PAST MASTERS

SEVENTY-FIVE

1 May 2022

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: The Man With the Painted Nose / Harvey Wickham

2: Mystery Flight / Miles Henslow

3: The Flood / Edouard A. Aujard

4: Fame For Mr. Beatty / James Norman Hall

5: The Swing of Sentiment / Edouard A. Aujard

6: Fool Proof / Anonymous

7: Prospector / L. C. Douthwaite

8: Christmas With a Punch / Peter Cheyney

9: The Missing Blade / Fred M. White

10: Local Color / Anonymous

11: The Adventure of the Two Collaborators / J. M. Barrie

12: Wrong Number / Miles  Overholt

13: A Solicitor's Story / By "S.S."

14: The Dumb Avenger / Max Pemberton

15: Queen Of Diamonds / J. Johnston Smith

16: Dixon's Romance / Ottwell Binns

17: The Hidden Beast / J. D. Beresford

18: Heritage of Osiris / Fred Engelhardt

19: The Whistling Thief / Katharine Tynan

20: Clarence / Edward Woodward

21: Aurora's Treasure / Lady Gilbert

22: Passing of a God / Henry S. Whitehead

23: The Shut Room / Henry S Whitehead

24: The Chadbourne Episode / Henry S Whitehead

Cumulative Index # 61-75

_______________________

1: The Man With  the Painted Nose

Harvey Wickham

1872-1930

Detective Story Magazine 8 Jan 1921

"IT ain’t only painted— it’s artificial,” said the man whom the sheriff had led aside, tapping his prominent Roman proboscis with a forefinger.

Sheriff Marlow grunted, took a doubtiul bite of plug and forgot to chew it. His thoughts moved slowly, and when he tried to hurry them they enveloped him in a sort of mental fog. For the moment they were very foggy indeed.

The town was mostly railroad station, and the station, where the two men had encountered each other, mostly restaurant. When the junction was built it had been thought that Natt’s Crossing would become a city. But the miasma of the surrounding swamps had been too much even for real-estate promoters. Natt’s Crossing it remained— a scattering cluster of wretched cottages in the midst of salt meadows cut here and there by stagnant, unsuccessful drainage canals and supporting chiefly a growth of rank grass.

To one blessed with a painter’s eye, the landscape was not without a certain lonely charm. Those who were not painters were apt to regard the wide, flat prospect with open disapproval, whether it steamed under a summer sun—a sea of waving green, suggestive of mosquitoes and water snakes— or rustled, in winter time, a brown waste promising good shooting which never materialized. Only a fall of snow ever made the place look wholesome, and just now, reeking with the heat of June, it seemed, and was, fairly poisonous.

But the restaurant was prosperous, and the possessor of the now openly boasted artificial nose had had no difficulty in obtaining employment there that morning when he came looking for a job as waiter. It was nearly noon and in the slack of business between two trains when Marlow entered the place for his daily snack, spotted the newcomer, and immediately forgot all desire for food. He made the pretense of eating, however, so that he might watch.

The stranger wore glasses tinted yellow, which, whatever they did for his vision, certainly were effective in hiding his eyes. His hair, as black as the sherrif's was gray, was plastered down flat on each side of a straight part in the middle. Marlow had never seen a part as straight or locks as flat, excepting in a wig! That was it. It was that which first attracted his attention. The man was in disguise.

Even his eyebrows had a waxed and unnatural look, and the two warts on the left side of his chin suggested bits of tinted putty rather unskillfully made up and stuck on. Then there was that nose— a ridiculously prominent feature of an all-too-brilliant red and purple, rising like a hump from a countenance as pale as talcum powder.

The sheriff, though growing old and absent-minded, was no fool, and only the day before had read in one of the city papers how the body of a man was found in the swamp not ten miles away. He might even have come across it himself, only his duties had happened to take him in the opposite direction, and the metropolitan authorities had seen fit to conduct their operations from Brushwood, the first station east. Evidence had been found to indicate that a boat had been pushed into the banks of one of the islands of the morass and then pushed off again. There was also evidences of a fight in the mud and of murderous marks on the dead man’s throat. It was no time to let a suspicious-looking unknown get away without questioning.

Marlow paid his check, heaved his rheumatic bones to an upright position, and made as if to leave. But he only went around to the kitchen, and when the waiter appeared there, backed him off into a corner and openly laid bare his doubts as to the genuineness of the olfactory and other facial details. He even hinted that the limp, which he now noticed for the first time in the other’s walk, impressed him as being put on.

The sheriff was much taken back when the accused broke into laughter, and boldly confessed to every count in the indictment.

“Yep, sheriff," he went on, “it’s all make-up, every blessed bit of it. Even the warts is putty, as you guessed. Look here!” Quickly he removed one of the excrescences from his chin, and put it back again.

“False, sure as my name is Daily. And I’m fakin’ my dialect. That’s the hardest. So, if you don’t mind, I'll keep it up more or less just for practice. You has spotted me for fair. You’re an honor to the profesh. But luckily there won’t be another pair of eyes as sharp as yourn— not in this district.”

Marlow let go of Daily’s sleeve and set his mouth firmly. He wanted to preserve his dignity and give himself time to think. Growing old did not matter so much as long as the duties of his office remained more or less nominal. But if times were changing, and apt to bring him into frequent contact with murder mysteries, or with wandering gentlemen who plastered their faces with paint and putty, he would have to resign.

“What I want to know,” he pronounced finally, “is what you’re up to. This ain’t no show town. And if it was, I never heard of actors keepin’ their grease paints on after they’d gone to work as hash slingers.”

“I reckon you haven’t heard of the McCormick murder, either— eh, Hayseed?”

“I’d advise you not to get fresh,” said the sheriff, stiffening. “I’ve heard of the murder all right, though I didn’t know they’d found out yet who it was that got killed. It’s on account of the murder that I was thinkin’ of runnin’ you in.”

“Runnin’ me in? Why, I’m a detective. And I’m workin’ on this very McCormick case.”

“Meanin’—  you’re a plain-clothes man from the New York police?"

Marlow’s voiced showed sudden respect, and for an instant the other looked a trifle embarrassed.

“No, I’m not a regular,” he admitted reluctantly. “But I’ve got a private agency of my own.”

“How do I know you ain’t lyin’ ?”

“Easy— if you can read.”

Daily produced a card.

DAILY DETECTIVE BUREAU

E. DAILY, Proprietor

Licensed Operator

He also revealed a nickel badge pinned to his vest.

“There! That ought to satisfy you. But about this Gimbel case, now—"

“I thought you said the man’s name was McCormick ?”

“It is— the man that was killed. But the police know the man who killed him, too. It was ‘Yid’ Gimbel. He left his finger prints on the claybank near where the body was found. There never was such a piece of luck for the force. But I got hep, and come out here to cop the reward ahead of ’em— five hundred bucks. That’s the whole story, sheriff.”

Marlow heaved a sigh of relief, and walked slowly back to the lunch counter, anxious to repair certain omissions which haste and excitement had caused him to make in his meal. Life was returning to its simple, normal groove; and even if murder had invaded the peaceful stagnation of the district, old Joe Marlow wouldn’t have to worry about it.

But one thing still troubled him. He couldn’t quite see the utility of the disguise.

Of course Daily might be personally known to the suspect, and thus in need of hiding his proper appearance, but there was something ostentatiously crude about the whole get-up. Why, even he had been able to detect its falsity. Metropolitan sleuths were not so easily spotted, and he could not get away from the notion that the boldly artificial appearance of his confrere was intentional, some subtle stroke of the detective art beyond the comprehension of a mere rustic.

“If you’re worryin’ about the reward,” said Daily from the other side of the counter, serving a fresh cup of coffee and mistaking the contraction of the sheriff’s eyebrows for the reflex of thwarted avarice, “put something hot inside you, and cheer up. You help me and I’ll help you; then we'll split it fifty-fifty.”

Marlow shook his head.

“That’s mighty white of you. But I don’t deserve no reward, and don’t expect none. All I wanted was to ask you why you went around lookin’ so—”

The sheriff’s remark was cut short by the arrival of the 11: 50, and with it of the day’s mail. A letter was thrust into his hand. Nervously he fumbled for his spectacles, slit it carefully open with the handle of his coffee spoon, and read:

FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD

for the arrest, or information leading to the arrest of Isaac Gimbel, alias “Yid’ Gimbel, alias Ike the Hasher, charged with the murder of Ray McCormick on June 17, in the swamps west of Brushwood. Description: Height, feet 10 inches; weight, 150 pounds; eyes, dark gray; hair, black, straight, and usually parted in the middle; complexion, noticeably pale; brows, heavy, tending to run together; nose, prominent, Roman, and when last seen was red and swollen with erysipelas; wart on left side of chin; walks with a slight limp in right leg; ordinarily wears tinted glasses, dresses well, and works as a waiter.

This printed notice was headed by a picture showing the suspect in convict garb. Marlow studied it carefully, then turned his attention to Daily, who was now busy helping to attend to the newly arrived crowd of customers from the train. As he did so, the solid counter under the sheriff's elbows seemed to rock like a boat, for the made-up waiter was to the description of the exconvict as one pea is to another. When the rush of work was over, Daily returned and found the old man staring at emptiness, his jaw sagging and his face a piteous blank.

“What’s up, partner? Havin’ a fit?”

“No; but I— you— they’re just the same.”

Marlow shoved the police notice forward. Daily glanced at it, and laughed.

“Get’s your goat, don’t it? I think it’s pretty slick, myself. But, after all, there’s nothing so wonderful in the resemblance, seein’ that I’m made up. Done a good job, that’s all.”

“Yes, I see,” the sheriff managed to mumble as he slowly pulled his wits together. “But I don’t get the idea, somehow. What do you want to look like Gimbel for— and him a murderer?”

“Because, you poor old fossil, you can’t catch fish without baitin’ your hook. I want it to get noised around that Gimbel’s double is workin’ here. His pals’ll hear of it, and they won't believe it’s him— not at first. But by and by they’ll start thinkin’, Wouldn’t it be mighty smart of Yid if he should get the notion of makin’ himself conspicuous under the noses of the bulls and near the scene of the crime, where his own mother wouldn’t think of lookin’ for him. And the answer’ll be ‘Yes, it would.” Then one of ’em’ll come snoopin’ around to investigate, and I’ll tell him the same story as I’ve told you, only instead of admittin’ that I’m a detective pretendin’ to be Yid, I'll put up the stall that I’m Yid pretendin’ to be a detective. If I get away with it, and let the other fellow do most of the talkin’, I'll be able to find out where the real Yid’s hang-out is. Then I'll go there and pinch him. It’s simple enough.”

“It’s smart!” said Sheriff Marlow, after a long pause, his face gradually brightening. “Tarnation smart! I begin to get you, as the boys say nowadays. But it’s a mighty dangerous plan, my friend, and I’m afraid you won’t be able to carry it out.”

“Of course it’s dangerous. Detective work generally is— in a murder case. But what makes you say I won’t be able to swing it?”

“For one thing,” answered the sheriff, regaining his comfortable, judicial manner— the result of many years of posing as the local oracle; “for one thing, your disguise ain’t good enough. Even I spotted it the first pop, and my eye- sight’s been failin’ now for ten or fifteen years. Yid Gimbel’s pals’ll see you ain’t him— and then what?”

“Then— why, they’d knife me.”

Daily looked suddenly uncomfortable and less assured. “But you’ve got eyes like a hawk’s.”

“No, I ain't. Anybody could see what I do.”

“But what’s the matter with my rig?”

“Nothin’—only it’s just, I should say, a leetle overdone. The nose is too shiny. The hair is too slick. It all needs roughin’ up a bit and tonin’ down to make it look real natural.”

“If that’s all, sheriff, you can help me fix it. I’ve only been playin’ at bein’ Gimbel since this mornin’. Give me time and I’ll do it better. Between you and me, I’m kind of new to big jobs like this. But what really worries me is the police.”

“The police?”

“Yeh. It ain’t likely they’ll relish havin’ me around tryin’ to nab the coin away from them. I’ve had tiffs with 'em before. Once they even put me under lock and key while pretendin’ to investigate my credentials. When I got out, the reward had already been claimed.”

“This is beyond me,” confessed the sheriff, who, though a lifelong neighbor of the great city, had never seen a New York policeman. “But if that’s the way it works, why don’t you give it up? ’Pears to me as if there’d be no great profit in runnin’ counter to authority. If they wants to keep the game to themselves, most likely they’s in a position to do it.”

“But I’ve got to go on with it. Business has been mighty bad with me lately— and there’s the wife and kids to remember. To tell the truth, I’m in sort of a hole, and I need the money.”

Daily wiped up some spilled soup and allowed a look of genuine anxiety to cross his face. Marlow was touched. There had been a time when he had had others to think of; and though his wants were now of the simplest, it was sometimes hard to make both ends meet.

“I tell you what might be done,” he said finally. “I wouldn’t be much help tryin’ to catch Gimbel for you. Chicken thieves’re about my limit these days. But I might swear you in as my deputy. No one would hardly dare to interfere with you then. A sheriff has rights, let me tell you.” Marlow drew himself up with the remnants of an old pride.

Daily leaned across the counter and gripped his hand.

“if you'll do that, I ain’t likely to forget it,” he declared.

And as soon as the restaurant was closed for the day the oath was duly administered.

IT WAS late that night when a stranger, purporting to be a phonograph agent, arrived at Natt’s Crossing in a car of the flivver variety, and put up at the town’s solitary hotel. But instead of going to bed— and without making any inquiries whatever— he found his way to Marlow’s shack. Marlow was much surprised to receive a visit at such an hour, and still more surprised on learning that his visitor was Detective Sergeant Groo, of the metropolitan force.

“I’m here pretending to sell talking machines,” he announced, quietly making himself at home; “but of course it's a stall. And I wanted you to know who I really was before you started drawing attention my way by wondering. I always find it best to work with the local authorities instead of against them.”

Marlow blinked, like an owl blinded by light. It was nice to be called the “local authorities,” but things were happening too fast again. A second detective in one day was an overdose. And this one— really, he looked and acted so much like a phonograph agent that it was difficult to believe him to be anything else.  Yet he carried an unquestionable warrant for the arrest of Isaac Gimbel, alias Yid, alias Ike the Hasher, and the sheriff was soon giving out a good deal of information relative to the topography of the neighborhood without in the least realizing that he was being pumped.

“There’s only one stranger in the place— exceptin’ yourself,” he eventually let fall, “and that’s a young feller who’s actin’ as my deputy.”

“A stranger for a deputy?” repeated Sergeant Groo with the very mildest note of surprise.

“Yes, but he’s a detective. Daily his name is, and he’s got himself up so as to look like this here Gimbel. He thinks maybe some of Gimbel’s cronies’ll come around and mistake him for the original. I thought you might better know, so’s you wouldn't think it queer if you happened to run across him.”

“Glad you told me,” Groo said after a silence. “And your friend may be right, too. Gimbel is certainly hiding around here somewhere.”

“How do you know?” Marlow stirred uneasily, moved by a sudden wave of anxiety for Daily, who might at that very moment be exposing himself to an encounter with his murderous prototype.

“It’s a deduction,” went on Groo with a slight smile. ‘“Gimbel must be near here because he hasn’t had a chance to get to anywhere else. And, besides, he knows these swamps.”

“Knows them?”

“Like his hand.”

The sergeant tilted back his chair, and continued in the easy manner of a drummer spinning a yarn:

“It was the swamps that tempted him. You see, he and McCormick used to rely on them as cover years ago, when the two were crooks together and the country was wilder even than it is now. Then McCormick, who was a good deal the older man, reformed and set up in the eating-house business over in Jersey City. He had a son, and the time had come when, if the boy was to grow up to be straight, the father had to take a brace and lay off of bad company.

“He did lay off, too, only he took on Yid as headwaiter— just out of kindness and because the fellow was down in his luck. Yid pretended to turn over a new leaf, himself. McCormick’s boyhis name was Jim— got on the police force through the influence of some reform society or other, and everything seemed to be going ovely. Only, as a matter of fact, Yid was plying his old trade all the while and only using his job as a blind.

“Finally young McCormick got suspicious. We knew all about it down at headquarters. He was on Yid’s trail for a month, and was getting pretty close to the time when he could have made a pinch—though between you and me I think the boy’s plan was to throw a scare into him and give him another chance. And then Yid, without letting on that he was wise that any shadowing had been going on, invited Jim out into these infernal meadows of yours— catfishing.

Yid came back from that trip carrying Jim’s dead body and raving like a lunatic. He Said that while he was busy kindling a fire on one of the islands where they expected to eat their lunch, Jim had gone to the boat for something, and slipped down the bank and drowned before there was time to pull him out. He told it well, and it did look like an accident—that is, unless you happened to look real close. The old man pretended to be taken in. But he began to make inquiries, and it wasn’t long before he knew what had happened as well as.if he’d been there.

