talk."

They plunged into the mazes of animal trails of the jungle which Bugs knew so well.... Bugs was raging. Armstrong impersonating him!

"Quicker! Quicker!"

"At thy heels, sahib! At thy heels! I understand thy haste! You crave Pukhtunwali!"

Bugs let out another link of his stride, and the gallant Afghan took it up.

"Faster! Faster! Good man, keep it up!"

"Atchit, sahib!"

On and on. The trail seemed endless.

"We make Powingdaug tonight. We do not rest till we get there!"

The monkeys chattered above their heads, the parrots screamed at them. Shafts of torrid sunlight, filtering through the trees, blinded them as does sunlight thrown from a mirror. A touch of jungle fever in Bugs' veins. A picture that grew into a mirage. Wavering and burning. The Ball of Fire.

Armstrong. Cruel, callous. In some way Armstrong had coaxed the dying King Thibaw into telling him that he had entrusted the Ball of Fire to one of his ten attendant Buddhist priests, when the looting British soldiers got out of control of their officers and raged through Mandalay. And now Armstrong, trying to find the one priest among the ten who had the ruby— that priceless gem!— was torturing them one by one to make them give it up; and when he realized that a tortured priest did not have the stone he killed him to prevent him telling those of the other ten who still lived. Thibaw had told him the names of the ten priests, but not the name of the one who had the gem. That was all clear now.

And the Ball of Fire, Thibaw's Pet, seemed to burn and lead the way through the forest before Bugs' feverish eyes.

"Faster! Faster! Good man! Keep it up!"

They panted forward. Their blood seemed boiling with the terrific strain and heat.

NIGHT fell as they plunged among the village paths— that ancient village of wooden houses, on stilts, with its queer school against the marvelous rock temple where the pongyis have taught the children for two thousand years!

Very quiet it was among the fireflies. Bugs and Shir Ali labored like spent horses. They reached the temple in which are five hundred thousand images of Buddha, carved out of solid teak.

At the west entrance the aged head priest was praying— alone. He looked up, staring with feeble old eyes, as Bugs and Shir Ali came up to him. He saw them, he scrambled upright and screamed like an old woman gone mad.

Fear and anger in his screaming. Then a horde of priests, streaming like hornets out of the temple, and the yells of the excited villagers of Powingdaug....

"What the hell?"

Shir Ali, dizzy and worn out, his fighting heart holding beyond his strength, asked the question through parched lips hoarsely, as he gripped his long knife.

Bugs understood. And he knew he faced death. "Shin-byu-sin!" he shouted as loudly as he could. "Shin-byu-sin!"

With a vast effort he scrambled to a ledge in the rock, and helped Shir Ali to his side. His revolver showed in the faint light.

"Shin-byu-sin!" he shouted again. The villagers, men and women, encouraged by the priests, rushed to the attack. Bugs, who did not want to hurt any one, fired over their heads.

Silence followed the shot. shouted again.

"Shin-byu-sin! Shin-byu-sin!"

A huge man who had lost his ears pushed roughly through the mob. His name was Shin-byu-sin. Once a highway robber, pardoned for service by the British through the instrumentality of Bugs, he had, as he said, sought surer profits and easier work, and—become a priest of Buddha. He saw Bugs on the ledge, and roared,

"What in the name... Oh, yes!... They say you tortured a priest—he who is dying in the temple. I told them you didn't.... Get back, fools!" Thus rudely to the villagers. "Stand aside,  brothers in God!" This to the priests. "This man is my friend. I vouch for him!"

Shin-byu-sin put his arms about Bugs and Shir Ali.

"A dying priest, you said?" gasped Bugs. 'Take me to him at once!" He addressed the priests. 'Priests of the Blessed One, your dying brother shall look into my eyes, and tell you whether I am the man who harmed him. Lead me to him!"

"Yes, brothers, I know and trust this man!'' growled Shin-byu-sin.

The head priest nodded gravely.

"It is just!' he said.

Into the innermost recesses of the rock temple—a huge cave, enlarged and shaped by thousands of long-dead priests and monks—lined, as it were a library, with five hundred thousand images of Buddha carved in teak black with age. Three novices lighted the way with ancient lamps, and the procession proceeded in silence along the dim and winding passages, to where the old priest, hideously mangled, waited for death.

He lay in a small chamber, his glazing eyes fixed upon a tiny shrine from where the benevolent features of the Blessed One smiled at him.

Bugs stepped forward quickly and knelt by the priest's side.

"Look at me carefully! In my eyes, friend! And tell all men that it was not I who did this to thee!"

The dying priest obeyed. He was in no pain, for Burma has known opium since before the dawn of history. Bugs took one of his frail old hands in his. The priest smiled.

"No," he said. "It was not this man. This man has no guile! He did not do this to me!"

Bugs turned.

"Leave me— every one of you," he commanded. "I have important words for this good man."

The priests withdrew into the gallery, Shin-byu-sin and Shir Ali with them.

"The man who killed thee," Bugs said gently to the dying priest. "What did you tell him? Why did he kill thee?"

The priest tried to smile.

"Thou, also!"

"Nay!" answered Bugs. "I crave not the Pet, but to arrest and punish this creature who killed thee and others!"

The priest looked at the shrine. His entire being yearned toward it. He answered softly.

"In no spirit of revenge do I tell thee, but because my heart leans to thine. That other Englishman wanted to know... about the Ball of Fire. He knew a priest had it... at Mandalay. He had tortured and killed other priests... who did not know... For a long time... I did not tell. But I am old and weak... So I told this Englishman. For I am the priest to whom Thibaw entrusted the ruby!"

The dying man paused from weakness.

"Yes," said Bugs gently.

"I almost gloated. That is bad. One might lose Nirvana. But I was thinking of that Englishman... trying to bully the Boh Ma-gong!"'

Bugs felt a thrill run along his spine.

"Mandalay," murmured the dying priest. "And the king giving me the ruby to care for. He loved it more than life. But I gave it to Ma-gong, a strong man, and one of the king's generals. He turned his regiment into dacoits, and they harried the English until the English sent no more soldiers against him— he killed so many. Ma-gong laughed, and sent a challenge to the English. The English sent one man to Ma-gong. Up that narrow river went this lone, brave Englishman. Oh, a brave man! And he talked to Magong until Ma-gong 'came in,' as they say, and ate the bread of the English king, and took pardon. Ma-gong has the Pet... I can talk no more. Take my blessing.... I turn my face to the wall."

"WAIT here at Powingdaug," said Bugs to Shir Ali. "I go on alone."

"But, sahib?"

"I go alone," answered Bugs. "A matter of Pukhtunwali, a head for a head, as the Rajputs say. Being a Durani, you will understand!"

Shir Ali bowed.

"God go with thee!"

BUGS travelled at top speed, and in five days came to the well-remembered creek. He had been the "brave man" spoken of by the dying priest, who had penetrated through that steamy jungle, run the gauntlet of the robber sentries, and taken the "king's bread" to Ma-gong. The hectic dacoit days.

On the right bank, among the thorns, the ruins of the palisade that had baffled a regiment. And the great teak tree from which a keen-eyed dacoit had kept watch. Bugs hurried. His present mission urged him from the memories. Morning had broken. The parrots and the monkeys waged their eternal quarrel. From the dense treetop came the cry of an old ape that had made its home in the sentry's crow's-nest.

The best trail was the center of the creek, bending and twisting. Myriads of little yellow water-snakes, harmless as minnows. Leeches.

Bugs went on cautiously, his gun ready. At the next bend was the village of Ma-gong, raised above the creek on stilts. At any moment Bugs might see Armstrong. And Armstrong was also a quick shot, and a dangerous and desperate man.

But at the bend Bugs saw only a naked ten-year-old girl who was giving her baby brother a washing, while he bitterly resented the bath. The girl saw Bugs and laughed.

"Were you as hard to keep clean when you were young?" she asked.

Bugs, tense and expecting trouble any moment, smiled.

"I have heard so!... Tell me, little lady, is there not another white man, who looks like me, here at the village of Ma-gong?"

She laughed.

"You are pleased to joke with me. Why have you come back so soon? Was it at twilight you left us the day before yesterday?"

Bugs, panting, ran into the village.

Too late! Too late! Was it too late? Armstrong had the Ball of Fire! All Asia was his in which to escape. No use to try to guard the ports of Burma—Armstrong was too clever to use them....

The lazy, smiling people, the familiar chickens, the drifting smell of teak smoke on the pungent morning.

''Ma-gong! Where is Ma-gong?"

The old general—all three hundred pounds of him—laughed from the platform of his house.

"What's wrong?" he asked huskily. "You haven't had time to see old Pagan!"

Bugs clambered up on the platform.

"You have been tricked and fooled,"he said quietly. 'Behold me closely, Magong, and learn that you have not seen me since that day, years ago, when I came through your outposts, and we talked and became brothers of the Raj. An impostor has fooled you!"

Ma-gong seized Bugs' face and stared into his eyes. He shouted with rage. He seized a club, to strike a gong to rouse his men.

"Fool! I was a fool! An easy fool— to mistake that swine for thee! But Ma-gong is still Ma-gong, and he still has his men. I will get that swine who fooled me. Then I will crucify him to a tree, as we used to do... Rest here, man I honor. Forgive me. I will not be old and fat and careless any longer. I will go out on the trail again with my men, and that liar and impersonator shall scream and bleed from a tree, and is

"Stay thy hand," exclaimed Bugs. "This is my affair!"

"Thine?"

"Mine! Again has my king sent me! What did you mean by 'old Pagan'?"

Ma-gong laid down the club reluctantly, answering.

"Old Pagan is the other general who stayed with Thibaw until Thibaw bade us save ourselves! I became a dacoit, and feared to lose the Pet, so I gave it to Pagan to keep, until our king should send forit.... The king Thibaw died. Two days ago came that thief who impersonated thee, saying that Thibaw had willed the Pet to the King of England, as a gift from one king to another. Believing the tale the swine told me, thinking he was you, I sent him to Pagan!"

"And Pagan is where?'' asked Bugs.

"He has lived for many years among the dead and the ghosts and the ruins in the City of the Immortals," replied Ma-gong.

That ancient place of ruins. Somewhere between the creek of Ma-gong and the City of the Immortals was Armstrong. Bugs felt he held the winning hand at last. Hurrying through the forest on Armstrong's trail—Armstrong who believed Bugs dead and drifted down the Ganges.

AMARAPURA, the City of the Immortals, built by Bodawpaya-Mentragi, the great conqueror, a place of dead glory where, among the holy men and madmen, lived the old general Pagan, dreaming of other days and heaven.... In his care the greatest ruby in the world, for which a ruthless murderer lusted.

Bugs pressed on. No white man could make time through the trackless jungles as he could make it. Armstrong, after years in Burma, was good, but Bugs calculated to catch him before he reached the City of the Immortals.

Day after day, night and little sleep and on again—yet there was no sign of Armstrong. He might have taken a different trail, but Bugs did not think so— for Armstrong, the ex-army officer, would be travelling by compass and map. But there were several trails. No villages. The way was dangerous, beset by wild beasts, but after eight days Bugs had not seen a human being since leaving Ma-gong.

Not until the eighth night when, three hours after the sudden nightfall, Bugs sought a place to camp. Then, suddenly, he smelled smoke. The smoke of a wood fire, perhaps half a mile away.

It was very dark under the trees. Bugs took out his revolver and felt it over carefully. Then he went forward toward the fire, with the stealth and velvet quietness of a tiger.

A change came in the sound of the whispering of the forest. Bugs, standing stock-still, listened. Yes, the change in the sound was... or was it a flock of restless monkeys moving their habitation inthenight? Bugs wentcloser. He listened again. A pang of keen disappointment shot through him. The change in the sound was made by human voices— men talking. Armstrong would hardly be likely to be there— among some Burmese in camp. Yet he might be. Bugs went on again, not a whit of his caution and readiness relaxed. He made no noise with his careful steps. Closer and closer to the voices. Then, from behind a large tree, he saw the fire and the camp. A dozen Burmese men, and, tied to a tree— Armstrong!

Bugs stepped quietly into the clearing. The Burmese leaped to their feet.

"Who are you people?" asked Bugs.

"The men of Ma-gong!" they shouted.

"I see," said Bugs. "And I understand now why Ma-gong took so long to find what he called my 'password'—so you men could get a start of me!"

The leader bowed and laughed.

"Yes, chief! We came through ahead of you!"

Armstrong broke in. He did not recognize Bugs through the smoke of the fire.

"This man is deceiving you! I am the friend of Ma-gong!"'

The Burmese took no notice of Armstrong. Bugs showed something that glittered in the firelight. The Burmese saluted. It was the insignia of a general in King Thibaw's army.

"So that Pagan will know me!" said Bugs. "The 'password' of Ma-gong."

The Burmese bowed again.

"What were your orders?" asked Bugs.

"To obey you, chief!... If you did not come in ten days we were to nail that thing over there to a tree until he died!"

Bugs nodded.

"Loose him now. He must die according to law. I am on my way to Mandalay. I will take him there. Since the City of the Immortals lies between here and Fort Dufferin I will pass through the City of the Immortals. Loose him, so that he may get some rest and be able to travel to where he will die according to Law!"

Then Bugs walked across the clearing to the tree where Armstrong writhed.

"We are quite a way from a thuggee hut in Benares and the dead drifting down the Ganges!'' he said quietly.

Armstrong stiffened with the shock, like a man struck by electricity. His swollen eyelids opened so he could see.

"Sinnat!" he gasped.

Bugs turned away.:

"Make him comfortable, but guard him closely," he ordered.

BUGS woke in the night. Armstrong was calling across the clearing.

"Sinnat! Sinnat, these chaps don't understand English! I've tried them. Listen! Take the ruby, and let me go! Not a soul will ever know. And I daren't talk! Take it, and lose me. You can get half a million dollars for it in New York. It belongs to nobody. Take it! It's not even stealing— for the army looted Mandalay and thought nothing of it!"

Bugs did not answer. Armstrong began again. Bugs called to the leader of the Burmese.

"Give that fellow some more opium— he's keeping me awake with his crying. If the opium doesn't quiet him, knock him on the head!"

Armstrong, who had not given up hoping to escape, or, if that failed, getting clear at his trial, said no more.

"I won't walk," said Armstrong next morning. "These men must carry me!"

Bugs turned to the Burmese leader.

"I am going on alone," he said. "Take your men back to Ma-gong. But before you go nail this white man to a tree— any tree will do so you nail him so he can not wriggle off!"

The Burmese saluted. Bugs walked away. Armstrong shrieked.

"Sinnat! Sinnat! You can't do that. Could you watch and see another Englishman crucified?"

Then Bugs spoke to the man for the second time.

"I have no time to waste watching! For the rest— I have been called 'Bugs' because I am too easy on such as you. But there is another Sinnat, who is not 'Bugs.'... Take your choice. Walk like a man with me to Mandalay and your trial, or stay here and die on the tree!"

Bugs turned away again. Armstrong made no further objection to walking.

Green lizards glittering in the sun, mini birds shrieking at the snakes among the ruins of a fallen palace; and a madman who gibbered.

"I seek Pagan, an old man and a general, who lives in this place! Do you know him?" asked Bugs.

The madman laughed. Then he spoke confidentially.

"Yes!" He pointed. "That way. But, remember, Pagan is mad! Be careful. He talks with ghosts and refuses to associate with intelligent people like me!"