“So one day he proposed to Yid that they go catfishing. Of course Yid understood what that meant. No father makes a pleasure ground out of the place where he’s lost his only son. It was going to be a duel. But Yid thought he could beat him at the game— at least that’s how I figure it out. And he did beat him. And now all I’ve got to do is to go and nab him where he’s hiding. Good night, sheriff. I hope to introduce you to the real Gimbel in the morning. Your knowledge of the country has been a great help.”

Sergeant Groo slipped away into the night as quietly as he had come, leaving Marlow in a very unsettled state of mind. The story of Gimbel’s crime had filled his soul with horror, and for the first time in his life his natural aversion to the all-surrounding morass deepened into fear. With this new knowledge of what had happened there, with the added picture of men even now crawling through the rank growths and likely at any moment to come to grapple like wild beasts, the meadows ceased to be mere water and clay and grass, and became the evil creation of malignant, unseen powers.

The sheriff shivered, but not even the vision of that awful mud remained clear for very long. Thought clashed with thought in his mind, making a distressing chaos. At first he had been afraid that Daily would encounter— not one of Yid’s acquaintances, but Yid himself, Now he was afraid for the sergeant. But as he pondered over what had been related, his misgivings veered once more. This Groo knew a great deal about the case, apparently. Too much, perhaps. How could one be certain  that he was what he pretended to be? A warrant is easily forged, after all. Groo, possibly, was one of Gimbel’s own gang, and he, Joe Marlow, had put him upon Daily’s track.

The sheriff buried his head in his hands and clutched at his thin gray hair in an effort to remember the details of the recent interview, hoping to find something there which would in one way or another set his doubts at rest. But he could only think of Gimbel— Gimbel and Daily. Every detail of that boasted disguise came back with astonishing distinctness. Some thought was trying to force itself upon the sheriff’s age-muddled understanding— some dreadful blunder he had made. He tried to shake it off, to compose himself, to go to bed and forget the whole matter until morning. But his legs took him across the room to a rickety bureau, in a drawer of which he had put the official notice of the revard.

With this paper in his now trembling hands, he returned to his seat, and by the light of his smoking kerosene lamp went over it again, line by line, studying in particular the woodcut at the top. Yes, Daily had caught the face right enough— mouth, nose, eyebrows, warts— all were correct. But no! There was only one wart in the picture, and Daily had made himself up with two. The sheriff recalled distinctly that when one of the bits of putty had been removed, another still remained. What did this mean? Why, that the one wart was genuine, and the other put on only to be taken off for the sheriff’s benefit, to convince him that the whole make-up was a sham. The waxed hair, the painting of a nose already purple and swollen, were parts of the same subterfuge. Daily wasn’t Daily at all. He was Yid Gimbel trying to pass for an imitation of himself!

Marlow groaned as he realized how he had fallen into a trap. He had even been fool enough to suspect Sergeant Groo, a fellow member of the great army of the sworn defenders of law and order, and had let him go out into the swamps thinking that when he saw aman resembling Gimbel it might be a detective, like himself on Gimbel’s track— a man vouched for by the sheriff’s own badge.

The shock of what he had done brought the old man slowly to his feet. But at the same time it cleared all doubt and confusion from his brain, as a strong wind clears away the mists.

He put on his hat, extinguished the light, and tiptoed noiselessly from the shack. Possibly he might yet overtake Groo and warn him; then they would face the dangers of the grassy jungle together. The sheriff knew it foot by foot, and could not fail to be of service as a guide if in no other capacity. He had forgotten to be afraid.

Groo’s footsteps were clearly visible in the dust of the road; one had only to light a match now and then and stoop down to see them. But they did not stop at the hotel. They kept on past the station— past the lean-to where the new waiter was supposed to sleep. Here another line of footsteps joined them. Joined? Followed. The second prints overlay the first, and the sheriff knew they were Daily’s even before he went to make certain that the lean-to was empty.

The double trail, striking lower and more marshy ground, became traceable even without matches, for the moon Was rising and touching the lonely scene with a soft, deceptive silver radiance.

There was no longer any room for doubt. The sergeant was being shadowed by the very man he sought, and the two were already in the deadly marsh where murder consisted merely in forcing one’s opponent to the ground and letting the crawling, slimy mud do the rest. Marlow moved steadily forward, stopping only now and then to reassure himself that the trail held good. He was an officer of the law, and a brother officer was being threatened with death. He grew alert and intelligent as in other days. He no longer seemed so old.

Deeper and deeper the way led into the swamp. Then came a spot where the two lines of footprints separated. Daily had stopped to let Sergeant Groo go on ahead of him, as was evident by the deep marks left by his heels in the spongy ground. Then he had turned aside. His object, of course, was to execute a flanking movement, to let his victim come upon him while he waited hidden beside his path. It was a good maneuver for the obtaining of that first and deadly grip, which, with the swamp for an accomplice, would be all that was needed.

Marlow hesitated, undecided which trail to follow. And while he did so he felt his arms suddenly seized from behind.

“Don’t shout!” whispered Daily in his ear. “What are you doing out here? That’s what I want to know.”

“Why, hello, Daily!” whispered the sheriff in return, twisting his neck around in the direction of his assailant. “I’m out trying to land Gimbel, of course. Don’t you know me? I declare, you did give me a scare!”

“Oh!” The grip relaxed, and Daily stepped gingerly forward. “No, I didn’t know you at first. Lay low. Gimbel’s right here. I thought I seen a glimpse of him a minute ago, but this moonlight is so uncertain that it’s hard to be sure of anything. I wish you'd had sense enough to stay at home, but since you’re here maybe it’s all the— listen! What was that? Not a move, now. If Gimbel shows his head I’m going to fire.”

He had drawn an automatic, and lay flat on the ground, speaking in a mere breath. The sheriff, lying beside him, had heard nothing at all, but did not doubt but what the other’s ears were better than his own. He was certain, too, that Sergeant Groo was somewhere in the grass before them, and that it was he who would fall and who would be intended to fall if a shot were fired. Later, he, Joe Marlow, would be expected to tell the world that it had been a lamentable mistake— that is, if he ever got out alive.

Without waiting to consider further, he snatched the pistol from the pretended detective’s hand, flinging it to everlasting oblivion in the ooze behind him.

The next instant fingers had clutched his throat, and the back of his head was being forced into the yielding jelly which there took the place of solid earth.

“You will, will you!” he heard faintly. “I might have known you'd try to double-cross me. It’s Yid Gimbel that’s got hold of you. Chew on that fact, if it’s any satisfaction to you while you’re passin’ away.”

Marlow heard no more. The mud had reached his ears, and a trickle of muddy water crept up over his chin and covered his mouth. Though his eyes were open, he scarcely saw the dark figure bending above him. He was taking his last look at the stars— pale stars, fast drowning in the rising tide of moonlight just as he himself was about to drown in a rising tide of mud. They looked strangely beautiful— a thousand times more beautiful than any stars he had ever seen before. Then the stars disappeared. Marlow had closed his eyes to keep out the stinging black paste which had already reached their corners. The paste crawled over his lids with a tickling sensation. He felt the fingers relax from about his throat, though their irresistible force continued to bear him down. He remembered that it was not Yid Gimbel’s custom to strangle his victims. He preferred to drown them.

The sheriff held his breath. He hated to begin that struggle for air which would result in his lungs being filled with the filthy exudations of the swamp. How much easier strangling would have been. How much easier if he could have been permitted to drown in the comparatively sweet and decent water of one of the canals. He realized now that he had always hated the swamp. And his very loathing helped him to put off the fateful moment when he would have to yield to its dreadful kiss.

He was sinking deeper and deeper. But the pressure which had thrust him beneath the surface ceased. Something seemed to have happened. He could even fancy that he heard a short sharp sound echoing in his buried ears. But unnatural noises were ringing about his eardrums—the cry of the tortured blood screaming for air. So he did not move. There was no use in attempting to take advantage of the apparent freedom left him by his enemy. A movement would merely precipitate the final agony, and he hated—oh, how he hated to begin giving his enemy the joy which would come from the spectacle of successful torture!

And yet— he must move. To hold still for another instant was impossible. He must breathe, though the breath would be worse than death.

A sharp jerk brought the sheriff to a sitting position. Something passed over his face, scraping off the mud so that his first gasp only half choked him and brought a blessed mouthful of oxygen to his lungs.

“Lucky I didn’t miss that shot,” said Sergeant Groo, struggling with an unmanly lump in his throat. “It was rather long, and the light was none too good. But thank God I made it— and in time.”

“It— it’s Gimbel you shot,” sputtered Marlow. “Daily was—"

“Daily was a fake. I got wise to that, sheriff, from our conversation this evening.”

“But how?”

“Easy. Daily was too complicated. The truth has a way of being kind a simple, you know. But let’s get out of here and get ready to split that little reward.”

______________________

2: Mystery Flight

Miles Henslow

Gippsland Times (Vic) 22 Jan 1940

Miles Henslow was a British aviation journalist and technical writer in the '30s and early '40s. No dates are available.

THE NEWSBOYS were yelling the headlines as Jack Marshall threaded his car through the crowded streets on his way into the country. Wedged in one of many traffic blocks, he gazed at the row of posters which fluttered in the cold wind.

NEW LONG-DISTANCE FLIGHT?

MYSTERY HOP PLANNED

JACK BUYS NEW PLANE

MARSHALL PLANS NEW FLIGHT

He smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and pushed the gear lever forward as the cars began to move. It was all rather amusing. He knew by hearsay how hard it was to court and win publicity, and yet without any desire for it he was the most talked of man in the country. And it was all the more amusing since no one, least of all the reporters knew anything about him; that is to say anything other than what they had ferreted out from his past— and that was not much.

At the next traffic block he stretched out his hand and bought a paper.

"YOUNG AVIATOR MAKES NEW PLANS."

The words reached right across the front page in black type. The sub-headings were equally uninformative.

"JACK MARSHALL TAKES

DELIVERY OF

LONG DISTANCE PLANE."

His photograph, taken some years ago when he was at Oxford, was ringed, overlapping another large picture of a sleek, black monoplane. They were enterprising, if nothing else.

"What are Marshall's latest plans?" the first paragraph began. "During the last eight months this wealthy, but comparatively unknown airman had startled the world no fewer than six times with his amazing flights.

"Now, according to our air correspondent, he is on the eve of his greatest bid of all. Where is he going? What does he aim to do? It is rumored by those who are in a position to know, etc., etc."

"Guess again," said Marshall.

"Beg pardon, sir?" said the paperman as he handed him his change.

"Never mind. Keep it," said Marshall. And as he drove away he saw the light of recognition dawn on the man's face.

The man waved. He waved back. It was all very amusing.

He was thinking of the paperman most of the way, guiding the car silently and swiftly towards the coast. The man was typical of all the others— his public.

He, Jack Marshall, was the object of hero-worship, and it upset him. If only he could do something really worth while it would not be so bad. After all, any young fool with plenty of money and no apparent value of his neck could sit in an aeroplane and make it go faster and further than other aeroplanes. The trouble was that it had all been done before. It did not prove anything.

If only he could, whilst amusing himself, achieve something that would be of definite benefit to the rest of the world— well, then the posters and the headlines would not make him writhe and smile alternately. But he couldn't: that was the trouble. And so he would have to keep on amusing himself and because he hated publicity he would have to continue as he was going— in the dark.

At least no one could accuse him of seeking the limelight. Were that the case he would have emerged long ago, and have been basking in it ever since. Were he to come out into the opening, saying in a few words as he could quite easily, why he did what he did, his publicity would be trebled. But that was the last thing he could do. As it was he was enjoying himself in the thing which pleased him most. If he spoke he would rob himself of what little peace he had, and more significant, some meddlers might even deprive him of his source of pleasure.

Arrived at his comfortable home, he garaged his car and walked across the fields to the little shed where his new machine was stabled. It was growing dark, and, as he switched on the light the large monoplane glistened in the yellow glow.

"Final III" was painted on the nose in small white letters.

That was another point which the papers had seized upon. Why "Final?" they asked when the photographs of his first machine were published.

And when his second machine landed in U.S.A. early one morning it was in tlhe name, "Final II" which had taken the interest of the sleepy gasoline man more than his unshaven chin and, therefore, he was well on his return trip across the Atlantic before the man realised the news scoop which he had missed.

"AMERICA AND BACK WITH 30 MINUTE HALT!"

screamed the headlines of both countries— but Marshall was already lost in the country, fishing for pike, by the time the news really burst, and so he escaped.

And this time? Well, it would be the same again. He patted the shining blade of one of the propellors, walked round to the cabin door, and looked inside. Everything was set— all but the load of fuel. Before dawn was really breaking he would be off— headed for a large aerodrome which he had marked on his map-to fill his tanks and race away down the long track, into the air.

That was how he had kept them all guessing before— take off empty from a small field, and then starting in earnest from elsewhere. There was a camp bed in the corner of the shed. On a table were plates and dish covers. A note, propped up besides a thermos read:

The reporters have arrived at the house, sir. I've told them as how your have left, but they will not go. I will call you at 5 a.m. sir (Signed) Wardle.

Jach Marshall ate his meal, locked the door, turned on the electric fire and went to sleep.

The cocks were crowing and a faint greyness showed through the window as Wardle, the butler and mechanic tapped at the door.

"O.K., Wardle. Start her up." Marshall ate his breakfast in silence as the mechanic made a final inspection.

"Reporters still here?" he asked. "No, sir, the last one left on the midnight train."

"Good. Right. Wardle. I can manage. You'd better get back to the gate in case anyone tries to crowd into the field."

The engines roared out as Marshall sat at the controls watch in hand. Everything in order, he was about to taxi out across the field when the cabin door opened and an arm appeared, holding a gun. A hot, unshaven face showed in the half light.

"Stick 'em up. You Jack Marshall?"

"That's right." Marshall made no attempt to arise his hands. "Who are you?"

"Never mind who I am. Where are you going?"

"Australia-maybe." said Marshall. "Why?"

"O.K." then. Get going," said the stranger. He scrambled into the cabin, sat down on the floor between the rows of empty tanks, and slammed the door. "Go on. Get going."

"Now listen, old chap," Marshall began. "I quite—"

"I haven't time to listen," said the stranger. "Do as much talking as you want later. Get going."

Marshall shrugged his shoulders. A minute later they were racing across the field, and the woods swept by underneath.

"Well?" he said, turning his head to shout, "what's the great idea? Are you mad?"

"No, I'm not mad. But you will be if you try any monkey business. Got any radio?"

"No."

"What's our first stop?" Marshall named a big aerodrome on the South Coast, smiling as he did so.

"Oh, no you don't," said the stranger. "You keep right on where you're heading."

"Can't. Not enough petrol."

"Don't be funny."

"All right. Have it your own way." Marshall turned the machine and headed out to sea. "Who are you, by the way?"

"My name's Shaw. if you want to know. Herbert Shaw. Now, perhaps, you'll keep on flying."

"The murderer, eh?" said Marshall, with sudden interest. "And so you think you're going to use me to get away?"

"If you make a crack to a soul you'll be the next." said Shaw. "I won't make any cracks. Don't worry. You're welcome to the lift, old chap."

"What do you mean?"

"No one knows where I'm going, do they?" said Marshall. "No one knows why I do what I do, do they? Know why?"

"No. And I care less."

"Suits me," said Marshall. "But I thought you ought to know. You see, I've told you I've no petrol."

"Yeah," said Shaw. "I heard you."

"I hate publicity," said Marshall. "I hate it even more than you do. That's why no one knows where I'm going."

"Fine," said the murderer.

"My one regret is that I've never been able to do anything really useful. Now I can. I am, in fact."

"You certainly are."

Marshall laughed. "Mystery flight!" he shouted. "Are you good at mysteries?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, work this one out. I don t know where I'm going, but I can guess where you'll end up."

"What do you mean?"

"What I say. I fly because it's the only thing I like, and I took risks because I had only a few months to live."

Shaw's face went white. Marshall looked at the petrol guage. They both looked at the sea, cold and grey below them.

"Turn back. Turn back, you swine," Shaw was shrieking.

"But why?" asked Marshall. "It's rather amusing."

MYSTERY OF OCEAN FLIGHT

JACK MARSHALL MISSING

NO NEWS OF MARSHALL

FOOTBALL RESULTS

Thus read the posters.