Bugs found Pagan sitting on a pile of fallen bricks.

"Ah, good day," greeted the old general. "You see me on fallen bricks. Bricks are like peoples, nations. They stand proudly for years, then fall. All must fall in the end. Some day a conqueror will kick the bricks called England, and they will fall. What can I do for you?"'

Bugs showed him the insignia of Ma-gong.

"Ma-gong sent this to vouch for me. He told me that you are the guardian of the Ball of Fire. May I see it?"

The old general looked strangely at Bugs. Then he scrambled down from the heap of bricks.

"I will show you. where it is," he said quietly.

Bugs followed him through the mystery city of the dead, along ways blocked with ruins, through narrow places between fallen palaces, until they reached that inlet of the Irrawaddy River which was once the bathing-place of Bodawpaya-Matragi and his ladies. But that was long ago. Now it was a snake-infested swamp, overgrown with torturous vegetation, a morass of deep slime and mud.

General Pagan stooped and picked up a stone. He raised his weak old arm and threw the stone into the swamp. He shook his head, dissatisfied.

"I was younger and stronger then!" he exclaimed.

"When?" asked Bugs, understanding.

''When I threw the Pet to where never again will the eye of man behold it! They told me my king was dead. I said that no other hand should caress the Ball of Fire. So, with reverence, I threw it into the depths of the swamp. I can not throw so far now!"

______________

17: The Receipt

S B H Hurst

Adventure August 1916

A NUMBER of years ago, a private soldier of a certain British regiment, then stationed at Calcutta, was sent to the Andaman Islands— the Indian penal settlement— to serve a life-sentence for murder. There were extenuating circumstances, and his name was William Driver. He believed in no gods, though he swore by many, but he worshiped most devoutly one girl, and he was a very strong man. He was also a crude person of limited education, and the girl, Annie Hall, was the marrow-bone of his existence.

Therefore, in a most wonderful way, she helped him to escape from the Andamans to the deep forests of Burma, where they had ideas of living in a tree. My old friend, Pickhead Cameron, who was at that time head of the Forest Department, persuaded them to build a hut, to which he added comforts. He also persuaded them to be married— by a Presbyterian missionary— and for many years he aided them, so that they were not discovered by that Government which paid his somewhat large salary.

In the course of time a baby was born to the Drivers, and the missionary baptized the child, and Cameron was her godfather. And the girl, living alone in those wild forests with her parents, grew to be very lovely.

On her eighteenth birthday Cameron gave her a pearl necklace, and the missionary her first communion. Shortly after, Cameron was called home to London, and the missionary, his work done, was called home also.

And Bill Driver mourned their going, for, as he said to his girl:

"Mr. Cameron, he's gone to London, and I daren't go there; and Mr. MacNeil, he's gone to heaven— so your mother says— and I carn't go there neither."

Now, Pickhead Cameron had so arranged matters that the Drivers saw no other humans; and Bill— who, by the way, stood only five-feet-six and weighed nearly two hundred in hard condition— had done his best to show his gratitude. Cameron's pride was in the administration of his forests, and Driver fully appreciated this, so that he patrolled the district wherein he abided and looked out for incipient fires and other things. And when he wandered in the deep green of the mighty teak trees, he carried a rifle which had been with him for a long time, and for which Cameron supplied the ammunition. With the carefully kept rifle always went the well- polished bayonet. On the evening that Bill and his woman Annie escaped from the Andamans, she clubbed a Sikh guard into insensibility— the source of the treasured weapons.

So, MacNeil and Cameron went home, but Driver still patrolled the district, as he knew Cameron would have him do. What thinking he did during his lonely walks was of an atavistic character, and he had some curiously anthropomorphic ideas regarding the dead MacNeil.

THERE came an evening. The shadows were beginning to lie softly over the dim forest places, and Bill Driver, hungry, sought his hut, his wife and daughter, and also his supper. He was about a mile from his home when his slowly working intelligence was startled by the cry of a woman. And the voice of that woman was the voice of his daughter— Annie the second.

Bill Driver hurled himself in the direction of that cry, crashing through the intervening brush like a shell from a big gun. The rifle went with him, but when he reached the small open space where his daughter was struggling with a man, he dropped it.

The red haze in which years before he had shot and killed, again enveloped him; but he could not forget— he had brooded too long over it— that the mere pulling of a trigger had given him no physical satisfaction, and had made him a convict, so that while justified in defending his own, memory bade him use the mighty clutch of his great hands in her defense, and, thus, satisfy the innate craving of the fighting man.

Annie's assailant saw Bill coming— he also must have heard him— and he released the girl and tried to escape. He might have escaped from an angry gorilla, but not from Bill Driver. The strength of the gorilla and of Driver would be about equal.

In the convict's subconscious mind arose several of his long dead fathers— hairy people who patronized no tailor. Bill was not aware of their presence, but their prompting swayed him. The man who struggled so impotently was a large man. Bill could not see clearly, because of the red haze, but he knew quite well that it was his business to tear the fellow to pieces.

As a preliminary, he broke both his captive's arms. He dropped his almost swooning victim on the ground. It would never do to kill him right away; that would be as unsatisfactory as the shooting referred to had been. He must pull the fellow to pieces slowly, yet he must keep him in such a mental condition that he would be fully and excruciatingly aware of his dismemberment.

Bill Driver, standing over a writhing human, puzzled his slow brain. Then Annie the second reached him, threw her arms around his neck, and brought him out of the year 300,000 b. c. into A. D. 1912.

Bill Driver shook his bull-neck, and the red fell away from his vision. But his strength and vindictiveness remained.

"Go away, lass— he were trying to hurt thee more than thou knows abart."

"But, father?"

"I mun kill him, lass— an' he's going to know I'm doing it."

"But— don't you see he's a white man?"

"Don't make no difference."

"But, father, it does. Mr. Cameron wouldn't have stray white men around here— what's he doing here? You must find out, and let Mr. Cameron know. He asked you to watch out for things."

There has been told a tale about a man who aided a wounded lion, and thereby earned the lion's undying gratitude. We have all heard of "dog-like devotion." But greater than either of these was Bill Driver's gratitude to my old friend Pickhead Cameron.

He raised his writhing captive to a sitting position, by gripping an ear between a finger and thumb.

"Wot you doing in these 'ere forests?"

"I vill not tell you," moaned the other.

"Oh— you won't, eh? Nobody ain't got no right here unless Mr. Cameron says so. And you're some sort of a foreigner, wot makes it worse. Wot are ye doing here?"

The captive's arms hung helplessly, and Driver's method of supporting him was agonizing. Nevertheless, he did not answer the question.

"There must be something wrong," exclaimed Annie the second, clasping her hands nervously, "or he'd tell you, father. You don't want Mr. Cameron's forests to come to no harm. You must make him tell."

Bill Driver's grin was not pleasing.

"He'll tell," he said tersely. "You bring the rifle, lass."

He threw his groaning captive across his shoulder and walked toward his hut at the regulation quickstep that had never left him, the girl following with the precious rifle. The tortured creature he carried moaned all the way, but Driver paid no attention to his pain, neither did he stop to rest or shift the weight— his slow mind was busy with vague guesses.

Adjoining his hut was a smaller one, used as a storehouse. Into this Driver flung his captive; then he fastened him securely and went to join his wife and daughter, who were eagerly discussing the affair. And the mother was all aflame also— for had not the thing in the outhouse tried to assault her girl, and did it not seem that he meant evil to the beloved forests of Pickhead Cameron? Yet they ate their supper with thorough British regard for the inner-man, a great creed which the growth of the Empire endorses daily.

Once Driver left the meal, to roughly gag the man in the outhouse; for the English like to eat in comfort, and the crying of the wounded captive was disturbing. Then Driver smoked a pipe and performed certain mental processes almost analogous to think- ing.

"He'll tell," he remarked as he lit a second pipe before proceeding to the outhouse. "Don't heed his 'ollering— it's Mr. Cameron's business."

Then he went to interview his captive; and that which he did was not nice. In the abstract it was a boy looking for the inward principle of a watch; in the concrete, a gorilla similarly interested in, say, a pigeon. I knew Bill Driver very well, and I think he liked me; but I am also of a scientific turn of mind, and, therefore, I tell the facts.

When the other showed a willingness to speak, Bill removed the gag.

"My countrymen will come to find me," said the captive.

"Oh," responded Driver, "how many are there— fifty?"

"Two."

Bill laughed.

"Don't— oh, don't!" shrieked the captive.

"Tell, then."

"Will you let me go if I do?"

Bill Driver significantly lifted the rough gag from the mud floor of the outhouse, and the captive, snatching at the one chance of freedom from further agony, spoke.

"You've heard of the Andaman Islands— prison?"

Over Driver's face flashed the expression of the hunted animal. The gag dropped from his hand; he bared his teeth, and his forehead wrinkled as he snarled —

"So— you found out— summat— and you— come here— to, to—"

"Wait, wait!" shrieked the other. "You don't understand."

"Yus, I do. And, you swine, you tried to— to — to— my girl."

"Listen. Oh, listen, please. Let me tell."

"You tell me— tell me quick— where is the other two that's after me?"

Bill Driver pressed his heavy chin on the other's nose, moving it just enough.

"We're not after you; never— heard— of you," moaned the captive.

Bill Driver lifted his face and stared.

"You never heard I was at the Andamans— and got away?" he asked.

"You escaped?" gasped the captive, forgetting his misery in astonishment.

Bill Driver was himself again.

"How do you want to die?" he asked.

"But all we want to do is to rescue a man from the Andamans— help him get away, like you did."

The affair was too complicated for Bill's mind. He had no objection to another poor devil escaping, but he had many objections to his place of hiding becoming known. Besides, the fellow had attempted to as- sault his daughter; and what was he doing in the forest, anyhow?

"How do you want to die?"

Inside the outhouse it was quite dark, but neither man felt the need of any more light. Outside, the bats flew low and the teak trees woke to their evening whisperings.

"Let me tell you— we will give you money!— we don't care about you. Don't you see that if we help another man to escape we daren't tell about you?"

"Well?"

The prisoner gasped out his tale, which was to the effect that a Burman— the leader of a gang of highway robbers (dacoits)— had been caught in the periodical dragnet of the Department of Justice. As usual, he produced a host of friends who swore that he was an innocent man. They went on the stand and testified that he not only abhorred dacoitry, but that he was of so spiritual a nature that he could not even wring the neck of a chicken. Unfortunately for the dacoit there was other evidence, and the other evidence convinced the judge that the Andaman Islands would make an excellent abiding place for the remainder of that dacoit's life. And so he sent him there. It was the philanthropic desire of Driver's captive and his two countrymen to rescue said highway robber.

"Well?" said Bill Driver when the tale was told.

"His poor wife cries for him," explained the other.

But Bill came of a nation of shopkeepers. " 'Ow much are you getting for doing it?" he asked. The other hesitated.

"How do you want to die?" said Driver.

"There are mines."

"Yus?"

"Ruby mines that we made quite sure the man at the Andamans knows about— oh, we are very sure. Ve vill get him away, and for doing so get the place of the mines."

"Well?"

"If you will let me go, I will— give you half my share."

"How did you get into these 'ere forests?"

"I was lost," replied the other with apparent truthfulness. "My friends are at— a fishing village."

Bill saw his daughter struggling in his captive's arms. The captive could not see Bill's face.

"I ain't got nothing against you 'elping a poor devil escape, but— how are you going to do it?"

"It's all arranged," said the other eagerly. "In native sailboats we go— with machine guns that came as sewing-machines. We will have thirty Burmans with us, just for the hard work, because with our machine guns we could do it alone. The convict station has no cable or anything, and the guard-ship— pooh! Just a few colashe sailors with old rules and ten rounds of ammunition, and English officers with swords. We take our sail-ships, and nobody suspects. The soldiers— about hundred and fifty— have also just a few rounds of cartridges. It is easy."

"Well?"

"We go close to guard-ship— little steamer, you know. We go close like poor sail- ship in distress, asking for water. Guardship we easy find, but if in harbor just the same. Then we kill all on guard-ship, easy, and—"

"Well?"

During his short acquaintance with William Driver the captive had found little cause for amusement. Now he laughed unpleasantly:

"Then we free all the convicts— fifteen thousand black men. The convicts very glad to kill guards and soldiers. We help with our machine guns. Then, while the convicts are having little fun, we take our man away, and nobody ever know about us. Afterward, convicts blamed— mutiny. Who will believe tale about white men coming and freeing them? We only take our man— no more. Lots will be killed. So, we free all convicts to get them blamed, and to keep soldiers busy while we take our man away. But we leave convicts having their little fun, so we get away without being bothered by many wanting to go with us."

"Fun?" asked William Driver.

"Yes— we tell convicts about English women, you know."

Bill Driver's powerful body twitched strangely. About his lips was a slight froth.

"Yes," added the prisoner. "English women— wives— girls— fifteen thousand black murderers— very few soldiers— very little ammunition."

A wounded gorilla will first scream, then mutter automatically and continue to mutter. Bill did not scream, but he had no control of his words.

"Near twenty years ago I told Annie I loved her. Then I read a book about what the blacks did to the English women in the Mutiny, Cawnpore and the like. And I were scared that some black might do it to my Annie, and so I shot the first black I saw. It were foolish of me, because the blacks in India are now all decent folks, except those they send to the Andaman Islands. They sent me to the Andamans for shooting the black, and I deserved it. Annie helped me escape. I read it in a book. Read just what them blacks will do when your friends lets them loose. You won't be there. And— my daughter."

I do not know what Bill Driver did with his captive.

I know that he went to his hut obsessed with the importance of a mission; that in spite of the pleadings of the women who loved him, he gave certain orders and made known his intention.

The wife and daughter were to do their best to get to Moulmein, where there was a telegraph. If they got there, they were to see to it that the authorities sent a man-of-war to the Andamans. As Bill put it:

"It will take maybe a week to get there. If I went, they'd want to know all about me, and they'd put me in jail. Then they'd take a month to investigate— and think wot them black convicts could do in a month. Now, you go to Moulmein, and use Mr. Cameron's name, and get a telegram to him. But be careful not to say a word abart what he done for us. Do all you can to make 'em send a man-of-war. I'm going to the Andamans to warn 'em— if I get there in time."

"But—" from Annie the first.

"No buts, lass. There ain't no need to tell who I am, though I'd go anyhow. You start for Moulmein."

So they parted at the little hut, in the midst of a circle of great teak trees, where years before they had had notions of making their home in one of them, where Pickhead Cameron had found them, and where MacNeil had married them.

BILL DRIVER, taking with him some few stores and the precious rifle and bayonet, made a forced march of twenty-six hours to the coast and when he left the jungle at a tiny fishing village, the haunting smell of the clear sea brought memories of the fog-bound spirit of England, and of the warmer wraith forbid- ding escape from the Andaman Islands. The tremulous stimulant of sentiment shivered his spine with recollection, and he clutched his rifle the more tightly as he circled the huts of the fishermen.

Quietly he laid his small stock of food and water in the stern of a boat, cut the grass-rope hawser and got aboard. There was a slight creaking when he hoisted the single sail, but the fishermen were asleep and the light breeze was off the land. And Bill Driver steered in the general direction of east and south, down a wavering lane of moonlight that seemed to beckon him along his not- too-accurate course.