_________________

3: The Flood

Edouard A. Aujard

1885-1936

Argus (Melbourne) 27 Oct 1928

According to an obituary in the Melbourne Argus, Mr Aujard was an Australian journalist and short story writer who had a varied career, having been a trader and planter in the South Seas, school teacher, marine engineer, and artificer in the Royal Australian Navy.

DISTRICT INSPECTOR WIGGLESWORTH was expected to arrive at any  moment, and Mr Rumford awaited his appearance with joy in his heart and a nervous itch in the knuckles of his fists. For ten long years Mr Rumford had acted as teacher in the little rural school at Rivers Bend. For ten long years Mr Wigglesworth had been telling Mr Rumford that he was everything but a good teacher, and Mr Rumford had been receiving the intimation with restrained rage.

Now hope had arrived in the form of a small legacy, and Mr Rumford intended to resign as soon as he had told Mr Wigglesworth a lot of things which he had been reserving. For this happy day, for one glorious hour, he meant to live and be the undisputed captain of his soul.

Impatient of delay, Mr Rumford visited the window to learn whether the enemy was in sight. Beyond a clump of gums in the distance the sullen swollen waters of the Murray surged within a few inches of the levee. Presently a  horseman appeared on the long stretch of road. He soon reached the school gates, where he drew rein, shouting a message which brought Mr Rumford hurriedly to the door

"What's that?" inquired the school master, wondering whether he had heard correctly.

"The upper bank's washed away,' replied the youth,  "and the water'll be down any minute. It'll come with a rush. Old Gibbs ses the school's as safe as anywhere."

"Thanks," nodded Mr Rumford, unperturbed. "Have you seen the Inspector

The youth hadn't seen the inspector.

"If you do," said Mr Rumford with a malicious  twinkle, "tell him he's late."

Then he added casually, "And tell him I said so."

The youth smiled, waved his whip, and was off.  "I'll tell him all right," he mused as he rode along. It was this same inspector who had failed him in the last year of his schooling four years ago. Such events remain green in the memory outback.

In due time he came on the inspector's motor car, which he found stationary and empty.  On closer examination he perceived the legs of Mr Wigglesworth protruding from underneath. He was evidently employed in making some adjustment.

"Somethin' wrong?" he began, apparently at a loss how to open a conversation with a man's legs.

The inspector lifted an empurpled visage to his questioner. His collar was awry and covered with oily spots. Superfluous questions annoyed him at any time.

"Wrong?" he exploded "No! Merely exercise, my boy, exercise."

"Ho!" ejaculated the youth, rather nonplussed

The irate little man went on with his work.

"You're late," continued the youth mustering his courage and fully determined to convey his message.

No answer from under the car but a more emphatic wriggle from the legs informed him that his statement had been heard. He grinned and looked up and down the road pondering the form his next communication should take.

"Mr Rumford told me to tell you," he blurted out rather uneasily.

The body of Inspector Wigglesworth came from under the car with a frantic jerk. The wilting horse shied.

"Whoa, boy, whoa!" commanded the youth, keeping a watchful eye on the inspector

"What?" stammered Mr Wigglesworth. "He told you to tell me?" It seemed impossible. It was an insult— a direct blow a light personal insult. It would travel all over the district and people would laugh when they saw him and thought about it. "He told you to tell me?" he repeated. "You're sure of that?"

The youth had never imagined that his words would have such a startling effect. Innate, the leg pulling propensities were stirred to life.

"Yes, sir," he answered with polite concern. "He also said he didn't like bein' kept waitin," he added with artistic dissimulation. "Ses its always the same."

"He's been drinking," declared the inspector heatedly.

"P'raps he 'as," agreed the youth pensively. "I never thought o' that."

"I'll attend to him," muttered Mr Wigglesworth, turning to resume his work.

"You'd better hurry up," advised the youth, thinking of the flood. You'll have a bad time if you don't."

This was too much for the inspector "Look here, young man," he rasped out, advancing in a threatening manner.

"It's the flood, sir," the youth hastened to explain. "You'll 'ave to hurry if you wanter miss it. The bank's washed away and the water's comin' down, I nearly forgot to tell yer."

The manner of Mr Wigglesworth did not invite further information. The youth touched his horse and was away like the wind. As he rode he meditated on what would occur when Mr Wigglesworth met Mr Rumford.

The inspector wiped his brow distressfully, and once again crawled under the car. He'd make Rumford sit up for this— sending him insulting messages by a county yokel! He fiercely concentrated all his attention on the work of screwing on a tiny nut which refused with irritating persistence to be screwed on. It was undoubtedly a very perverse nut. Inanimate, it appeared to possess animation and volition. Its threads were burred and stripped with the spirit of revolt. The inspector glared at it

At this absorbing moment he became aware of a peculiar damp feeling permeating his clothes. Just a tiny playful trickle of water meandered down his back with the cold roguish finger of discomfort.

He wriggled out in a hurry, and gazed in deepening astonishment at the surrounding countryside.  The lower parts were already well awash with the yellow flood waters. The car was on an elevated piece of road over which bays and gulfs and archipelagos were being rapidly formed in a kind of geographical game, to be just as rapidly obliterated.

The insidious quiet with which the whole landscape was being changed lent to the scene something of the spirit of magic; the faintest gurgling sounds could be heard here and there like the murmuring voices of invisible workers unrolling the yellow carpet of destruction

ALONG the road in State school No 4,034, teaching was abandoned for the day, to the delight of the scholars and the relief of the master. Twice Mr Rumford adjourned to the back of the blackboard where he was wont to take a sip of whisky out of sight of the children, as he fondly thought, though each act was clearly reflected in a small mirror which had been placed at the right angle for that express purpose These mirror pictures were a source of unalloyed enjoyment.

Today was the first time in the history of Mr Rumford's regime that they had been neglected. There was the more engrossing spectacle of the flood. The school was completely surrounded. Noses, lips and cheeks were glued to the windows like pieces of pink and white putty. Eager eyes scanned the yellow surge as it rose inch by inch until only trees and fences remained like so many unreal evidences of a submerged world.

To Mr Rumford it was a wonderful flood, unique and awe inspiring. It impressed him with its enveloping immensity, its slow, onward, passionless sweep, its weird semi-silence its utter emptiness of all forms of life. He wondered how Mr. Wigglesworth was faring. At the thought he toasted the flood with another whisky.

Such a flood deserved celebrating. It was a friendly flood. Somewhere out along the road it had Mr Wigglesworth in its grip.  From there speculations he was awakened at a confused murmur and a piping small voice.

"It s moving, sir," cried a curly headed boy excitedly. "We felt it bump."

"Moving?" pondered Mr Rumford, dazed. "What's moving?"

"The school, sir," vouched half a dozen voices in a chorus.

Mr Rumford considered this probability from certain vaguely envisaged angles. Part of the dilapidated school fence was already drifting away 50 yards from the school

He assured himself that he had had but three whiskies.  A distinct jolt came to the building, then a slight grinding sensation from underneath.

"We're off, sir! We're off!" shouted his pupils gleefully.

A boisterous cheer heralded the joyful news, as State School No 4,034 cast its rotten moorings and gave itself, with a hoydenish curtsey, to the broad bosom of the flood.

Beneath the school were 20 or 30 logs, which had been placed crosswise during the previous flood to prevent the flimsy foundations from sinking into the water-sodden soil. They now served the opposite purpose in supplying sufficient buoyancy to send the strange craft on its erratic, drifting cruise.

Fences, saplings, tree stumps, and tops of stack sheds were passed as No 4,034 glided west on the creeping flood drift. A barometer fell with a clatter to the floor as the school made the first deep sea lurch.

"It's like a real ship, sir," said the curly-headed boy, very much impressed.

"It is," agreed Mi Rumford shortly, allowing his thoughts again to stray in the direction of Mr Wigglesworth. Then he added with a jocular gesture of authority, "Keep a good look out for the inspector. Sixpence to the one who sees him first "

Straightway the scholars of No 4,034 climbed into the rigging of the windows in an endeavour to sight the unfortunate inspector. There came a crash and the tinkling sound of falling splintered glass

"It was cracked before, sir," affirmed the unlucky pupil in anticipation of the master's rebuke

"Never mind," replied Mr Rumford, reflecting on the fact that it was his last term in the school. "Don't break them all," he continued facetiously, wondering how the next teacher would like his new appointment.

The class pondered over the clause, "Don't break them all," until it arrived at the conclusion that it would be allowed to break a number of windows before the danger zone of punishment was reached.  Meditations on the subject were interrupted by the curly headed boy.

"It's a big flood, sir," he said thoughtfully, his imagination touched by the disappearing fences. "P'raps we'll go up like Noah's Ark."

"Quite possible," answered Mr Rumford absent-mindedly, but in a manner which made all the scholars look round with expressions of wonder.

"Oh! there he is, sir," shouted a little girl who had her nose pressed tight to the end window "He's wavin,' he's wavin', he's wavin' sir," she declared, clasping her hands in ecstasy at the extraordinary behaviour of Mr Wigglesworth.

"Steady! Silence!" commanded Mr Rumford who had just had his fourth whisky.

"It's the inspector sir, oh, look at 'im, sir. Look at 'im," implored the irrepressible curly-headed boy

"I saw him first," protested the little girl, with the sixpence reward well in mind.

"Silence!" ordered Mr Rumford sternly He was anxious to observe without being observed. He eventually found a knot hole in a weatherboard compatible with the conditions under which he desired to gaze upon the inspector.

Step by step Mr Wigglesworth had been forced by the rising flood from the floor of the car on to the seat and finally to the top of the hood, with which the water was now almost level. From that precarious position he was now waving an umbrella with all the vigour that a desperate situation imparted to his waspish personality. It appeared to Mr Rumford that he was waving threateningly. The manner and attitude of the man was more suggestive of demand than distress. Mr Rumford enjoyed the situation all the more. It was an impressive and striking tableau in which his enemy was the one solitary dramatic figure.

Mr Rumford turned, and wiping tears of merriment from his fat cheeks, pressed half sovereign into the little girl s hand.

"It's worth it," he said joyously. "I'd give you more if I had it."

A wave of amazement passed through the ranks of the children together with thoughts of their ill luck and the suddenly acquired wealth of the fortunate little girl. What their teacher would do next was beyond their powers of divination. He was gazing in a queer fashion round the school, searching for something, as if he were uncertain as to the object of his quest His eyes ultimately fell on the gramophone with which he sometimes entertained the children. It was the funnel, and not the instrument, that arrested his attention. His rather dormant imagination had possibly been awakened by the warm glow of four whiskies. The next moment the children were delighted by seeing their teacher disconnect the funnel, carry it to the window, and place it to his lips.

The belated appearance of Mr Rumford at the window was the signal for a veritable storm of animation from the little man on the hood.

"You're late!" shouted Mr Rumford gleefully, through the improvised megaphone. In the silence it was as if a giant had spoken. Strange echoes wandered over the flood. The children of State School No 4,034 were transformed to the seventh heaven of delight at the unexpected performance of their teacher. The girls em braced one another behind Mr Rumford's back, the boys exchanged sly sportive punches.

Mr Wigglesworth had nearly taken an apoplectic fit. He was shouting many things difficult to hear owing to his telescoped articulation.  Speaking trumpet to ear, Mr Rumford imagined he heard the one word, "Scoundrel!"

"Late, I said," he thundered through the megaphone, joyfully. Happy indeed was Mr Rumford; the more the inspector stormed the farther Mr Rumford leaned out of the window with his ear trumpet gathering the delightful pother.

Mr Wigglesworth shook his umbrella.

"Pardon!" boomed Mr Rumford. "I can't hear you. You're slurring your vowel sounds "

He listened as before for the reply. The school had drifted nearer, with the result that the full message was transmitted

"I'll report you for this—"

"When I'm done with you," he reverberated through the trumpet. Either the influence of the Scotch was dying or Mr Rumford was losing his temper. The children spoke in murmurs only, expecting some grave climax. Mr Rumford devoted his attention to a long pole with which he endeavoured to steer the school, and prevent it from passing the marooned inspector.

Nearer and nearer it came. Inspector Wigglesworth leaned on his umbrella in the grave attitude of a Napoleon planning an extensive but rather doubtful campaign Twenty yards, ten yards, one yard. With clenched fists Mr Wigglesworth leaped for the window, bumped his head on the sash and then toppled down into a bottomless pit of darkness.

"Such a slight knock," muttered Mr Rumford as he bent over the prostrate form of the inspector. "Stunned— unconscious! remarkable! All in a second."

He had another drink to collect his faculties. Then he felt annoyed that Wigglesworth should elude him like this. It was a dirty trick lo play on him, after all these years.

He sighed and surrendered himself to a gentle melancholia. The children were gathering round expectant, wondering what he would do. He only knew one medicine, and that was whisky. He roused himself at the thought, propped up his enemy's head, and emptied half a bottle of neat spirit down the inspector's throat.

"He's a pro'bitionist," ventured the curly-headed boy, remembering a lecture the inspector had given.

"Run away," commanded Mr. Rumford, annoyed at the mention of the word. He settled down to watch his patient. The children, left to their own sweet will, promptly availed themselves of the opportunity, climbing one by one through a window to the roof without. There they soon began to sing and celebrate in their own way the cruise of their school on the flood. It had been a day of events for them, one that might never occur again.

Mr. Rumford treated himself again as he watched his patient.

Suddenly Mr. Wigglesworth stirred and smiled. He looked around vacantly for a moment; then attempted to stagger to his feet. Failing this he began to laugh, at first only faintly, but slowly gathering in intensity until he was shaking with a perfect paroxysm of laughter. It was infections laughter. Mr. Rumford joined him.

Half an hour afterwards, when the rescue boats came, Mr. Wigglesworth was endeavouring to embrace Mr. Rumford with the fraternal feeling of a long-lost brother.

___________________

4: Fame For Mr. Beatty

James Norman Hall

1887-1951

The Tanager May 1929

WILLIAM C. DOW and company, wholesale drygoods merchants, occupied a fourteen story building covering half the block between Commercial and East River streets. The business offices of the firm were on the fourth floor. Here were to be found the sales manager with his staff, the manager of imports with his, the advertising manager with his. The remainder of the fourth floor, considerably more than half of it, was taken up by the accounting department, a miniature city laid out in orderly, rectangular fashion, with narrow passageways for streets and wire cages for houses, each of them six feet by six, each of them with its occupant. In one of the cages farthest from the main corridor was a man who had been in the employ of the Dow company for more than twenty years. His name was Herbert Beatty.

It would be difficult to describe Mr. Beatty in any vivid manner. To say that he was quietly dressed, that his linen was immaculate and his boots carefully polished, is not to distinguish him from thousands of other self-respecting bookkeepers. Observing him in a crowd— but this is unthinkable: the most curious observer of human nature, touching elbows with him in a crowd, would not have noticed him, unless— which is equally unthinkable— Mr. Beatty had been guilty of some act of gross and unusual conduct, and even then the eccentricity would have been remembered rather than the man himself.

He was a lonely man, without close friends or any living relatives, so far as he knew, and his life flowed on from year to year in unbroken monotony. Although he spent forty-five hours weekly in his little wire enclosure, he neither spoke nor thought of it as a cage. He entered it, six mornings out of seven, as willingly as a bee enters its hive, and much more punctually. Having dusted off his boots with a flannel cloth which he kept in a drawer, he slipped into his black alpaca office-coat. Then he marked out with a neat cross, in red ink, the date of the previous day on the calendar— two crosses on a Monday. Then he opened the ledgers in which he took such pride, and was immediately engrossed in his work. This was purely of a routine nature, as familiar to him as breathing, quite as necessary, and almost as instinctively performed. He was rarely disturbed, had no decisions to make and was never asked for his opinion about anything.

At twelve-thirty he went out to lunch. He patronized always the same white-tiled restaurant on East River street, a large, clean, impersonal sort of place catering to the employes of the wholesale houses in the vicinity. An immense sign on the wall of this restaurant read: “We serve more than three-thousand lunches daily, between the hours of twelve and two.” During the past ten years Mr. Beatty himself had alone been served with that number of lunches: three-thousand lettuce sandwiches, three- thousand pieces of custard pie, three-thousand glasses of milk. But although his order was the same, summer and winter, none of the waitresses ever remembered what it was or appeared to recognize him as an old patron.

In winter he spent the whole of his luncheon hour in this place reading the Morning Post. On fine days in summer, he would go, after his meal, to a small park near the City Hall, two blocks distant. There he would buy a bag of salted peanuts, and after eating a few of them would give the rest to the pigeons that frequented the square. They would eat out of his hand, perch on his outstretched arm, even on his head. He liked to think that they were his pigeons, and he enjoyed the moment of attention they brought him from other midday loungers in the park. When he had doled out the last of the peanuts, he dusted the salt from his fingers and sat down to enjoy his newspaper.

Mr. Beatty was one of the numberless army of men and women who have made possible the success of the modern American newspaper, whose reading is confined almost entirely to its columns. It amused him, instructed him, thought for him. He found there satisfaction for all his modest needs, spiritual and cultural. He turned first to the comic section, smiling over the adventures of Mutt and Jeff and the vicissitudes of the Gump family. These people were real to him, and he followed their fortunes closely from day to day. Next he read the editorial of Dr. Francis Crake whom he admired and respected as a philosopher of genius. Another feature of the Morning Post was the Enquirer’s column. The enquirer sauntered daily through the streets, asking of four people, chosen more or less at random, some question of current interest. Their replies, together with a small photograph of each individual, were then printed in the column. Mr. Beatty’s rinterest never waned in this feature of his favorite newspaper. Indeed, there was so much on every page to engage his attention that his luncheon hour passed in a flash of time. At twenty minutes past one he would leave the park and before the half-hour had struck was again at his desk and at work.

ii

ONE SULTRY midsummer day while he was enjoying his usual noontime recreation in the park, a young man wearing horn-rimmed spectacles and with a camera slung over his shoulder, sat down on the bench beside him. Mr. Beatty was not aware of this at the moment, for he was in the midst of Dr. Crake’s editorial for the day: “Clothes as an Index of Personality.” In three short paragraphs Dr. Crake had evolved his philosophy on this subject. “Show me a man who is slovenly in his dress and I will show you one that is slovenly in his morals. A clean collar is the index of a clean mind. It matters not how modest your income, or how humble your station in life, you cannot afford to be indifferent to the appearance you present to your fellow men. Neatness pays. It is investment at compound interest in the Bank of Success, and it will bring in dividends when you least expect them.” So Dr. Crake in his first paragraph. Mr. Beatty heartily approved of these opinions and he thought, not without a touch of pride, that Dr. Crake would have approved of him.

Upon turning the page of his paper he noticed his companion on the bench. The young man nodded cordially.

“A scorcher, isn’t it?” he said.

Mr. Beatty was slightly startled. It was not often that a stranger spoke to him.

“Yes, it is warm,” he replied, a little apologetically, as though he were somehow to blame for the heat.

“Hottest day this summer,” said the young man. “What do you suppose the thermometer at the Morning Post building registered at noon?”

“Oh, I couldn’t say. I fancy it was pretty high?”

“One hundred and two in the shade; and it’s hotter than that, inside. Press-room like a furnace, city-room worse. Glad I didn’t have to stay there.”

“Are you— do you mean that you are employed on the Morning Post?”

“Yes. I run what we call the Enquirer’s column. You may have read it sometimes?”

“Oh, yes! Well! Isn’t that remarkable! Why, I always—”

“Well, that’s my job on the Post, or one of them. I’m supposed to be working at it now. You know, that is really why I sat down on this bench. The question for to-morrow is, ‘Do you favor restricted Immigration?’ When I saw you sitting here I thought, there’s a man, if I’m not mistaken, who has views on this subject. Would you mind letting me have them, Mr.— but you haven’t told me your name, I think?”

“Beatty. Herbert Beatty.”

“Are you in business in the city?”

“Yes. I’m a bookkeeper with William C. Dow and company.”

“That’s fine! We’ll be glad to have a man of your profession represented in the Enquirer’s column. You don’t object, do you, Mr. Beatty? You know, you can tell me precisely what you think our immigration policy should be. The Post wishes to offer its readers the opinions of intelligent men on both sides of the question.”

Never, not even in his most sanguine moments, had it occurred to Mr. Beatty that he might one day be called upon to express, publicly, his opinion of any question. Now that the opportunity had come, he was dazed, stupefied. The sound of the young man’s voice came to him with a strange, far-off effect. He understood in a dreamlike way that this reporter was preparing to direct the attention of a city of two million inhabitants to his, Herbert Beatty’s, views upon a matter of great public concern. He watched, fascinated, while the young man drew a notebook from his pocket, slipped off the rubber band, opened it on his knee. What could he say? What were his views? Dr. Crake had dealt with this subject in one of his editorials only a few weeks before. If only he could remember what he had said, perhaps it would help him to—

Of a sudden he was conscious that the young man was speak¬ ing.

“I suppose you think there is something to be said on both sides, Mr. Beatty?”

“Oh, yes! I— you see— you have taken me a little by surprise. One doesn’t like to be too sure— I hardly know— perhaps—”

“But wouldn’t it, in your opinion, be a good thing if the government were to adopt a fairly cautious restriction policy, say for the next twenty-five years?”

“Well, yes, I believe it would.”

“We would know by that time where we stand, don’t you think, with respect to the great foreign-born population already in America? With this information to guide us, we could then decide what our future policy should be.”

Mr. Beatty heartily agreed with this. It seemed to him a sound way of looking at the matter. The reporter made some rapid entries in his notebook, snapped on the rubber band, and clipped his pencil to his waistcoat pocket.

“Thanks very much, Mr. Beatty. You’re the fourth man I’ve interviewed to-day. The views of the other three were rather extreme, both for and against restricted immigration. I’m glad to have found one man who favors moderation— a wise middle course. Now then, you’ll let me take your photograph? We like to print these with the replies in the column. I’ll not be ten seconds. If you’ll stand there— a little more this way— Good! That will do. Snap! That’s done it! Thanks once more, Mr. Beatty. To-morrow the whole city will know your views on the immigration problem, and I’ll venture to say that nine out of ten men will agree with them. Well, good-bye, I must be getting along.”

iii

MR. BEATTY was conscious of a feeling of profound relief as he entered his enclosure at the bookkeeping department. He rearranged the articles on his desk, flicked an imaginary fleck of dust from his adding-machine, and resharpened a pencil whose point had been a little blunted with use during the morning. So great was the virtue in these familiar practices, and so strong the habits of a lifetime, that he was then able to resume his work with a certain measure of calm.

But his pleasantly disquieting thoughts returned at five o’clock. They seemed to be awaiting him in the street below, and occupied his mind to the exclusion of everything else. He entered the stream of homeward-bound pedestrian traffic, letting it carry him where it would, and presently found himself in front of the Morning Post building. One of the plate-glass windows bore an inscription in gold lettering: “The Morning Post. Your Paper —Everybody’s Paper. Guaranteed Circulation Over 450,000.” He gazed at this for some time as he thought over the events of the day. He could recall vividly the appearance of the young reporter, and the kind of notebook he had used— opening at the end, with wide spaces between the ruled lines— and the round blue pencil with the nickle pocket-clip. But he could not remember at all clearly the details of the interview. How long had it lasted? Five minutes? Ten minutes? Probably not more than five. The reporter had worked rapidly. ... He had seemed pleased with his replies.... But just what was it he had said?... A circulation of four-hundred-fifty thousand! And likely twice that many people actually read the Post.

After his customary solitary supper, Mr. Beatty went to a moving-picture theater for the seven-o’clock show. He returned to his lodgings at nine and went to bed. The following morning he awoke at a quarter to five, an hour before his usual time. It was impossible to sleep again, so he shaved, dressed, and went downstairs. The sky was cloudless; it would be another sweltering day. A horse-drawn milk wagon was just then making its rounds; otherwise the street was deserted.

The stationery shop where he usually bought his morning paper was not yet opened. He went on to another several blocks distant, but that too was closed. The papers had already been delivered there; they were lying on the doorstep, loosely wrapped in a brown paper cover. Mr. Beatty looked up and down the street; there was no one in view. Quickly opening his penknife he cut the cord of the parcel and drew forth a copy of the Post. Then he discovered that he had only a penny, a quarter, and a half-dollar in his pocket, and the price of the Post was three cents. He left the quarter on top of the parcel and hurried back to his lodgings where Mrs. Halleck, his landlady, was standing in the entryway.

“Good morning, Mr. Beatty! Well! You are an early bird this morning! Wherever have you been at this time of day? My! Ain’t this heat awful? I don’t know what’s goin’ to happen if we don’t have some rain soon to cool things off. You got the morning paper already?”

He murmured a hasty reply, went up to his room on the third floor, and shut and locked the door. Then he opened his paper at the editorial page.

ENQUIRER’S COLUMN

Question for the day: “Do you favor Restricted Immigration?” Herbert Beatty, bookkeeper, with William C. Dow & Company, 400 Commercial street.

“One hesitates in pronouncing an opinion upon a question of such far-reaching importance, but it would seem advisable that we should now adopt a cautious, well balanced policy of restriction until such time as we shall have been able to assimilate the immense foreign-born population already on our shores. Twenty- five years hence we shall have gathered sufficient data with regard to our immigration policy to enable us to decide with some measure of confidence what our future policy should be.”

Mr. Beatty’s photograph gazing at him from the page, and the print of his own name looked so strange that he could hardly believe them his. He read the interview again, and a third and a fourth time. He had not been able to recall, before, just how he had worded his reply; he had been a little confused, of course, at the moment of the interview, and surprised at the suddenness of the question put to him by the reporter. What a faculty that young man had shown for getting immediately at the gist of his thought! That was a reporter’s business, to be sure, but this.one must be a particularly gifted interviewer. His own interview had been given the place of honor at the top of the column. He now turned to the views of the others:

Morris Goldberg, haberdasher, 783 Fourth avenue.

“I don’t think we’ve got room for any more foreigners in the United States. We ought to put the lid on tight, now. Business has been poor since the war, and there’s too much competition already.”

H. Dwight Crabtree, pastor, the Division Street Baptist Church.

“I often think of America as a great melting-pot where all the various splendid elements which go to make up our Democracy are being fused, and the composite type, American, made perfect in the sight of the Father of us all. No, let us not forbid them, these brothers of ours from over the seas. Let us rather say: ‘Welcome, ye poor and oppressed! We have room for you and more than room! Bask here in God’s sunlight! Enjoy our opportunities! Partake of our fellowship! And may you bequeath to your children a rich heritage of health and love and beauty in this glorious land, America!’ ”

John J. Canning, architect, 45 First National Bank building.

“This question would have been timely fifty years ago. My answer then would have been: 'I favor exclusion, not restriction.’ That is my answer to-day.”

OVER his breakfast at the dairy lunch-room at the corner, Mr. Beatty again read the interviews, gaining the conviction as he compared them, that his was by far the most sensible of the four. It was pleasant to think of the thousands of men who would that day read his opinions, learn of his name— college professors, lawyers, doctors, government officials, perhaps Dr. Crake himself. He remembered now that Dr. Crake, too, had counseled moderation in dealing with the question of restricted immigration. He would be pleased to see his views upheld in the Enquirer’s column. He could fancy him saying, “Now there’s a man that knows what he is talking about.”

The walk to the office on this memorable August morning was like a dream to him. Every newsboy at every corner seemed  particularly anxious to sell him papers, and every passerby seemed to look at him with interest, with respect. He fancied several times that he had been recognized. He was almost afraid to enter the Dow building, and gave a sigh of relief when he was safe within his enclosure at the end of the corridor. He found it difficult to keep his mind on his work. The roar of traffic from the street was like a universal voice of acclaim loud with the name, Beatty— so loud, in fact, that he did not at first hear the voice of a small boy standing at the little window in front of his desk. '

“Mr. Beatty! Mr. Dow wants to see you, Mr. Beatty.”

He looked up quickly.

“Who did you say?”

“Mr. William Dow wants to see you. He says you are to come up at once if you are not too busy.”

Arriving at the fourth floor the boy who had escorted him pointed to a glazed door at the end of a passageway.

“Mr. Dow is in there,” he said, and left him.

Mr. Beatty hesitated for a moment, then timidly approached the door and knocked, very gently. Receiving no reply he knocked again, a trifle more firmly.

“Come in!”

Mr. Dow was busy with his morning correspondence. He finished the dictation of a letter before looking up.

“Good morning,” he said. “Yes?”

“I beg your pardon, sir. I was told that you wished to see me.”

“Oh, yes. Are you Mr. Beatty? I’ve just been reading your little interview in the Post. It was yours, I believe?”

“Yes, sir. That is—”

“I rather liked your reply to that question, Mr. Beatty. I merely wanted to tell you this. But just what do you mean by ‘a cautious, well-balanced policy of restriction’? How would you put it into effect, supposing you had the power?”

“Oh, I should hardly like to say, sir. I haven’t thought so very much— Perhaps—”

“How would you begin? What nationalities do you think should first be restricted? Poles? Italians? Russian Jews?”

“Well, yes, perhaps the Russians— but I can’t say that I am quite sure—”

Mr. Dow gave him a thoughtful appraising glance.

“How long have you been with us, Mr. Beatty?”

“Twenty years, sir, the fourteenth of last April.”

His employer pursed his lips in a soundless whistle.

“Have you! As long as that? What do you think of our Accounting department? Is it efficiently managed?”

“Why, yes, I believe so, sir. At least— that is, I am sure that you know much better than I do.”

“Have you any suggestions to make as to how it might be bettered?”

“Oh, no, sir!”

Mr. Dow gazed silently out of the window for a moment.

“Well, I’m glad to have had this opportunity for a little chat with you, Mr. Beatty. That’s all for the present. Thanks for coming up.”

iv

ON A November afternoon, several years later, Mr. Beatty, having fed his pigeons in City Hall park, dusted the salt from his fingers with his handkerchief, and sat down to his customary after-luncheon perusal of the Morning Post. It was a raw, blustery day, too chilly for comfort out of doors. He decided that hereafter he would spend his luncheon hour at the restaurant. But this was not to be. The following day he came down with an attack of bronchial pneumonia. Within a week he was dead.

Mrs. Halleck, his landlady, was genuinely sorry to lose so old and dependable a lodger, but she could not afford to let sentimental regrets interfere with re-letting at once her third- floor- front, one of the best rooms in the house. Her new lodger, a law-school student, moved in immediately. She had the room all ready for him but had forgotten to remove from the wall a bit of cardboard which hung by a string by the side of the bed. A newspaper clipping, yellow with age, was pasted on it. The young man glanced idly at it as he took it down. “One hesitates,” he read, “in pronouncing an opinion on a question of such far-reaching importance, but it would seem advisable that we should now adopt—”

Whistling softly to himself, the new lodger arranged his belongings. He crumbled the piece of cardboard and threw it in the waste-paper basket. He hung a Maxfield Parrish picture in its place. The light was just right for it there.

__________________

5: The Swing of Sentiment

Edouard A. Aujard

Australasian (Melbourne) 20 Sep 1919

VAULT-LIKE the lowered bowl of the sky rested on the tumbling waste of black trails of sea, cloud-shadowed in the grey light of a northern winter's day. From far away north came the gale, from the icebound field of the Arctic Circle— a tearing, continuous blast, biting and cold. It swept over Hie surging sea in a racing torrent of sound, and its voice was riotous with the mocking laugh of destruction. It was a laugh that, went echoing over the ever changing watery trenches of the North Sea Grand Fleet. The laugh of the storm and the sea.

A tiny grey frail thing struggled in the grip of it all, and under a smoking smother of spray it lived and moved— a living embodiment of man's  indomitable volition. This, the destroyer D1, better to own as the Devil's first, clung there on the waste of waters, and its continued presence was an articulate voice of defiance flung back into the teeth of the storm. So steamed the lone patrol— a grey cub of the Grand Fleet.

Trolly life-lines extended from the stoke hold, engine-room, and bridge to the mess room. With the aid of a belt hooked to a pulley the changing watches of the ship shot along these lines, in much the same manner as a cash-ball negotiates an over head-wire in a big store. It was a hazardous task, fraught with many grim possibilities; but these sailors accomplished it, time and again, and they cursed the sea that derided them.

The whirr of the racing propellers when torn free from the sea— the lurch forward of the fall as she fell in a trough of the sea— and the plate-straining rumph as she dived her nose into a great roller— these were the three distinct movements of the ship; but it was the third movement that commanded the most respectful attention of the crew; for Life seemed to be punctuated by the rumph-rumph-rumph. In that sea she was a snip of unrest, ana her soul was movement-unceasing, eternal, a defiant, vibrating, quivering torment of unrest, steaming under a white plume of streaming spray.

On the bridge the duty watch gazed into the dreary vista of foaming seas, and endeavoured to choose a course where there was but little choice.

In a destroyer space is ever sacrificed to speed. Drop down the little round hole in the deck to the mess room. Here is an iron dugout of the sea; daylight shut-out by iron deadlights, electric lighted, and fitting tight like the shoe of a Chinese belle.

The cook is putting the last finishing touches to a meal, the cooking of which has been little short of a miracle. This fact is registered by the smile of victory which hovers about his lips. Upon cooks and not upon captains rests the psychology of a ship's company; but only cooks know this.