It is necessary to guess at the details of that voyage. Nearly twenty years before he had crossed that same part of the Indian Ocean, in the scow known at the Andamans as the "milk-boat," with the woman who had shown him the way of escape— and a terrible voyage it had been. For it had only been by favor of the god of the chances that they had made the coast of Burma, despite their own heroic efforts. And what I once told about it came from Annie, in the main, for, as has also been told, Bill was no teller of tales.

So, regarding the voyage when he went back, only guesses can be made, since he went alone. Besides, there is another reason. But I am inclined to think, because I have been a sailor all my life and know how limited was Bill's knowledge of the craft— I, indeed, state without fear of contradiction, that the imperious, though ever-bibulous, god of the chances again aided the man; and that, furthermore, that same decadent deity prevailed upon his brother tippler who rules so laxily over the minor winds. For Bill Driver, by simply keeping his frail boat before it, made the harbor of Port Blair on the morning of the seventh day. And during the passage he saw no other ship.

The early morning mists were wreathing into fantasies as Bill rounded the point. These lifted suddenly, and the penal settlement thrust itself into his vision, but there was nothing unpleasing about its appearance. The man stared at the place, and the place seemed to stare back at the man, and the man felt a sense of friendliness. It was as if he had met an old enemy, with whom he had once fought a hard battle, but with whom he now clasped hands.

And it was all the same— Hope Island, where he had lived in his lonely hut; the settlement of Port Blair, with the men's barrack-like jail on that island, divided by a strip of water from the women's jail; the hilly island where the paroled convicts started independent life again, and, up the estuary, Viper, where the worst characters were confined.

The harbor was empty, neither the guard- boat nor the convict-carrying ship being there.

The breeze died, and Bill lowered the sail, and, with great effort got out the clumsy oars. Dizzily he looked toward the bungalows of the officers, then he began to row toward the chief commissioner's private wharf. When a convict it had been his business to row the milk boat from island to island, and the chief commissioner's wharf had been his first place of call.

The heavy oars seemed to have wills of their own, and Bill could hardly control them. On the wharf a tall sikh guard roused from his dozing and watched him come.

Bill Driver made the boat fast to the worn cleat on the steps of the landing. He clawed out of her like a man trying to scale a cliff, and made his way feebly up the steps on hands and knees. Half-way up he paused and laughed vacantly, for he had discovered that he had reached the right place and that his fearful voyage was over. It also occurred to him that he had eaten and drank but little, and that he had not slept at all.

"Abbe kitha jartha?"

Bill, at the head of the steps, looked up to the voice. It was a long time since he had heard Hindustanee spoken. Some one wanted to know where he was going. Bill's soul tried to tell the voice that it was none of that voice's business, but his lips were working like an infant's at breast- time, and the words he tried to get between them trailed off into curious little noises which mocked him.

Then he forgot where he was going, and, struggling to remember, memory asserted itself over the vague impressions of the present. And memory told Bill that he was again a convict confined, and that he had grown tired of the loneliness, and that he was going to kill the Sikh guard on the chief commissioner's wharf, so that he would be hanged and suffer no more.

He lay down on the rough planking and wandered in the past.

His mind swirled to the boat he had just left. There were two boats. No— one boat. He had taken that boat from a Burman fishing village, and he had grinned at the moon when he took it. From just behind that moon the voice again spoke to him.

"Who are you?" it said in English.

And Bill Driver opened his eyes and looked up at the tall Sikh guard. Then he clutched feebly at his precious rifle. The Sikh had grown gray in service, and Bill had changed also, but the men knew one another at once.

"Toom kady."

"Yus," muttered Bill, "it's me. This 'ere was once your rifle— my girl hit yer, and took it. I ain't come to kill yer this time. Did yer know that one morning I were going to throttle you? I went behind that there hedge, and I trod on some English flowers wot were growing there, and the smell of them made me weepy. My girl— wot had come here as a maid to the chief commissioner's sister— found me there blubbing. So, I didn't throttle yer."

The Sikh's rifle had followed every movement of William Driver. Indeed, I think that it was only the uncanniness of his arrival that saved him. The Sikh was superstitious, and Bill had not only reappeared to him out of the morning mists, but it was as if the rugged personality of the famous convict had suddenly and fearsomely thrust itself forth from the gathered years. Besides, he was supposed to be dead. Any other man would have been dead.

But when the guard felt quite sure that his old enemy was not dead, he grinned relievedly behind his great beard. Then he stepped forward and removed the precious rifle from the unresisting fingers. Then he fired his own rifle into the air and alarmed the colony.

And Bill Driver, unable to stand, but again conscious, glared up at the Sikh, looking for trouble and cursing his inability to cause it. The chief commissioner's bungalow was only about a hundred feet from the wharf, a carefully cultivated flower garden separating. Consequently Sir George Furlong was the first man to reach the place of alarm.

"Bot budmash waller hi, Buna Sahib," explained the Sikh.

But the guard's explanation was not sufficiently particular. The chief commissioner only saw an exhausted white man stretched out on his private wharf— a white man who was apparently a stranger to the islands.

"Who is he— what do you mean?"

Bill was so weak that when he looked at things they appeared to be separated from him by a glass globe full of water. The man talking to the Sikh was not the old chief commissioner of his time of captivity, and he loomed above him like an attenuated ghost. Perhaps Bill guessed at his identity. By forcing all his will into his mighty muscles he managed to raise his hand and salute.

"I'm Bill Driver, sir," he said, "wot— got away— from here."

Then he fainted again, as the wharf became crowded with half-dressed officers and men. The doctor knelt by Driver's side.

"Get some brandy. No, he's pretty well worn out— a hypo's better."

The sun flooded the harbor, and Port Blair glittered like a diamond. Two soldiers supported Bill whilst the contents of the hypodermic syringe warmed life into him, and the men and women on the chief commissioner's wharf watched in a tense si- lence, plaided with the colors of speculation and memory.

And this was Bill Driver, the famous convict. The only man who had ever escaped from the Andamans, and— a man whom a woman had really loved. Wonderful William Driver! What was it you had that made your Annie love you? It wasn't only your strength. Other men might equal that. I almost can myself. You who so seldom spoke, and never heard of verses— what was there in you, William Driver? Why should the tender Fate who tries to arrange the love-affairs of men have made a special effort on your behalf? For— a woman loved you for yourself alone! Then how had he come back to the penal settlement— where had he been all the years— and for what reason had he returned?

"I read it in a book," muttered Bill.

"Yes, yes, we know," said the doctor soothingly. "But that was very long ago."

"Abart a week— a long week," muttered Bill.

The doctor studied him.

"No fever. Why is he delirious?"

The chief commissioner interrupted—

"Driver, why have you come back?"

The sunlight hurt Bill's sleep-craving eyes and made him angry.

"Some grub and a sleep, and I'll help ye."

"Yes, yes— you came to help us?"

"Swine," muttered Bill. "There was two swine— no, three at the start— there's only two now. I came to tell you— and I'll help you."

"Yes, Driver— go on."

"Swine," replied Bill.

"Can't you help him, doctor— give him something?"

"He'll be all right, sir, after we get food into him and let him sleep."

"But, you don't think he came back here for the fun of it, do you. Give him something."

The doctor obeyed reluctantly. "Read it in a book, about swine," whispered Bill. "And the swine is coming here."

"Yes, Driver— go on."

"Wot's— the— name of— guard-boat?"

"The Mayo."

"Swine— got her— killed all— crew."

"What?"

"Don't bother— abart convicts. Look out— for women. Worse than Cawnpore— coming."

Along the morning breeze came the unmistakable rattle of a machine gun, punctuated by some rifle-shots.

"Wot did— I tell yer," muttered Bill. "Now— look out. They got the guard- ship."

"I don't quite understand," said the chief commissioner. "Tell me, Driver."