The cook kept himself in position by a strap swung from a hook overhead and lopped under his arzns. Some times, when the ship inclined at a steep angle, he would swing clear of the floor, and sway for an instant like a trussed bullock in a butcher's shop. At such moments the men cheered and the cook cursed. They were moments of laughter stolen from the weary monotony of movement. The ship staggered, shivered,and rumphed through the gale that continued to play a watery tattoo on the decks over head.

"Woteher got terday, cookie?" queried Old Stripie, who was named from the fact that his arm carried three service stripes, but no evidence of rank. Stripie was a rank-less rebel, holding the same rank as he did fifteen yeans ago when he joined up. "Tell us in a whisper, cookie dear."

"Hoosh," illuminated the cook. "Hoosh, me son."

Now hoosh is a dish the ingredients of which are of doubtful origin, ana being so, a good cook works on the policy of the old proverb, "What the eye don't see, the heart won't grieve." No doubt the word hoosh has a family relationship with the word hush in its verbal imperative form. It is a good word used by good cooks.

"Scrano, me 'earties," sing-songed the cook, beaming on his handiwork. "Good bid hoosh, the stuff that Nelson won Trafalgar with; an' if the Germans 'ad it they'd be fightin' us right now. Good old hoosh, right from the Hotel Cecil, an' a tot o' rum with a kick in it." He fussed about, singing the praises of hoosh, as though it were a god from the galley, possessing the power of hypnotising the men into a trance in which they would find themselves dining at a magic feast set in a dream-spun land of motionless peace.

The subtlety of the cook's endeavours is revealed as the fact that the relief destroyer patrol was two days overdue, and the ship's provisions had given out. Only reserve rations were left— ship's biscuits, so aged as to be honeycombed with weevils, and salt pork, a. oaaal inventory of which was even disheartening to a cook. By mincing the pork and powdering the biscuits, he had managed to contrive a kind of rissole, well seasoned to neutralise the taste. The power of auto-suggestion is fill unknown quantity. He had fought through a sea of doubt to the shore of faith, and tad ultimately convinced himself that his concoction was food— nay, almost a delicacy, like a good disciple of optimism, he now sought to convince others. The wonder of it all is, that such men do not win medals; they deserve them.

The men seated themselves crosswise on the wooden-stools, as jockeys on unbroken horses. From without came the swirling voice of the waters, and every time thr ship rumphed into a sea the crew cureea in a chorus.

"Dive, you —— dive. You son of a——, dive to hell." It became a refrain— a kind of chant to the Humph. The ship was top bad, too wicked. She was a hag ship with all the faults of hundreds of known and unknown hag ships. She was a witch of the sea— a spirit of unrest and tonnent; and they invoked the Humph to take her and hurl her in a thousand million pieces to the bottom of the sea.

" 'Ere, make fast ter yer scran an' to it, Think a man's goin' ter nurse it for yer? Good old hoosh; the stuff that Nelson won 'Trafalgar with; an' a good old tot o' rum with the kick of a gun in it."

The cook blazed a trail with half a tot down the path where all good rum is destined to travel. His faith faltered a bit as he thought of the weevils and the pork, but it was only for a moment: for in the ?nest, fortified by the rum, he gulped down two rissoles, as a man may take a dose of physic, hurriedly, lest he catch the taste. The second half of his tot followed in the wake of the first, acting as an antidote to unpleasant memories. He then looked around, waiting developments, and ready to spring at the first shadow of criticism.

"Ugh!" exclaimed a youngster of 18 years. "Ugh, what's in them there mystery balls?"

"Take a drop o' rum," hastened the cook, hoping for the best and fearing the worst, "Take a drop o' rum. Make a man o' yer, sonny. Nothin' like rum ter peck up the happytite."

"Appetite?" stormed the youngster, incredulously. "Appetite? Why, I could eat bones an' bags an—"

"You should've bin in the navy wen I was a boy," chortled Old Stripie, interrupting. "I can remember when we lived fer a month on corn. Corn, mind yer— corn! The men even began to crow like rooster an' cackle like chooks. They did, s'help me "

"And you haven't stopped cacklin' yet," barked the youngster, glaring at his rissoles in disgust.

"Them was the days," continued old Stripie, oblivions to all interruption, "Wooden ships an' iron men in them days. Wooden ships-an'-iron men."

"Gimme the iron ships an' wooden men," retorted the youngster, bestowing another glare on the "mystery balls."

An extra heavy rumph shook the ship momentarily sending the electric current to "earth", and plunging the mess into darkness.

"Yer wanter blanky staff a nurses, some o' yer. Yer oughter be in Harry Tate's navy, on the stage—yer oughter."

"On, you cow," came the reviling voice of a stoker as he lost his rum to a  lurch of the ship. "There goes the only bit of comfort a man's got. What a life fer a crust o' bread."

Everyone laughed, and someone started to sing ironically

"Backed in the cradle of the deep,

I lay me down in peace to sleep!"

"In peace ter sleep! S'help me, if them there writers don't go the limit—"

"Peace in this ship?" challenged another, as though astounded at the faintest suggestion of such an impossibility. "Then ain't no peace and there ain't no sleep in this 'ere hooker. 'Ow can a man sleep tied ap in 'is bunk, like a pig in a poke, a-listenin' ter the sea, an' p'pellers and wind. 'Ow can 'e do it? That's wot I asks— it ain't nacheral! Songwriters? Wot did 'e know about the sea?"

"Saw it on the pitchers," answered old Stripie.

"An' a blanky good place to see if added the youngster. "The best place I know."

"Gimme a long-'aired mate an' a bit o' land!" amended another. "After this war, no more ships or sea for me. Me fer the pitchers: the pitchers'll do me."

Rumph-crumph-rumph went the ship. Was there ever such a blankety blank old blank ship before? No, none had ever sailed in one. She was the limit— a Sardine tin— a coffin ship— a trap of torture set to catch silly bone-headed sailors. Life couldn't hold anything worse.

"If the man'd stop drivin' 'er she'd be orlright." ventured an old salt.

''Drivin' 'er?" exploded the youngster. "She's crawlin, just crawlin', like a silk-worm— like a—"

Rumph— C-rr-umph!!!  The ship was lifted high, higher than any sea could hare taken her. Men fell in all directions. A Something— a Sound, had taken possession of Life— a Sound that was an annihilation of all sound and sense an obliterating chloroform of Noise—and It rushed Life  into a Big Blank of Darkness, where lingered queer little noises, which seemed far— very, very far away. Then, after age-long fractions of seconds, Life rushed back again, sentient, questioning, groping to solve the Puzzle. Familiar noises filtered through— full consciousness came. The main engines had stopped.

"Oh, Gawd!" came a voice from a dark corner. "A tin fish!"

"Got it astern."

Men struggled up from where the shock had thrown them. A medley of shouting came from other parts of the ship. The hatchway was thrown open.

"All 'ands on deck. Stations! All 'ands on deck."

Down through the hatchway the sea poured into the mess; and through this deluge men clambered up to the deck without.

On the top of a great wave a submarine lay on her side— for one fatal moment out of control, and exposed to the gunfire of her victim. The forward gun of the Devil's First spoke. A blue-red flame pricked the dull grey atmosphere. It was enough, for the gunner threw his cap high in the air as his shot found its mark.

The high-flung stern of the sub. belched points of flame, and the hatchway coughed up a number of men. who seemed to move about in a queer, detached kind of way, as men without aim or object. There they were, under the dull light of the sea and sky, like dark mannikins, clustered about the conning-tower, silhouetted in a far-away grim shadow shown against the grey. It was a marine tableau, fleeting in its exposure, and curtained for all time by the coiling shoot of sea that punctuated the blowing up of the sub.

It was victory, but it passed almost without a cheer; and the crew of D1 turned to look to their own ship. The stern sagged in a twisted ruin, and the lower deck was well awash and seething white with the bubbles of escaping air.

The captain turned to "Sparks,'' the wireless operator.

"Get that message through?"

"Yes, sir— no answer— dynamo stopped."

Captain Hamilton looked away into the grey, pensive, and shielding his face from the driving spray.

"There's a chance," he said, after a pause, turning to the warrant officer. "Mr. Baker?''

"Sir."

"What condition is the ship in? In your opinion, how long will she last?"

"For'ard bulkheads still holdin', sir. Might last an hour."

"Good! Muster the men. Mr. Baker, and send up some signal flares. Keep them occupied. It's cold— freezing. They're shivering."

"Aye, aye. sir."

D1 drifted like a wounded thing, inert and helpless in the surge of the sea. A star shell curved upwards and broke in a cluster, gemming the grey kimono of the dying day far to leeward. The flying spray of the sea ttimg pitilessly, and the wet jackets of the men stiffened in the bite of the cold. The gale eased a little. Hope fought Fear; and the funny man cracked a joke, and everybody laughed. Thirty minutes passed; long drawn out minutes, in which the wag wrorked overtime, drawing different pictures of Hell and its various appointments.

"Ow d yer know, Micky" challenged a sceptic.

"Got the dinkum oil from his Nibs in a dream one night. Straight wire, I did. An' fixed a number, too, I did, an easy number tor meself." Then the imperturbable Mick turned his palms upwards after the manner of a Jew who is going to he liberal, and winked, continuing, "I don't mind givin' her a intro wen we get there. 'Cobbers o' mine.' I'll say, 'right from the Devil's First— make it right for 'em, Nick; 'ad it pretty bad up in the North Sea— not bad blokes either— make it right with 'em, Nick.' There yer are. wot more d'yer want."

He threw his upturned palms downwards, as though everything was right, and there was no more need to worry. His Satanic Majesty would attend to his friends the friends of Mick, whom Death couldn't shake.

Then it happened— seeming unreal in its reality. Out of the curtaining clouds loomed a battleship, full speed like a tower of strength. Cheer upon cheer rose, to be followed by the wind. Men began to talk in shouts. They talked of blighties, girls, and eggs, steak and onions, and four-poster beds.

HALF AN HOUR later the crew of D1 stood sheltering in the lee of one of the battleship's turrets, watching the last fretful labouring of their ship.

Now mark the swing of the pendulum. Somewhere sentiment stirred.

"She was a good ole ——", someone said.

"Went through it like a trivit, didn't she? An' the ole man kept 'er goin'. No stand by with the ole man."

"No other ship 'er size woulder done it."

"She was a 'ome," added another. "A good 'ome she was— a 'ome fer the blind."

A great sea toppled over her, and when it had passed D1 was no more.

"Shes gone—" Gone. It seemed incredible.

"Good-bye, old girl. Good-bye."

Silence fell on the little group, and it was silence which was a tribute— a last, long salute to D1— the Devil's First.

___________________

6: Fool Proof

Anonymous

Port Lincoln Times (Sth Aus) 7 Dec 1934

There are a great many short stories with this title. I could not identify the author of this one.

IT WAS Matt Harker's brainwave. Matt, having matriculated with considerable honors out of the Chicago School for Crookery, believed in brain rather than brawn. Especially one brain. His own.

He wasn't the sort to play second fiddle. A man of Matt's professional standing could scarcely be expected to do anything less dignified than wave, so to speak, a conductor's baton. He'd insisted on that, in effect, when he linked up with us on the Continent. Because we'd been so glad to have him join us, we hadn't disputed his leadership. And the results, so far, had been quite satisfactory, if not too brilliant.

But this latest idea promised put us all on velvet, for quite a long time. We'd arrived at the hydro by the merest accident a couple of days before, something having gone wrong with our car. We put up for the night. Then— at Matt's suggestion— we stayed on.

Formatter dinner on the first evening, it was quite clear to all of us that something had to by done about the place and the people. The hydro, originally an old priory, was a tall, squarish, compact building, standing in its own grounds on a height at the back of Seahaven, and some way out of the town. Anything might happen there in the middle of the night without the neighborhood knowing anything about it. There just wasn't a neighborhood.

And the guests were an unusually choice lot for our purpose. Mostly bits of Old Mayfair, with some retired Stock Exchange, stage, and Divorce Court relics thrown in. All elderly people still trying to be young. There they were, the dear old things, positively asking for trouble. The way they made you feel how nice it was to have plenty of money, and not care if it rained jewellers' shops, was enough to make your mouth water.

There was one dame I noticed in particular so hung about with diamonds that when she was walking with her husband on the terrace in the dark, she looked like a lighthouse on the move. The women were all pretty decorative that way; and the men mostly carried good bulging wallets when they went to the bar. Manna from heaven, as Matt put it.

The only remaining question to answer was how that manna was to be collected.

'Getting out of here with the swag isn't going to be too easy,' said big Tom Martin.

'Easy as kissing your hand!' shrugged Matt.

'That's what the manager here was trying to do with mine last evening!' laughed Saidie. 'And I let him, because I was trying to wheedle one or two things out of him that might oe useful to know.'

'So I guessed, sister!' nodded Matt approvingly. 'The more you cultivate the manager the better for us. I was glad to see you on the job. Did he tell you anything useful?'

'Ask yourself, Matt ! It seems they've a most ingenious system of burglar-alarms here, and he went to the trouble of showing me just how it worked.'

'Waste of goad time!' Matt surprised us by saying tersely.

'How's that?' Big Tom Martin was sweet on Saidie and didn't like having Matt belittle anything she'd done, so he snapped out the question a bit angrily.

'Just because burglar-alarms aren't going to bother us when we clean up here,' said Matt. 'That's where the waste of time comes in, troubling about them. And that's where these hydro people have made their mistake. So busy thinking about catching burglars, they've been, that they've paid no attention to what's even more likely to happen at any minute.'

'What's that ?' demanded Tom.

'Fire!' Matt looked round at us, with a little smile. 'Maybe you haven't noticed there isn't an extinguisher in the whole building. I've been making inquiries. If there was a fire at this hydro they'd have to look for help from the town brigade, half an hour away, and slow-motion at that.'

'Fire?' Try as I might, I couldn't see the least connection. 'What's that to do with what we're discussing, Matt?'

'We're going to provide one, brother,' he said. 'And that fire's going to be the open sesame to this choice little Aladdin's cave of ours.'

For a minute we thought he'd taken leave of his senses. Then he begin to explain. He knew just the right chemicals to make that hydro look like Dante's Inferno without doing any real harm. Meantime, under cover of it, we were to get busy with good effect. As Matt argued, people on the look-out for a fire engine wouldn't have time or sense to realise they were merely being robbed, till it was too late for them to do more than complain.

The very daring of the plan seemed to make its success as good as certain. Matt, however, wasn't having that success anything but definitely certain.

'This thing's got to be absolutely foolproof!'' he insisted time and again, till the saying got on my nerves. Each of us had his— or her— special tasks to carry out, both before and after the curtain went up, so to speak. Saidie had to still further beguile the infatuated manager. One of my jobs was to find out at what hours the police came round the hydro way at nights, so that we could fix our zero hour by contrary. Everything, in short, was done to ensure that the machinery should be well oiled at the word 'go.'

Meantime, we had made ourselves so popular with our intended victims that they simply fed from our hands. Consequently, when the evening of the show arrived, they hailed with the greatest enthusiasm Matt's proposal to organise a species of 'treasure hunt.' It provided a sort of dress rehearsal for us, gave us an excuse for a complete survey of the bedrooms, which would be useful later when the real treasure hunt began.

The evening finished fairly late, and both guests and staff went to bed happy and sleepy, because there'd been a good deal of drink about— the hydro had a club licence— and we'd all of us seen to it that everybody had had plenty. Especially the hydro manager, whom Saidie had conjured with dope and kisses into a deep and lasting sleep in his private room behind the office, the keys of which she had also conjured out of him so that Matt could go through it for any available cash.

'And now to it, folks!' Matt chuckled, when two o'clock struck. Everything was ready— the chemicals were hidden about the place awaiting to be fired, and the telephone wired had all been cut, so that, whatever happened, the hydro was safe from outside help till we'd got clear. It was the easiest walk-over imaginable.

In spite of Matt's assurance, I'd all along been doubtful if these people would fall for things quite so swiftly as he had believed. He'd made no mistake at all, however. Of course, the acrid stench of burning from the chemicals, with glimpses of yellow-and-red flame flickering and dancing here and there amid the dense clouds of stifling smoke, made them more or less helpless with fright.

As we hurried round the rooms, waking them quietly and hurrying them downstairs as fast as possible, they were like sheep being led to the slaughter. They were so eager to get downstairs to safety that they scarcely even waited to put on anything over their night clothes. And a pretty sight they looked in the smoke-fogged electric light— a dithering procession of nightshirts and pyjamas, bald heads and hair-curlers!

Downstairs Matt was waiting for them, pacifying them, kidding them that the brigade was already on its way from the town. The fire wasn't really very bad, he assured them, and pretended that the manager, and the staff were busy keeping it under control till the engine came. In the dense smoke they could see nothing, and they just took his word for it.

Finally they were shepherded into the trap Matt had already for them, and he locked the ball-room door behind the last of them. They were safe there—  there was no other way out.

It took us a very short time to ransack those unoccupied bedrounisr each of us tackling a prearranged floor and bringing down our swag to the office, which Matt had cleared out of cash, We found him waiting for us, with a small open suitcase standing on the table to receive our spoils.

'Could you beat it for a slick pieceof work ?' he was chuckling, when Saidie joined us. She had been getting the car ready, and looked anxious.

'There's a carload of people on the lower road,' she told us breathlessly. 'They look to me like cops, and they're staring up at the hydro as if they guess something's wrong. The lights are all on, you know?'

We piled into the car, and got away by the upper gate on to the higher road just in the nick of time, running the car without lights at first, so as not to be seen. For we could see through the trees, looking back, the car Saidie had mentioned, driving in through the lower gate and making fast for the hydro.

The people in it certainly did look like police. But that didn't worry us at all. We knew we'd be beyond all possibility of pursuit before they could even begin to try to trace us.

We slipped into London just as dawn was breaking, along with a stream of vegetable and milk lorries, and made for the quiet little West End mews where our car was garaged in town, with the flat above which belonged to Matt.

'Say,' he laughed, as we got out, feeling cramped after the long drive and glad to stretch our legs, 'If we just haven't put it over those hydro folk well and good I don't know anything! We should have come away with enough to keep us in clover for months to come! Let's have that case of loot upstairs in the flat, boys! We'll give it the once over and work out what it's worth!'

In the dim morning light of the garage Tom began searching among the baggage in the back of the car, put there during the evening all in readiness. He peered out suddenly, looked puzzled.

'Where did you put that case, Matt?' he demanded, anxiety in his eyes. 'Is it in front with you?'

'I?' Matt was staring at him puzzled.  'I've got no darned case in front! What are you getting at? Last time I saw that case it was on the office table in that hydro, with you guys putting the swag in it. You aren't going to tell me, Tom, that case isn't—'

He made a headlong dive towards the car, as did the rest of us, pulling out every bit of baggage till nothing was left to pull out. And then the truth dawned on us all at the same moment.

Matt's brainwave had come to worse than nothing. We hadn't, after all, cleaned out that hydro. Nobody had been told off to carry that case of swag from the office table to the car. Consequently it had stayed behind on the table, while we—

Foolproof? I ask you!

__________________

7: Prospector

L. C. Douthwaite

1878-1948

News (Adelaide)  6 Jul 1938

TO Silas Carey, of the itching feet, all distant hills were green— or gold. In 25 years there was no rush he had not joined, no new goldfield where he had not pegged his claim— only to throw in his hand to follow the next new gleam. Thus, when he drifted into Northern Manitoba, only because it was the one Canadian area he had not prospected, all he had to show for that will-o'-the- wisp quarter-century was a woodsmanship as nearly impervious to conditions as Nature permits, a steel-wire constitution, and a face so burnt by sun and puckered by snow-glare as to resemble nothing so much as the quartz among  which his life-work lay.

And when, in the frontier town of Lurgen, he called at the Bon Ton Eats Parlor for the stew that was served by Ellie McLeod in person, all he wanted from life was that comely, serene-faced widow with a two-roomed cabin for home.

For his first half-dozen visits he was too, diffident to give any hint of her effect on him. Apart from his mother, now ten years dead, this was the only woman he seemed ever to have noticed.

THERE was a picture show once a week, and, to the excitement of Lurgen, the widow allowed him to take her. Nor did she repel him when, as much to her surprise as to his own, he found her hand in the dark. When they had made their silent way down the unmetalled, moonbathed street, she motioned him inside and to the livingroom, where the floor was laid with a carpet instead of caribou skin, with the backs of factory-made chairs covered with crochet work.

"Are you just putting in a good time, or is it that you mean it?" Ellie said shortly, her fine eyes troubled. She had turned down many men in Lurgen and elsewhere— men far more prosperous than she judged this leathern-faced wanderer to be.

Carey looked at her intently, but unhappily.

"I'd mean all of it, an' more, if I'd anything to mean it with," he said simply. "I didn't ought to 've put you wise— only I just couldn't help it."

" You mean you've no money?" she asked, looking at him through narrowed eyes. "Only enough for a grubstake, and a mighty thin one at that," he admitted.

Her eyes travelled from his own to the door. From the restaurant beyond came the clatter of khives and crockery, the sound of men talking, the scent of coffee and cooking,: and the hurrying feet of waitresses.

"What's the matter with that?" she said— and liked him none the less for the decision of his head-shake.

"That's not for me," he said. "It's up to a man to stake his own claim, not jump one that's been worked by I some person else. I've got to make a stake. I've made 'em before— good ones, too, some of 'em— but I've always thrown in my hand to follow some pipe-dream or other.

"But now— well, I guess the next claim I peg I'll set to work an' develop. Then you can sell this place an' join me... I'll have a cabin ready for you, anyway— built as I know how to build."

The light in her eyes was something more than maternal as she gestured him beside her to the sofa that was her pride.

"Once you tell me you've a worthwhile claim, that'll be good enough for me," she said quietly. "And any cash I get for the business— and all I've got now, and that's more than 30 cents— can go for my half-share. Maybe you'll need a stamp mill, anyway."

His hand covered hers with a more confident clasp than that tenative one in the cinema.

"Partners, eh?" he said, his deep voice husky.

"Just as soon as you say," Ellie said, smiling up at him.

FOR one so habitually reticent, he had made quite a number of acquaintances in Lurgen, and so had liearnt that the country consisted of forest land threaded by a chain of river-connected lakes, and that in general only the shores had been prospected. For why risk being bushed in woods so thick you couldn't see the sun, when there were claims for the staking within reach of water transport?

Carey called at the Claims Office to examine geological maps and decided on an area some 300 miles north-east of Lurgen. After he had bought supplies and a fourth-hand canoe, he had less than 20 dollars in the world.

It was after a good many days of easy paddling and long, hard portages that, at an island-studded lake upon whose shore the trees grew thick as a green-black wall, he reached the point he had chosen. Except for rhuskeg, this was as hard a country as ever he'd prospected. Not only did the trees grow so closely, there were places where he had to edge a way between them, but every few yards the windfalls had piled so high it was necessary to climb over.

To his surprise, if not to his satisfaction, here and there were indications that he was not the first to pass that way; the tree trunks were scarred as by an attempt to blaze a trail: more widely separated were traces of longdead camp fires.

IT was in a small clearing that Carey decided to make camp beside a large, irregularly shaped rock. With the idea of panning a sample of quartz, he cleared a few inches of moss from the stone.

At what that bareness disclosed he stood for a long moment without moving. For here and there on the surface were the dull smears of yellow that are the prospector's dream. The hand that held the tiny pick was not quite steady as he chipped a specimen. When he panned a medium-sized specimen the gold that resulted would have half-filled a salt spoon.

So there he was, after 25 years on the trail, and just when he most needed it, with a worth-while stake. And this time he was going to stay right with it-and her.

It was not until he went into the wood to cut discovery and location posts that he found the body. A youngish man, from what he could see, who must have been there for a considerable time; prospector-clad, and— again, so far as he could see— with no sign of violence. Just another of the army of those who had gone into the wilds and there, stricken with illness or accident, had perished.

After questing for pack and blankets, and finding no trace of either, Carey went through the dead man's pockets. A blackened pipe; pouch of perished rubber; battered cigarette case; hunting knife; wrist watch; compass; wallet with 50 dollars; an envelope addressed Mr. Charles Miller. P.O. Box 271, Lurgen, Man.

The The Mounted Police, to whom he would turn over those effects, would know all about Charlie Miller, as they knew all about everyone in their district. Meantime, there was the claim to stake; the sooner he was back in Lurgen to register, the sooner he'd he able to fix things with Ellie.

He cut his stakes-hacked a flat surface for the lettering on the discovery post. and went to drive it home. And there. projecting from the ground not 20 yards away, was one already. Hardened to disappointment as a life-time on the trail had made him.

For a moment Carey felt physically sick. To make a stake like that— only to find that someone had been there first. He went over and, with a little effort, pulled up the stake so that he could read the words that were burnt into it against the time-and-weather-discolored background.

JESSICA MINE.

CHARLIE MILLER,

LURGEN.

JUNE 14, 1935.

CHARLIE Miller! The man who lay dead only a few yards away— and who, it was obvious, had passed out before he could register his find. And, without registration, there is no legal ownership. For the time being Carey put that thought away and went to find the dead man's camp. He found it almost at the beginning of his circuit; the ashes of long-dead fires, the grub-box, the sleeping bag, the pack with its cake of soap and writing pad, and pills and bootlaces and towel. And a letter from "Your adoring wife, Jessica," that, to the newly awakened Carey, was so much more intimate in word than in spirit, complaining of bills and boredom, and hoping her "dear, dear Charlie" would bring home some money.

Throughout that day, over a succession of pipes, Carey wrestled with his temptation. Bury the body, and make his report only after he'd registered. Nobody could touch him then; he'd be safe. Except, of course, from himself. And, to Silas Carey, old-time prospector and hard-boiled itinerant, only himself— and one other—counted.

IT was just before freeze-up some months later that, at a quiet part of the day, Carey clumped into the Bon Ton.

"Never mind, my dear— just so long as you're back safe," Ellie said in a voice that, even at their closest, he had not heard before. "Had a pretty hard trip, I guess?"

"Hard?" His voice was bitter. "I'll say it was hard." His hand went to his mackinaw pocket; produced a handful of quartz.

"Take a look at these— that I found— but that ain't, mine!"

As he told her of his discovery of the dead man her eyes never left his face. When he showed those pitiful relics, and she read the Jessica letter, he saw those eyes narrow.

"Go register that claim quick as if your pants were ablaze." she said.

He stared at her. "Listen," he said. "I'm a roughneck. but I'm not out to rob widows."

"You mean Jessica?" she queried.

"Sure," he said. "Charlie Miller's widow, who that claim belongs to."

"That girl's no more Charlie's widow than I'm Mary Queen of Scots—though I'm not sayin' that she oughtn't to've been—" she said, with a satiric curl of her lips. "And even before he was due home she'd beat it to the States with a bartender."

"Then maybe that lets me out," he suggested hopefully, and this time Ellie's smile was revealing.

"I should say so— seeing it was me who grub-staked Charlie for the trip just to get him away from her," she said.

__________________

8: Christmas With A Punch

Peter Cheyney

1896-1951

Chronicle (Adelaide), 10 Dec 1931

An early Cheyney story, before he found his groove with Slim Callaghan, Lemmy Caution, and the "Dark" secret agent series.

THE unfortunate Sebastian Erasmus Bealby gazed tremulously over the tops of his spectacles and waited for the storm to break. He had not long to wait.

'Bealby,' said his wife, as she put down the teapot with unusual decision, 'may I ask why the coal was not brought up this morning? May I ask why my early tea was half an hour late? May I ask whether you intend to carry out your household duties or whether you intend to continue with this slackness permanently?' She paused, a piece of toast poised in her hand. Sebastian blinked across the breakfast table.

'You see, my dear, it's the overtime,' he said. 'You will remember that 'vve been working late every nignt. Last night I wasn't home until eleven. Christmas is always such a bad time for us— there's so much to do, and I'm afraid that I overslept this morning.'

The teeth of Mrs. Bealby snapped over the piece of toast. Sebastian felt as if he, almost, were within those jaws and that the white teeth were crunching him. 'Very well, Bealby,' said his wife, 'instead of your usual twenty cigarettes this week I shall only allow you ten. You must be taught punctuality, although— goodness knows— you ought to have learned it by this time!'

'But, my dear,' stammered Sebastian.

'That will do, Bealby,' said his wife.

A deep silence reigned.

HURRYING to catch the 9.30, with his feet slipping over the snowy pavements, Sebastian observed, with envy, the large and manly form of Mr. Hubert Wyblot some ten yards in front of him. Wyblot was a lucky man, thought Bealby. He was respected and feared by his wife. The Wyblots lived next door to the Bealbys, and the walls were thin. Time and time again Mr. Bealby had heard Wyblot laying down the law to his pretty wife. Time and time again he heard the enterprising Hubert 'telling off' his better half for some imagined grievance.

Sebastian sympathised with Margaret Wyblot. She was young and pretty; she adored Hubert, and she allowed him to walk over her. His word was law in the house. What a contrast to himself, thought Sebastian. In his house the situation was reversed. His life was a misery. He was henpecked and unhappy. His cigarettes and a few shillings to spend were doled out to him each week.

Sebastian never remembered just how all this business had started. Vaguely, he remembered times in the past when his wife had been charming and kind. Indeed, she was still attractive, but she was master in the house and everywhere else, and she let Sebastian know it— as often as possible.

In front Wyblot was hurrying. Sebastian realised that if he did not hurry, too, he would miss the 9.30. He increased his pace, trod on a piece of ice, described a semi-circle in the air, and fell with a crash on that spot intended by Nature for such business. Ruefully he picked himself up. Brushed the loose snow from his clothes, and rubbed himself dolefully. Then he hurried towards the station and arrived— just in time to see the 9.30 steaming out. Wyblot, as usual, had just managed to catch it. Wyblot would!

Sebastian sat down and thought. This would mean that he would be half an hour late at the office. It would also mean that Mr. Larkins, the senior partner, would send for him and give him a good telling off. Sebastian sighed. He thought that he didn't like Christmas very much. There was always trouble of some sort. It was the end of the year, and the partners were looking around to see who they could sack. Possibly, and Bealby's heart almost stopped beating at the thought, Mr. Larkins might consider this morning's lateness sufficient excuse to get rid of him. He thought of his fifteen years' service with the firm, and sighed.

'Hallo, Mr. Bealby; have you missed your train?' He looked round. It was Margaret Wyblot. She looked pretty and attractive in her winter coat and gloves.

He smiled ruefully, and nodded.

'I'm just going up to town,' she said. 'I didn't go with Hubert because I had to think about his special supper tonight. He has it rather late now that he's rehearsing with your wife'— she stopped suddenly and put her fingers to her mouth. 'Now I've done it,' she said. 'I've given it all away, and neither Hubert nor your wife will ever forgive me. Please promise that you won't tell Please, Mr. Bealby, do promise.'

'I'll promise anything,' said Sebastian, 'if you'll tell what it's all about. What's the great secret?'

'Well, you see,' she said, 'Hubert and your wife are going to perform a sketch at the Christmas concert that Hubert is getting up. They've been keeping it a secret from everyone. It's quite easy for them to rehearse at your house in the evening because you are working overtime, and you never get home until ten-thirty or eleven. Then, when it's all ready they're going to surprise everyone.'

'I see,' said Bealby. 'I wonder why Mary didn't tell me about it. No. I don't. She never tells me anything, anyhow.'

'Poor you,' said Margaret Wyblot. 'I'm afraid that we're neither of us a match for our respective spouses. But never mind. I've got a surprise for you. Something that will bring you luck.'

She felt in her pocket and produced a small horseshoe— one of the type to worn by Shetland ponies. She had polished it and it shone like silver.

'I found this yesterday,' she said, 'and I was going to give it to Hubert. Then I thought that, anyhow, he's always very lucky, and that I would give it to you, just so that you should have good luck for Christmas. Would you like it?'

Sebastian smiled. 'Rather!' he said.

It was a long time since anyone had given him anything.

He took the horseshoe and put it in his pocket. He felt better already. It was a nice thought on Margaret's part, he considered. Perhaps he wasn't such an old 'out-of-date' after all.

The train arrived, and they found a deserted carriage. 'What's the sketch about— is it dramatic?' asked Sebastian. 'I never guessed that either Hubert or my wife were amateur actors.'

She smiled. 'Neither did I,' she said, 'but Hubert says that it's going to be awfully good. He's supposed to be a cat-burglar who has broken into a house where a lady is all alone. She surprises him whilst he is robbing tne safe, and he threatens her with a revolver. But, by a trick, she gets possession of the revolver and turns the tables on him. Tonight's the last rehearsal. They're going to start at nine and rehearse until ten-forty-five, because Mrs. Bealby says you will be working very late tonight and won't be home until eleven o'clock. I shall have to wait up for Hubert.'

Sebastian nodded. Some people had all the fun, he thought, but as he did so his hand '.touched the horseshoe in his pocket and for some unknown reason it made him feel almost happy.

Sebastian was removing his overcoat, when the office boy came into the outer office. 'Mr. Larkins wants to see you, Mr. Bealby,' said the boy with a grin. Sebastian's heart sank. The best he could expect from Larkins was a good telling off! He hung up his overcoat, and as he did so his hand knocked against the horseshoe in the overcoat packet. He took it out and looked at it. After all, why shouldn't there be something in the idea that a horseshoe was lucky.