"Forrin swine— going to loose convicts— tell 'em abart white women, he said— just like in book I read— abart mutiny— machine guns."

"God! Why doesn't the Government give us a cable?"

Bill blinked up at the chief commissioner and spoke confidentially, also confidently.

"Just hold on, sir. It's all right— just hold on, and my Annie will bring a man-o'-war."

Shortly afterward, Bill Driver came as near blushing as he ever did in all his turbulent life, for two very aristocratic ladies were feeding him beef tea with silver spoons.

They fed him, and two Tommies put him to bed. He insisted that the precious, if somewhat archaic, rifle should be laid by his side.

"When the trouble starts," he explained, "I want the old girl handy."

HE SLEPT for several hours, and woke to all his strength again, licking his lips at the appetizing fight before him— a fight that had commenced shortly after he had warned the garrison, which had, however, been able to build a fairly strong protection of sand-bags, wherein the women were now doing their best to soothe the pain of many wounded men, for the small stock of anesthetics and anodynes had been exhausted.

It was nearing sunset, and all the wonder-colors of the Indian Ocean appeared to be playing with the fish jumping in the harbor. There was a lull in the fighting, for the convicts were busy with their evening curry and rice. Also, the more subtle were holding conferences. The first abandon of freedom had worn itself out, and some were beginning to see a rift in the altruism of the two foreigners who had freed them. The fingers of many dead pointed to an unpleasing end.

An ancient murderer nibbled at a piece of dried fish, and spoke between nibbles.

"They came," he said, "and they captured the Ag boat, on which they put their many-mouthed guns. They sailed close to where the British have made them a fort, and, the water being shallow, they grounded. With much effort they got off. Meanwhile, their men let us go free— telling us to seek revenge and the white women. Now, my brothers, what is the reason of this doing? In what way are these two white men, who are not English, interested in our enjoyments. Many of us are dead, and the English still hold the fort."

"It is said that they hate the English because they are white, yet are not English — being of a lower caste," suggested another.

"And that there is a great war coming, after which there will be no more English; at which time all men will be free," said a third.

"Free," sneered the ancient. "Who is free? What is free? Even a rajah is not free. By his women is he enslaved as are others by opium. When this matter of killing the English in this place is concluded, what then? Suppose it is but the revenge of the two white men who are not English. Well, we will have helped at that revenge, and had our fill of women's screams. Then will the two white men want to take the Mayo Ag boat and go back to their place— which will show us their wisdom. My brothers—" he leaned forward in the little circle— "we, who are wise men, and friends, must see to it that we, also, go from here in that Mayo Ag boat. I have a memory that the British Government has a long arm."

"It might have been wise," said another thoughtfully, "had we gone to the side of the British. They have a lion for their caste-mark, and ever do many seek to kill that lion. He is a sleepy lion and wakes but slowly. But when he does wake he makes the jungle tremble with his rage, and all the lesser beasts hide from him. Did not my father tell me "

And so on. There was infinite chattering. Relatives and old cronies in crime jubilated over the cooking-pots. The women prisoners had their peculiar place in the orgy. The dark closed over a chorus of nasty noises. The few little circles of old men gabbled wisely, but the mass was a thoughtless horde craving many things.

BILL DRIVER, rubbing his eyes with one great hand and trailing the precious rifle with the other, had reported himself to the captain in command of the white soldiers. And that officer had said things to William which made him feel lumpy inside, made him feel that he could just about lick a hundred of the enemy. Very much embarrassed, he tried to explain this feeling.

"I'm only a third-class shot," he stammered, "but I'm useful with the butt and baynit."

And over it all hung the peculiarly peaceful smell of the wood fires. The bats flew low. In the creeks and estuaries the mist-wraiths began to form.

But there was a hideous unanimity about the killing of the garrison, which was fostered exceedingly when some genius of a convict found the commisariat sergeant's store of wines and spirits. There are certain castes in India that profess to abhor drink, but religion is at times elastic.

The machine guns spluttered. The defenders fired at the advancing menace, but the terrain favored the convicts with every sort of cover, and they were able to creep almost up to the defenses before attacking with their axes, adzes and weapons looted from the Mayo. It must be remembered that there were about fourteen thousand convicts, and that the two machine guns effectually prevented any sortie of the garrison which was so very short of ammunition.

And the whole affair had been so unexpected, so unprepared for. Many of the defenders felt that they were in a hideous nightmare, out of which they would wake in due time; and in that belief many died. Description of it all is as impossible as would be the description of a burning building. It was fight, fight, fight.

The drink worked in the convicts and the moon set. Then they began firing the houses, making a glimpse of an indecent hell as they ran about with torches. And ever the ammunition in the little fort dwin- dled. Thus, with all Port Blair ablaze, the last round was served out, and the men were told of this fact. Some grinned, some swore, some said nothing, each after his fashion; but all grimly held on.

Shortly before daylight an order was whispered to certain men. It had to do with the use of the shells in some revolvers. These were on no account to be fired at the enemy.

The dark lifted to the kiss of the dawn. The breath of morning moved over the harbor. The ammunition of the defenders was exhausted. The convicts came on, careless of creed distinction, howling in a reeling frenzy — Hindoos, Mohammedans, every caste known to India and Burma. The set- tlement echoed to their yells as they swirled forward.

Then humanity clashed at the breast- works, and voices melted into a sort of hum, splashed with curses and weapons meeting.

Oaths from every one of that little group of islands in the grim North Sea mingled with the fighting gutturals of the valiant Sikh guards, dying for the honor of the salt they had eaten. And Bill Driver and his old-time enemy of the chief commissioner's wharf found themselves side by side. They grinned at each other through sweat-cluttered faces and parried and thrust in a glorious spirit of comradeship. Yet the drunken degenerates prevailed. The defenders did not give way— they fought till they fell and died.

Over the souls of certain men who had been told off to do a certain clean deed with the few remaining shells in the revolvers spread a horror of that duty. These looked furtively at the women.

The sun rose over burning, blackened Port Blair and flushed at the screaming filth it lighted. Certain men agreed that the garrison could not last five minutes longer. These looked at each other; then they did not look at each other. They staggered toward the group of women and girls. Then—

She came round the point— a gray, lithe shape, cleared for action, her ensign snapping angrily. And as she came her guns smashed at the scum that had almost surged to its desire. Her boats dropped from the davits, and, loaded with armed marines, drove at the beach. The women had not been cheaply protected.

IN WAYS beyond my understanding, the pleading of Annie the first had prevailed against the precedent of regulation, and the captain of the cruiser had brought her, and Annie the second with her. That she was liable to imprisonment for conniving at her man's escape was a detail she ignored entirely.

She was the marrow-bone of Bill Driver's life, and, therefore, she knew that her place was by his side. And, searching frantically among the wounded and dead, she found him lying unconscious, across the body of the Sikh guard, among the carefully cultivated English flowers in the chief commissioner's garden. And while Annie the second ran for the doctor— over-busy with other wounded men— the marrow-bone took Bill's head on her lap and petted him back to consciousness.

Amid her kisses, he indicated the dead Sikh.

"He were a man, lass," he muttered. "I'm most sorry you hit him when we got away from 'ere— though we did need the rifle mortal bad."

Then the doctor came; and after a little while that doctor nodded slowly. And Annie the first, dry-eyed and beyond sobs, knew the meaning of it. The chaplain began the prayer he had so often used, but Bill interrupted. He could not see very clearly, but the haze clouding him was very different from the red haze of his passions.

" 'Scuse me, sir," he said weakly. "The doc says I'm dying?"

"Yes, my man," said the doctor.

The chaplain began to pray again.

"I want to speak to the chief commissioner," said Bill Driver.

The chief commissioner, his left arm in a sling and his head bandaged, leaned over Annie's shoulder.

"Yes, Driver— what is it?"

With a vast effort Bill saluted.