Sebastian slipped it into his trouser pocket, and felt all the better for it.

He'd always been much too meek with old Larkins, he thought. If the old man said too much he would tell him that he couldn't be responsible for accidents. He would not stand meekly before the senior partner's desk, and say, 'Yes, sir,' 'Sorry, sir.'

He rapped on the door and entered. Old Larkins was seated at his desk, and behind him stood the two junior partners.

Larkins looked up. 'Now, look here, Bealby,' he began heavily.

Sebastian thought of the horseshoe and interrupted. 'I'm sorry I was late,' he began, breathlessly, 'but I had an accident and slipped over a bit of ice. Nothing very much, but it made me lose my train, and— '

Larkins waved his hand. 'Why worry about that, Bealby,' he said. 'Do you think that we haven't noticed that you've only been late four times in fifteen years? Now take a chair and listen to me.'

'Bealby,' said Larkins with a smile 'we're going to make you a partner. Business has improved wonderfully during the last two years and quite a lot of it is due to your steady work, You'll receive an increased salary as general manager, and a sixteenth snare of the profits. My congratulations!'

Larkins held out his hand, Bealby— almost dizzy — could see that he was smiling.

He shook hands with the partners in turn. 'Bit of a surprise, eh?' said Larkins. 'Tomorrow, well talk it all over, in the meantime wny don't you take the day off? I expect your fall shook you a bit. Lovelli, ask the boy to go and get a whisky and soda for Bealby."

IT WAS nine-thirty when Sebastian— a large cigar protruding from his mouth— crept silently through the garden at the back of his house and approached the French windows.

Everything depended upon his not being heard or discovered. He had worked out his plot to the last degree. Mary and Wyolot would be rehearsing in the room which was behind the French windows. The windows were unlatched, and behind them was a thick curtain. He remembered the details of the sketch which Margaret Wyblot had given him, and hoped that circumstances would allow him to put his plan into execution.' Gently he pushed open the window and stepped through, hidden from the room by the curtains.

He could hear Wyblot speaking:— 'Now this is the important part,' he was saying. 'This bit where you enter the room and discover me at the safe. We'd better do it as we shall do it at the performance. You go out of the room. Then you come in and find me— in the dark— with an electric torch shining on the safe. Then I say 'Hands up!' and cross the room and switch on the light. Let's do that bit, shall we?'

'All right,' Bealby heard his wife reply. She walked across the room, switched off the light and closed the door behind her. As darkness filled the room, Bealby slipped through the curtains. Wyblot was kneeling down before the bookcase, his electric torch shining on the books. Bealby waited to spring.... He heard the door open and his wife enter. Wyblot flashed his torch round until the light fell upon her. 'Hands up!!' He shouted, and as he did so Sebastian sprang and hit him full upon the nose.

'That'll teach you,' he shouted, 'if you think I'm going to stand by and have burglars threaten my wife you're mistaken. Mary— telephone for the police at once. Switch on the light!'

He heard a gasp, and then the light went on.

An expression of amazement came over Bealby's face. 'Why— what's this?' he said. 'Wyblot? What are you doing here? What does this mean, Mary?'

Wyblot said nothing. He was nursing a bleeding nose. 'We were only rehearsing, Harry,' said Mary Bealby. 'We—'

'Good heavens,' interrupted Sebastian, 'This is a joke! I came in by the back way because I'd forgotten my key, and as I approached and opened the French window I heard a man say, "Hands up!" Naturally I thought it was a burglar.'

Wyblot staggered to his feet. 'By Jove, Bealby,' he said, 'you've got a deuce of a punch. I've never been hit so hard in all my boxing experience. Anyhow, this is our own fault. We ought to have told you that we were rehearsing for the Christmas concert. Do you mind if I go to the bathroom and fix my nose?'

He hurried off. Bealby turned to his wife. Her eyes were shining.

'Oh, Harry,' she said. 'I never knew that you were so brave. I was so disappointed in you because I thought you were so meek that anyone could frighten you. Just fancy, you would have fought a six-foot burglar who was armed with a revolver— and all for me!'

Sebastian smiled. 'Oh, that's nothing,' he said. 'Incidentally, Mary, there are one or two things I want to say to you. The first is that you will get a maid at once. I'm sick of carrying up the coals. The second thing is that you will behave like you used to, or I shall want to know why. I've had enough of this henpecking business. Oh, by the bye, you'd better get supper for four. Wyblot had better stay as I've punctured his nose, and I'll telephone his wife to come round. And hurry, I don't want to wait, I'm hungry.'

'Yes, dear,' said his wife, meekly.

'Also,' continued Sebastian, 'I shan't want to be called till ten o'clock tomorrow. I'm not going up until eleven. I forgot to tell you that I'm a partner in the firm now, and that we're having a meeting to fix things at lunch tomorrow. Whilst I'm telephoning you'd better tell Wyblot when he's finished looking after his nose that several of us men around here are a bit sick of the way he talks to his wife. It's no business of mine, of course, but I'd hate to lose my temper one day and hit him. I'm pretty hasty when I'm roused, and he might get another smack on the nose. And you'd better get your hair waved tomorrow, you look a sight when the curls come out.'

'Yes, dear,' said Mrs. Bealby, still more meekly.

Sebastian went out into the hall towards the telephone. As he walked lie removed a small horseshoe from the glove on his right hand. No wonder Wvblot had said that he had a deuce of a punch!

'Hello. Is that you, Margaret?' he said, cheerfully. 'Came round to supper, will you? Hubert is staving on. He's had a little accident— nothing much— just a smack on the nose. And, by-the-bye, don't forget that I knew nothing about the rehearsal tonight. You see. I returned home suddenly and found a burglar threatening my wife, and I knocked him down. When you arrive, you might like to ask Hubert why he didn't put up a better show. It might do him good, and, Margaret, thank you for your horseshoe. It's going to bring us both lots of luck  and happiness for Christmas. You'll find a much more charming husband, and Mary will never henpeck me any more. I'm too tough! Come along quickly, and after supper we'll make them rehearse the show again!'

__________

9: The Missing Blade

Fred M. White

1859-1935

The Wyalong Advocate,  13 Dec 1913

IT is not, as a rule, an asset in favour of promotion for an obscure country policeman to succeed where the shining lights of Scotland Yard have failed. But this is precisely what happened in connection with the death of Mr. James Mirriton, of The Orchard House, Westborough. From the very first the Chief Constable had made up his mind that it was a case of suicide, and the people in London saw no reason to quarrel with this view. As a matter of fact, it was Constable George Cowtan who first viewed the body. He had been summoned hastily to the Orchard House by a frightened housekeeper, who aroused him with the information that her master was locked in the bathroom, and that she could get no reply. On Cowtan entering the house and breaking open the bathroom door, he found the unfortunate Mr. Mirriton lying dead on the floor in a pool of blood, which apparently flowed from a severed carotid artery, the wound had evidently been inflicted while the deceased was in the act of shaving, for his chin was covered with lather and a blood-stained razor lay upon the floor. Seeing that the bathroom door had been locked from the inside, there was only one conclusion to which to come. Further investigation confirmed the authorities in their view, Mr. Mirriton committed suicide, and there was an end of the matter so far as the Yard was concerned.

But it so happened that Constable George Cowtan possessed a clear grey eye, and something remarkable in the way of a chin. He had entered the police force with the deliberate intention of becoming a detective. He preferred the life in question to the dull routine of a village general shop, and he had read a vast deal of literature on the subject of crime. There were very few authorities that he had not at his finger-tips. Thus it came about that he took the liberty of calling on his district superintendent and asking for an opportunity for going further into the matter.

"You've got your work to do," the superintendent said.

"Then put me on night duty," Cowtan urged. "If you do that I shall have a few hours a day to myself. I honestly believe, sir, that I can clear this mystery up."

The superintendent nodded sympathetically. If there was any mystery here, and Cowtan could clear it up, then the reflected glory would be his.

"Very well, Cowtan," he said. "But what makes you think that there has been foul play here?"

"Well, sir," Cowtan said, modestly, "I've read a goodish bit of criminology. I know my Galton and Collins by heart. And I've got all the French text-books at home. When I came to think over that business of Mr. Mirriton's, it struck me that I'd read something like it before. And so I had, sir. Of course, some of the details are different, but the main outlines are the same. Now, why should Mr. Mirriton commit suicide? He was a vigorous old gentleman, a good sportsman, and he was getting a handsome income from his business in London. He was in the habit of going to town twice a week by the 8.30 train from here. In winter-time like this, when he was going to town he invariably got his own breakfast, which he cooked by means of a spirit stove, as he did not like to get his housekeeper up so early. On the morning of his death he was going to London as usual, and nobody was up at the time, when he ought to have left the house. Besides the housekeeper, Mr. Mirriton had his niece, Mrs. Glynn, staying with him. This is the young married lady with a husband who is rather delicate, and Mrs. Glynn came down here to borrow sufficient money for a tour on the Continent. This I got from the housekeeper. I also discovered that Mr. Mirriton derived most of his income from his business. At his death the business devolves upon a distant relative of his, a Mr. Patrick Hayes. Mr. Hayes is a bachelor, and spends a good deal of time down here. He is the little lean man who gave evidence at the inquest. He has been in the habit of spending two or three nights a week at The Orchard House— in fact, was more or less one of the family. He should have been here at the time of the tragedy, but he missed his train at Westborough Town, and telephoned that he could not get back that night.

"I hope I'm not wasting your time, sir, but these details are important. You see, sir, Mr. Mirriton was very fond of his niece, and being a somewhat extravagant man, spent his income. As he would have no share in the business to leave, he insured his life many years ago for twenty thousand pounds in favour of Mrs. Glynn. It was one of the old-fashioned policies, and, on the ground that he committed suicide, the insurance company naturally declines to pay."

"This is very interesting, Cowtan," the superintendent muttered.

"Indeed it is sir," Cowtan said, eagerly. "And it should have come out at the inquest. Mr. Mirriton was devoted to his niece and her child, and I am sure he would have never committed an act that would have deprived her of all that money. You may depend upon it, sir, that Mr. Mirriton was murdered."

"Have you got anything else?" the superintendent asked.

"Yes, sir, I have," Cowtan said, quietly. "If you will only give me an opportunity— "

So Cowtan went on his way with the assurance that he had a superior officer behind him. An hour or two later and he was seated in the dining-room of The Orchard House, discussing the matter with Mrs. Glynn. She was dressed in deep mourning, her pretty face was white and careworn.

"I will tell you all I know," she said, eagerly. "This has been a terrible shock to me. I cannot believe that my uncle took his own life. Apart from the loss of the money, I would give anything to remove this stain from my uncle's character. And goodness knows we need the money badly enough. It is absolutely essential that my husband should spend the winter in France. And now we cannot go. Please do not think me unduly selfish."

"I think I can alter things, madam," Cowtan said modestly. "If I can prove my theory then you will get your money. Would you mind answering a few questions? On the night before the tragedy who slept in the house?"

"The housekeeper and myself," Mrs. Glynn explained. "Mr Hayes ought to have been down here, only he missed the connection."

"And came on in the morning, I suppose?"

"No, I think he went back to town. He telephoned rather late in the evening from Westborough Town, explaining the reason why he could not get here. I took the message myself."

"You did? Trunk call, of course?" Cowtan asked.

"Oh, yes. Westborough must be at least ten miles. I remember the exchange telling me that we were on the trunk. But, really, I quite fail to see—"

Cowtan did not argue the point. He jotted down a few heads in his note book, and went away with an intimation that he would call later in the evening with a view to seeing Mr. Hayes, who was expected by the last train. The young detective was feeling fairly pleased with himself as he mounted his bicycle and made his way in the direction of Westborough Town. He had his official permit in his pocket, and there was no difficulty therefore in obtaining an interview with the superintendent of the local telephone exchange. Half an hour later, Cowtan came out of the office carrying a compact leather case in his hand. He rode back to Westborough and pulled up at the roadside where the telephone lines branched across the fields in the direction of The Orchard House. Apparently Mr. Mirriton's telephone had been an expensive luxury, for the wire from the main road to the house extended quite 800 yards. Cowtan took from his pocket a small but powerful pair of binoculars, and, walking along under the wires, examined them carefully inch by inch. By the third post, which was almost hidden in a clump of firs, he paused and scrutinised the copper threads minutely. A tiny pin point gleamed in the setting sun, and Cowtan closed his glasses with a triumphant snap.

It was a little after nine when the young detective called upon Mr. Patrick Hayes. These two had met before during the inquest, so that Cowtan had little to learn as to the outward and visible appearance of the man whom he had come to see. Hayes was small and slight, his left leg dragged painfully, and his hands shook in a manner that suggested some natural infirmity. His eye was clear enough, there was no trace of dissipation on his features, so that it was difficult to assign a reason for that palsied tremor in the long, slim fingers. In his own quiet way, Cowtan made a mental photograph of these characteristics for future reference. There was one little thing he noticed, and this pleased him more than all the rest. He had a tiny scrap of paper in his pocket-book which he intended to produce with deadly effect a little later on. He was wondering how Hayes with that terribly shaky hand, managed to shave himself so effectually. He did not fail to see that Hayes's cheek and chin was as soft and velvety as that of a little child. He looked as if he possessed a strong beard, too, if his coarse black hair and moustache counted for anything.

"I would like to ask you a question, sir, if you don't mind," Cowtan said. "You see, the insurance company are disposed to do something if we can only show a reasonable doubt—"

It seemed to the speaker that Hayes's manner became somewhat less guarded.

"I'll do all I can," he said. "Of course, between ourselves, the jury's verdict was a correct one."

"My chief is certain of it, sir," Cowtan said. "It's a great pity you weren't here the other night, sir."

"A thousand pities," Hayes agreed, heartily. "But I missed the connection at the junction, so that I had to put up at Westborough Town for the night."

"Not a pleasant place to stay in, sir," Cowtan said, genially.

"Oh I found the Railway Hotel passable enough," Hayes replied. "No bathroom or anything of that kind, of course—"

"And no shaving water," Cowtan smiled respectfully. "But when a man hasn't got his razors, it doesn't much matter."

Hayes responded pleasantly enough that his natural infirmity prevented him from shaving himself. Cowtan asked a few more questions of a trivial nature, and then rose to go.

"I'm sorry to trouble you, sir," he said. "But before I leave I should like just to have a minute or two in the bathroom, if I may. And if you happen to be down here again this week—"

"Couldn't possibly manage it," Hayes interrupted. "I have neglected the business this last week or so. Now go and amuse yourself— I mean, go up in the bathroom and have a look round if you like."

He gave a gesture of dismissal, and Cowtan respectfully saluted and left the room. The bathroom was a small slip of a place over the kitchen, and had been obviously adapted for the purpose. The window was a casement one of the old-fashioned type, with an iron upright against which the two sashes closed. There was a looking-glass here, a shaving-table, and a fire-place, from all of which it was evident that the unfortunate Mirriton had used the place as a dressing-room. The windows were open now; indeed, it was only fair to assume that Mr. Hayes invariably preferred them that way, seeing that he was a strong advocate for fresh air, and had often boasted that never had he slept or breathed in any room with the window closed. Cowtan stood pondering here for a few minutes until an object caught his attention, and he took it eagerly in his hand.

"Two of them," he muttered. "Now, I wonder if I dare take this, or shall I leave it behind? Perhaps I had better leave it, seeing that I have evidence enough already. Yes, I think I'll risk leaving it."

Once at home in the seclusion of his own room, Cowtan began to fit his facts together. He went over all the ground carefully and thoughtfully, then he produced from his pocket book a scrap of paper which apparently had formed a portion of an envelope. It must have been an exceedingly small envelope, scarcely more than an inch and a quarter by three quarters. It was made of some thin tough paper, which apparently had been smeared with grease or vaseline on the inside. On this fragment, in faint brown letters, a portion of an address was printed. Cowtan made it out thus:

"...plane Co., Ltd., ....pector, 0125."

"So far so good," Cowtan muttered. "It's only a tiny clue, of course, but unless I'm greatly mistaken, it's going to hang a man before I've finished. The great weakness of the clever criminal very often is that he is too clever. When a man's tracks are practically blind, there is no occasion to make them appear blinder still. And that's where my man has been so foolish. Now, I'll just send this to London, and see what they say about it. And if my suspicions are correct, I shall have no trouble in getting a search warrant both here and in London."