"You know abart me, sir— escaped convict?"

"Yes, my man, but that's all right. You have wiped the slate clean."

Bill smiled weirdly.

"Thank you, sir. There's a gent in London— Annie can tell him. But there's a Mister MacNeil— he's dead— he were a good man, and a minister." Bill gulped for breath. "I— I— I want him to know that I've paid the Government back."

"He knows now," said the chaplain.

"Yes, sir— I don't think you'd tell a lie. And Mr. MacNeil, he said the same thing. But— I don't know for myself. There may be a heaven, and all that. I'm going to find out in a few minutes."

"It's true," said the chaplain.

"Yes, sir— but I want Mr. MacNeil to know that I've paid the Government."

"He knows now," reiterated the chaplain.

Bill was silent. His brain had become strangely clear, and he was thinking as he had never thought before. Then—

"If I see Mr. MacNeil I can tell him," he said. "But that's only telling. S'pose he says 'Yes, Driver.' I won't know but what he's saying it to make me feel good. I won't be able to prove it."

He became silent again. The noise of the convicts being subdued came faintly to his ears. He saw his wife, his daughter, the doctor, the chaplain, and the chief commissioner, vaguely.

"What is it they give a feller when he pays a debt?" he asked suddenly.

His audience failed to understand him.

"You know, sir," he said directly to the chief commissioner. "Suppose you pays a bill; what is it the man gives you— the man you pays it to?"

"Oh— a receipt," said the chief commissioner.

Bill smiled happily.

"That's it. Please give me a receipt, sir, so I can show it to Mr. MacNeil, and he'll know I've paid the Government."

The chief commissioner answered huskily:

"Very well, Driver."

He wrote on a page torn from his note-book; signed the writing and gave it to Annie the first.

"Read it, lass," whispered Bill.

And Annie read:

This is to certify that William Driver, who escaped from the Andaman Islands after being sentenced for life thereto, returned of his own volition to those islands to warn the officials of an impending massacre; that, due to the effort of his warning, not a woman or child was killed or injured; that he fought most nobly in defense of the right; that he gave his life in that defense.

And, by virtue of the authority invested in me as Governor of the Andaman Islands, I, George Furlong, do hereby release the said William Driver from the custody of the British Government— which Government has received full satisfaction for the debt William Driver once incurred.

George Furlong.

Bill's vast chest heaved with the pride of a work well done.

"Put it in my hand, lass," he whispered, "so I can take it with me, and show it to Mr. MacNeil."

__________________

18: Retribution

Anonymous

South Coast Bulletin (Qld) 24 May 1929

IT WAS half-past six when Reynerd and his new acquaintance, Dr. Hetherman, reached the small, isolated cottage which was to harbour them for the week-end. Reynerd, Hetherman, and their host Lintel, a quaint, scholarly old fellow, had met accidentally and struck up one of those sudden friendships that happen among men. But Reynerd wished he had not come. He did not like the look of the lonely moors, so silent and watching, and he did not like the look of the cottage, with its blackened walls, like an old hag crouching among the heather.

And this in spite of the warmest of welcomes from the bent, white-haired old man who was now shepherding them into a cosy, raftered room where a huge fire burned.

'A fine place for a rest cure, eh?'

Lintel looked roguishly with small, beady eyes at the doctor, and added: 'If all your patients came here for a few week of this marvellous tonic air and this quiet, there'd be no use for doctors.'

Hetherman laughed, and looked round approvingly. There were some fine pieces of old furniture of a type unusual in country cottages, and some good oils, portraits evidently, were placed at intervals on the walls.

Reynerd said nothing: he also was looking about him, leaning rather awkwardly against the black oak on an old arm-chair. While the others talked he listened, and once or twice his violet-blue eyes, so curiously Iight in his dark face, seemed to fill with apprehension as he gazed at Lintel.

Was it fancy, or had his first instinct been right about the old fellow?

Occasionally, as Lintel's eyes rested on Reynerd. the latter experienced an acute sense of a personal antagonism. It seemed as if hatred radiated towards himself from his host in the flickering of the fire, with long shadows cast on all their faces.

It was easy, Reynerd knew, to imagine things. It was always easy for him to imagine things which made his skin creep, although he had a long record of Indian service. He had only been back a month or two, but although he was in England and India was miles and miles away, there were things he wished he could forget.

While the others talked, Reynerd tried to keep himself from gazing at a dark portrait of a man with black hair and eyes like a devil. It fascinated him. reminding him vaguely of somebody he knew, or perhaps, more likely, of the traditional 'portraits' of the devil. The eyes laughed at him, almost winked.

He cupped his head in his hand and listened to the other two.

'The worst crimes'— Lintel was laying down the law— 'are those done in the name of love, or because of some woman. There's nothing so quick to rouse the ugly passion for killing as love. I have been making a study of crimes and criminals for years and I've come to the conclusion that if we could eliminate rivalry in love we would be ahlc to cut down the numbers of crimes of killing.'

Hetherman laughed. 'What an idea! If we were not human, we would not he sinners,' he interpreted, but Lintel was not looking at him, he was gazing straight into Reynerd's eyes.

Hetherman went on smoking and Lintel pleasantly remarked: 'Do move nearer to the fire, Mr. Reynerd: you shivered just then. Are you cold, or do you dislike our morbid topic?'

Reynerd's long, thin upper lip curled back In a faint grin, for his throat was dry. At length he spoke.

'Thanks. I'm all right. I just had a queer feeling that somebody was gazing at us from the window. But it must have been his Satanic Majesty, this dark gentleman here.'

Half smllfng, he pointed to the portrait. Lintel followed his gaze.

'Oh, that's merely a rather good oil-painting of an ancestor of the poor young chap who used to live here. He furnished the place from the family surplus; you know how it is. I think this was his grandfather or great-grandfather, or something of the sort.

'Now there was a story for you.' Lintel leaned forward, and again the fire-light played black and red, red and black. In patches on his face, and glinted In his shrewd black eyes.

'This young chap went out to India. On the boat he met a girl and fell deeply in love with her, and she with him. He asked her to marry him, but it came out that she was already engaged and was going to India to get married.

'The girl sounds heartless and cruel, but she hardly knew the first fellow. They had been thrown together by her parents and she had been more or less run into the thing. Just a slip of a girl, too, only about nineteen; didn't know much about men, I fancy. In the end, when they landed, she agreed to marry him if at the end of six months she still loved him. The time passed, and she promised to be his wife— she'd broken the first engagement right away, of course. The other man seemed to take it very well. Then, on the day he was to have been married, the young fellow was found hanging over a ledge of rock, with his neck broken.'

'Suicide?' prompted Hetherman. But Lintel, with his narrowed eyes on Reynerd's twitching face, slowly shook his head.

'Perhaps, but more likely murder,' he said.

Reynerd gripped the hard arms of the chair to prevent himself gasping out aloud.

'Chap's name was Kapel. Ever heard of him?' Lintel added, and Reynerd swallowed a little sob of fright.

Lintel smiled. 'You look ill, Mr. Reynerd; friend Hetherman here had better prescribe for you. A sleeping draught, eh? I believe you have been to India? Did you ever happen across Kapel? Tall fellow, dark, handsome, and a fine chap... No? Oh, well, of course, you wouldn't. India's a big place. Still, It's strange how one meets people by accident.'

'Kapel's cottage. I am in Kapel's cottage!' Like a demon refrain the sentence raced through Reynerd's brain. What horrid stroke of chance had sent Lintel into his life? Lintel, who had rented Kapel's cottage. But he mustn't show his fear. That is, if Lintel had not noticed anything already.

'What— what happened to the girl?' He forced his voice to seem casual.

'The girl? Oh, she, poor child, I think it broke her up. She's fit for nothing now.'

His lips shut tight, and he hid those black, beady eyes. Hetherman made some remark which Reynerd did not hear, and Lintel excused himself to see about the supper. The other two strolled out into the soft dark of the moorland night, but Reynerd could not listen to Hetherman's running commentary. He was watching the house, and the one flickering light at the sitting-room window, and the bent black shadow, like a witch over her cauldron, of the old man getting the meal.

'I hate candles and no comfort,' he found himself saying with undue venom.

Hetherman stared at him in amazement.

'Nerves jumpy, old chap?'

'No. I merely like to be comfortable.'  Then Reynerd laughed.  'You must excuse me. I'm addicted to bouts of malaria and am just recovering from one. Makes me irritable, you know.'

OVER SUPPER Hetherman found himself watching Reynerd. The fellow seemed seared stiff of their host! His keen brain pieced together a plausible reason. Reynerd had been in India. This Indian story: had it really all been new to him? An unpleasant feeling spoiled the rest of the evening for Hetherman.  He began to feel there was something queer about both his host and this nervy fellow.

Up in the tiny attic bedroom to which Lintel showed him, he gave the matter a few more minutes' thought; then, reckoning that he was tired and sleepy, turned over and was promptly lost to the world.

Lintel, meanwhile, was ushering Reynerd into a bedroom below the attic where Hetherman slept, for Reynerd had taken a solitary stroll by himself, to calm his nerves.

'This was Kapel's room. It's the pleasantest In the house, I think. I hope you'll be comfortable and sleep well. There are candles in a box on the shelf, when these go down. If you can't sleep—'

'I shall sleep,' Reynerd heard his voice say, as If he were trying to convince himself. 'It is a nice room.'

'Ah, but there's just one thing. You'll think me a terribly careless tenant, and a bad host.'

Lintel's voice was easy, pleasant, ordinary.

'This door doesn't shut properly. I got one of these swing gadgets fixed when I took over the cottaee, but it's stuck, so the door must be always a little ajar. You won't mind? I don't think you'll find it draughty.'

Reynerd conquered a wild desire to rush from the room, from the house, and from this old man, and sleep the night In the station waiting-room. But he said:

'No, I won't mind at all. Thank you.'

Lintel left him. with just one glance from those black, beady eyes. The door swung to— almost— and Lintel was gone, leaving Reynerd sitting on the edge of a chair, staring fascinated at the door ajar, behind which Lintel had soundlessly disappeared.

That long chink of sheer black! Ought It gave one a horrible feeling of something or someone just behind It, ready to creep in and pounce if for a moment one turned one's back.

Reynerd glanced away for a second to the canopied bed. Kapel's bed. It was enclosed In soft, dark blue curtains. Kapel had always loved blue as a colour. He had got Margery to wear it. He shivered and shook himself, as if to shake off clinging fingers. Why couldn't a man ever be allowed to forget— anything?

How pitch black the shadows were, even with, four candles! He would light more. But to cross to the box he would have to pass close by the bed, Kapel's bed. It was shut in, and gave one the idea there might be somebody inside, ready to spring out.

Ah! Little gasps of fear rose to his throat. He was working himself into a fear that would send him crazy. He must keep a grip of his nerves and sleep. After all, what could happen to him?

Lintel couldn't know anything, and, if he did, he could scarcely murder him in his sleep. He shivered uncontrollably and almost screamed as the black patch that was the open door grew silently wider. He gripped his hands hard together, and then, with a sudden rush of relief, let his breath go hissingly. A faint cold air was in the room. His legs felt crimped ard chilled as If he were dying slowly in every limb, but he realized that it was merely the wind from some open casement that had stirred the door.

Downstairs a grandfather clock tlck-tocked slowly and maddeningly. He began to calculate. How many tick-tocks to a minute, how many minutes to dawn? He began to count— no, no, that wouldn't do. It was often a sign of madness to count things.

'Tick-tock, tlck-tock.'

Had the door moved again? What was behind it, anyhow? There was something there, somebody, he felt sure. Who? His legs pained him In some mysterious fashion. He had only to push the door wide open and he would see. And what then? He must see, whatever, whoever it was. He advanced, crawling on his hands and knees, to the door.

He had forgotten. He was in India again, out at field manoeuvres.

He reached the edge of the door, and gripped it in icy fingers. Slowly, then, while his heart beat almost to suffocation, he opened it wider and lie wider, shutting his eyes involuntarily until with his shoulder and elbow he held the door wide.

'Look, look up, look and see what— who is there.'

Something was commanding his stunned, terrified wits. He obeyed. He opened his eyes.

All the fear, all the sick terror of a sick conscience rushed to swamp him overwhelmingly in its clammy depths, even before he saw. And then his eyes met it. The ghastly thing that had lain there waiting for him all this time behind the door. All this time it had been lying there dead, waiting for him to come and be stricken with the sight of it. He was watching it, watching it writhe a little, twist a little, as he had watched it out there in India from his shelter behind a rock. Just the same; the legs lying there so awkwardly, the awful face, the dreadful eyes that just looked at him accusingly, the twisted lips that silently reproached. He began painfully to crawl across to the terrifying thing with the dreadful eyes.

Maybe he wasn't dead, old Kapel, maybe he would be all right if he touched him. He crawled closer and put his hand out. It touched sheer ice, and wrung from him a sudden sob. And then, as his heart began anew that suffocating beating against his ribs, something leaped on his back from behind.... Death clutched at his neck, killing him with sharp knives.

IT was Hetherman who found him in the morning, huddled up and staring at something with dreadful terror in the glazed, sightless eyes. And following that gaze, he saw. In a long mirror on the opposite wall, that the eyes were fixed on their own image In the glass.

Lintel came rushing up, his white hair awry, at Hetherman's call.

'What does It mean?' asked Hetherman, rather white about the lips.

'He's dead, of course. Heart failure. And look, he's died gazing at his own reflection in the mirror. What does it mean?'

Lintel shook his head, and went down to fondle a huge Persian cat that had Just emerged from the bedroom Reynerd had occupied. The animal jumped up and curled itself round his neck, scratching him a little.

'It is all too terrible,' he said, very agitated and distressed. 'I cannot understand.'

Hetherman was silent. His uneasiness and suspicions of the night before had returned In full force. But Lintel seemed innocent of any knowledge of Reynerd's strange end, so be merely suggested that he should summon the village doctor.

Ten minute later he set off, and Lintel was left alone. He waited until Hetherman was out of sight, and then went upstairs to the bedroom— Kapel's bedroom, and, touching a spring in the patent hinge, allowed the door, that had been ajar all night, to swing to and shut. A terrible smile lit his face grimly as he glanced at Reynerd's body in the passing.

'Killed by conscience,' he said, and the light of fanaticism shone in his black, beady eyes.

IT was not until nearly a year later that Hetherman learned that Lintel was the grandfather of the young fellow, Kapel. And by that time nobody remembered Reynerd or the queer affair of his end.

__________________

Table of Contents

- 1: Expert Testimony / Ernest M. Poate
- 2: Revenge / Anonymous
- 3: Conroy / D. H. Souter
- 4: The Act of God / Beatrice Heron-Maxwell
- 5: Waif of the Bush / "Wanderer"
- 7: Intrigue / Mark Channing
- 8: The Dancing Partner / Jerome K. Jerome
- 9: The Withered Heart / G. G. Pendarves
- 10: Up Irrawaddy Way / Ltnt Edgar Gardiner
- 11: The Sin-Eater / G. G. Pendarves

- 12: The Dragoman's Secret / Otis Adelbert Kline

- 13: My First Case / Edmund Leamy
- 14: The Awakening / Owen Oliver
- 15: The Chair That Smiled / Edith Rickert
- 16: The Ball of Fire / S. B. H. Hurst
- 17: The Receipt / S. B. H Hurst
- 18: Retribution / Anonymous