Cowtan sat down and concocted a somewhat cautious letter, the address of which sounded prosaic enough, but at the same time, perhaps, destined to produce a reply which would go far to solve the mystery of The Orchard House. As a matter of fact, the letter was addressed as follows:

The Monoplane Safety Razor Co. Ltd.,

1125a, Oxford-street.

Gentlemen,— I am desired by a Superintendent Gregory of Westborough, to call your attention to the enclosed envelope, which has obviously contained a blade for use in connection with one of your safety razors. You will notice that though the fragment is torn it still contains the number of your inspector who passed the parcel from which the blade came, and certified them for use. I understand that your system enables you to trace the retailer or private individual to whom all blades are sold. I quite appreciate the difficulty there will be in the case of a sale over the counter, but I understand these blades are frequently faulty, and that if customers write to you direct you are always willing to supply fresh blades. It may happen that you are in a position to inform us the name of the person to whom the blade originally wrapped in the enclosed envelope was sent.

If you can accommodate us in this respect you will be rendering the police a distinct service. If you will communicate with me by telephone to the Police-station, Westborough, I shall be obliged.

Yours respectfully,

George Cowtan, Constable.

It was fine and sunny in the morning as Cowtan made his way in the direction of The Orchard House. He did not call this time, but made his way round to the garden on to which the bathroom looked. For the next two hours he searched with marvellous patience amongst the mass of shrubs and vegetables, within a radius of twenty yards from the house. His search was rewarded at length, for he seemed to be perfectly satisfied with an oblong scrap of rusty iron, which he put away as carefully as if it were made of gold. As he came round to the front of the house again he encountered Mrs. Glynn.

She came eagerly forward with questioning eyes. "Have you done anything?" she asked.

"I think I've done a good deal, madam," Cowtan said, quietly. "Within a few days you will have no further anxiety on the subject of your future. And you can help me, if you will be so good. I should like to go over the bedrooms, if I may; but I want to go without the knowledge of the housekeeper. She is rather a talkative woman, and I dare not take any risks just now."

"Then you'd better come in at once," Mrs. Glynn urged. "The housekeeper has just gone down to the village, and she is certain to be away for an hour."

But it was far less than an hour that served Cowtan's purpose. There was a smile of quiet triumph on his face as he left the house. Mrs. Glynn was awaiting him.

"You have discovered something?" she asked, eagerly.

"I have discovered a great deal, madam," Cowtan said, quietly. "I am certain now that Mr. Mirriton did not commit suicide. It is only a question of a few days, and I am sure that the insurance company will be perfectly satisfied. I can't tell you any more at present, but by the end of the week everything will be cleared up."

It was fully three days before Cowtan received his telephone message from the manager of the Monoplane Safety Razor Company. They had had no difficulty in tracing the purchaser of the blades in question, because it so happened that he had bought them from the head branch direct.

"It was a new razor," the manager went on. "It was purchased with the customary twelve from Diamond and Co., in Oxford-street. Unfortunately, the blades were faulty, and the gentleman who bought the razor wrote to us direct. He was very angry, and, of course, we were only too pleased to send him twelve fresh blades."

"One moment," Cowtan interrupted. "Let me clearly understand. Am I to take it that one of these changed blades was actually wrapped up in the envelope, a portion of which I sent you?"

"Most emphatically you can," the manager replied. "You see, we kept the letter of the gentleman who complained. We should do so in the ordinary course of business. We never like to offend customers. Especially a customer who has purchased two of our razors within the last year. If you would like to know his name and address, I shall be happy—"

"Not on the telephone," Cowtan interrupted, hastily. "I'll come to London this afternoon and see you. Then perhaps you won't mind making a statement in writing and lending me that letter for a day or two."

The manager was perfectly willing, and, with a feeling of pride in his work, Cowtan rang off. Outside in the corridor he came in contact with his superintendent.

"Running the office, eh," the latter said, jocularly. "What's all that telephoning about? And what are you going to London for?"

"I'm going to London, sir," Cowtan said, crisply, "to get the last piece of evidence which will enable you to arrest the person who murdered Mr. Mirriton. Oh, I've worked it all out, sir. By the time I come back this evening I'm quite certain that I shall be able to convince you that I am right. You will be able to get your warrant and arrest the murderer without any fuss."

The superintendent whistled softly. "I suppose you know what this means for you?" he asked.

"Promotion, I hope, sir," Cowtan said, modestly. "I'm sanguine that they may give me a chance at Scotland Yard. I expect to be back by the seven o'clock train, and I should like to come round, if I may, to your house and discuss the matter afterwards."

"Come and have some supper," the superintendent said, heartily. "I hope this will be a good thing for you; and it won't be a bad thing for me if it comes to that. Well, good luck to you, and may you not be mistaken."

There was nothing wild or excited about Cowtan as he entered the superintendent's sitting-room at eight o'clock the same night. He ate his supper heartily, and took the cigar which his superior officer proffered to him.

"Now, in one word," said the latter, "who is the man?"

"The man who murdered Mr. Mirriton is his cousin, Patrick Hayes," Cowtan explained. "I have the proofs here."

"But the man was away at the time. He telephoned from Westborough Town saying that he had missed his connection. All that came out in the evidence at the inquest."

"I'm glad you mentioned that, sir," Cowtan said, "because that's exactly what Mr. Hayes did not do. You see, I was the first person to see the body. While they were sending for you, I spent my time in looking about. And I dropped upon what occurred to me to be a clue. I had to deduce one or two points. But I was quite justified by results."

"Stop a bit," the superintendent said. "Give me a pointer or two. What did you discover in the bathroom?"

"Well, sir, I discovered that Mr. Mirriton had not cut his throat with the razor that was found close by the body. I didn't say anything of this at the inquest, because if I had I should certainly have scared my man away. Now, Mr. Mirriton was an old-fashioned type of English gentleman— the sort of man that hates change. If you look at the razors in this case you will see that they are of a very antiquated type. The razor he was supposed to be shaving with had blood smeared all along the edge. If it had been used to sever the artery, the blood would have been sprinkled over it. I had that razor in my hand, and I made a startling discovery at once. The blade had been smeared with vaseline. The edge was so dull that it would not even cut a bit of paper. The other razor in the case was in fine fettle. I contend that one of the razors went wrong, and that Mr. Mirriton had smeared it with vaseline, intending to take it to London some of these early days and get it properly set. Therefore, I felt sure that he could not have cut his throat with that weapon, and, as the other razor was folded in the case, some other means of destroying life had been adopted. Now, having established my theory of the murder, I had to decide whether the guilty party had entered the bathroom from inside the house or from without. The bathroom window was some sixteen or seventeen feet from the ground, and as I could find no marks of a ladder, I decided that the murderer was in the house at the time Mr. Mirriton entered the bathroom."

"Go on, Cowtan," the superintendent said, encouragingly.

"Thank you, sir. It couldn't be the housekeeper or Mrs. Glynn. And I found something else in the bathroom which I will mention presently. You will see just now how my second discovery turned my attention towards Mr. Patrick Hayes. I put a few adroit questions to Mrs. Glynn and elicited the fact that Mr. Hayes ought to have been here on the night of the murder, but that he unfortunately missed his connection at Westborough Town, and telephoned from there that he could not get back. This struck me as being rather a clever alibi in its way."

"If the exchange people were in collusion."

"There was no occasion even for that. I don't suppose that you've noticed that the telephone wires extend eight hundred yards from the road across the fields to The Orchard House. It would be an easy matter for Hayes to come here and cut the wires, and thus obtain contact with the house by means of what telephone linesmen call a "tapper." As a matter of fact, Hayes did this. He spoke in an assumed voice as if he were a trunk operator, and then, in his natural tone, told Mrs. Glynn that he could not get back. The repairing of the wire was an easy matter, and that is exactly how he established his alibi. I can show you to-morrow, if you like, exactly where the wire was cut and a fresh piece connected up with the insulator. More than this, I have it from the exchange at Westborough Town that there was no trunk call from there to The Orchard House on the day in question. Hayes informed me that he spent that night at the Station Hotel, though, as a matter of fact, they had not a single guest in the house."

"That doesn't prove much," the superintendent said— "I mean, it doesn't actively connect Hayes with the crime."

"I'm coming to that, sir," Cowtan went on. "This is what I found in the bathroom."

He took from his pocket-book a scrap of paper, in which the blade of the safety razor had been enclosed, and proceeded to unfold that side of the story.

"That's interesting," the superintendent murmured.

"I thought it would be," Cowtan said. "I picked up that bit of paper in the bathroom grate, and I found the blade that came out of it in the garden. Hayes was cunning enough to tell me he did not shave himself, but in his bedroom I found a Monoplane Safety Razor with the blade in use. There were ten blades in the case, and this one I now produce from my pocket makes a dozen. I can produce evidence to prove that those actual twelve blades were purchased from the Monoplane people, and his letter to them ordering the same I have on me now. I have not the slightest doubt that Hayes came back to The Orchard House very late on the night of the murder and let himself in with his latch-key. A little later— and that prying housekeeper will tell us how deeply in debt he is. But that's a digression, sir. I don't profess to say exactly how the murder was committed, but probably Hayes followed his employer into the bathroom and attacked him from behind. A blow might have rendered him partially insensible, and while he was on the floor the deed was done. I expect, if we knew the truth, Hayes had a fresh blade for his razor in his hand— indeed, he must have done so, or I should not have found the envelope in the grate. All he had to do was to draw the blade across the throat of his victim, and the thing was done. After that he locked the bathroom door, and dropped lightly through the window to the ground. And that's about all I've got to tell you. It is for you to say, sir, whether I've given you enough to justify you in applying for a warrant for the arrest of Mr. Patrick Hayes."

The superintendent pitched his cigar into the fireplace. "Excellent, Cowtan, excellent!" he cried. "I'll just go across to the nearest magistrate and swear an information. You shall go with me to London to-morrow, and help me to effect the arrest. And it won't be my fault if they don't hear a good deal about this at Scotland Yard."

____________

10: Local Color

Anonymous

Port Lincoln Times (Sth Aust), 22 March 1935

YOUNG Freddie Ambrose found it hard work making a name as a writer of short stories. People did not seem to like them, though Freddie read them through and through repeatedly, and each time found them good. It was Fleming, editor of The Corinthian, who first tried to put Freddie on the right track. The youthful author gate-crashed Fleming's private sanctum by some miraculous means and faced the old man with desperation.

'In ten weeks, Mr. Fleming, I've sent you ten jolly good stories. They've all come back. Why? What's wrong with them?' he pleaded.

Fleming did not answer at once, for an editor cannot have at his fingertips a detailed knowledge of every story submitted to him. Instead, he sent for one of his readers. Followed a consultation between editor and reader, and then Fleming enlightend the fuming Freddie.

'Your stories are too much like fiction, Mr. Ambrose. That's the trouble with them. You get good ideas, but you miswrite them and make them incredible. You let your imagination run away with you. What is the use of trying to describe a Channel crossing if you've never crossed the Channel? See what I mean? Go out and about and find your plots and your local color. Vivid— telling  but not unbelievable.

'People— at least the people we cater for— do not want fantasy. They want real life described in real-life language, with the sure touch of authority shining through it.'

Freddie had not descended two of the long flight of stairs to the street below before he had made a solemn vow to himself.

'Fleming wants reality. Fleming shall have it.'

All day the vow rang in his ears. It was still ringing in them when that evening, as on every other evening for some months past, he met Edith McGill on the 7.45 train for home. He told Edith everything— he always did— but Edith shook her head.

'You're wrong, Freddie, and he's wrong, too,' she said decisively. ' Take it from me. I write stories for a living, and live pretty well out of them. But they're not real-life stories, they're frankly impossible.  Cinderella and Prince Charming every time— miraculous adventures which always have a happy endiui;— the crook with the heart of gold. I'm not suggesting that those are your lines, but that's the idea. Go out for the wildly imaginative stuff; be creative. People get enough of real life without having to sit down and read about it every evening.'

But Freddie showed unusual stubbornness, and that was how the quarrel started. The first they had had. Edith was fond of Freddie, and looked forward to marrying him. She told him so— though he knew it already— but, not without point, she explained that marriage cost money.

'Be a dear, Freddie,' she urged, 'and write rubbish like mine. If you do we shall soon have enough coming in to get married.'

Freddie loved Edith, but against his desire to wed— and it was just as intense as Edith's— rose the armor of the vow inspired by Fleming's advice.

'A man like Fleming knows what he is talking about, Edith,' Freddie objected. 'I believe in what he says, and I'm going to try it out.'

There was plenty more like that from both of them, and in the end Edith flung down the gauntlet.

'I'm not going to waste all my life on a man who won't be sensible!' she stormed. 'Go on, be realistic: be broke for ever! I don't care! I've done with you unless you come to your senses.'

Freddie did not like that a bit, but he had to accept it, or lose caste in his own eyes. So he accepted it and went his own way.

He followed Fleming's advice from start to finish, not deviating one iota from the straight and narrow path of knowledge. If he wanted to write about a hero who stepped into a downtown beerhouse for a drink, then he himself would do the stepping; if he wanted to describe the sensation of having a tooth out, then he had a tooth out. There was much more to it than that, of course. He wanted to write a story about an airman, and for days he went up joy-flighting with a friendly pilot. The story, when it was submitted at last to Fleming, was accepted on the spot. So was the yarn about the man who, to prove his own bravery, went into a den of lions and sang the chorus of a song.

That experiment had given Freddie a bit of a fright, but he had gone through it stoically, and Fleming's praise of— and payment for the subsequent manuscript had been ample reward.

Not a word of fantasy crept into Freddie's writing; everything done by his heroes was founded on fact, and the fact, in turn, was founded upon Freddie's own experiences. What he could not do he would not attempt to write about.

Freddie was working far too hard these days to think very much about Edith, but sometimes in the quiet of the evening he would wonder where she was, how she was getting on, and whether she was following his literary progress.

Two things prevented him approaching her. One was a chivalrous desire to avoid crowing over her. That one did not last long, but the other was much more final— he could not find her!

Freddie grieved sincerely, for he really was very fond of Edith, but he found a panacea in more and still more work. His stories were going well now, and there was a growing demand for them, not only from The Corinthian, but from its competitors.

It was on a Saturday that Freddie came up against an awkward snag. He was deep in a thrilling tale of love and adventure in which the hero, a virile young reporter, was engaged in tracking down a notorious gang of smash-and-grab bandits. Shots were shot at him as he tore desperately along a country road in an effort to escape from the gang's clutches.

That sounded simple to Freddie when he planned it, but when he came to put it into words he found himself doubting even as to the noise made by flying bullets in the open air, let alone how to describe the feelings of the man whom the bullets were pursuing.

'Do it yourself!' had become Freddie's guiding rule in life, and once again he proceeded to act upon it. He and a companion did some target shooting on a lonely stretch of coast; that left only the sensation of the pursued man to find out about. To this end he enlisted the aid of a few friends, Rugby players all, to whom he explained his predicament.

'I want it to be a real chase,' he said, 'and if you catch me you can do a bit of beating up; that'll give me an incentive to run my damnedest, for I don't like the idea cf being beaten up by you or anyone else.'

Now what hefty young Rugby player would refuse such an invitation?

Freddie's friends did not, at any rate. and so one day in the following week Freddie set out for the desolate wintry byway which was to be the scene of his thrilling escape.

The attackers had arranged to go beforehand and hide themselves so that Freddie should be taken unawares.

Freddie found it an eerie business, this setting off down a long, straight, be-hedged road, waiting for a 'roughhouse' to break, and the local-color feeling soon started to run down his spine. To lessen the chance of interference from well-meaning but ignorant passers-by the chase had been arranged for early in the morning, and the light was still greyly indistinct when, witn steadily mounting excitement, Freddie saw three figures jump quickly from the hedge ahead of him.

The chase was on.

As he took to his heels a shot rang out and another. The sound turned Freddie's blood to water. This wasn't in the bargain. He hadn't told them to carry weapons.

Then he grinned. Of course it was all right; they'd bn firing blanks. A moment later the grin died from his face, for something chipped the road to the right of him— something which came hurtling past him with a most distressing whine. It was followed by first one and then another companion, and Freddie realised with a jerk that real bullets were being fired at him.

For one wild moment, utterly bewildered, he raced on, and still the bullets came. Only the indistinct light saved the marksmen from getting him.

Freddie did what he considered to be the wisest thing in the circumstance. His wind was rapidly leaving him, and he knew he had no chance of getting away. Therefore, regardless of the road, he flung himself down and waited to surrender.

The pursuers were upon him like a pack of hounds, and he was jerked to his feet. Then local color and synthetic excitement fled helter-skelter from him. The men who held him were complete strangers to him! A nasty-looking lot at that, and the grim and surely determination in their eyes did little to reassure him.

'You rat, so you'd squeal on us. would you?' muttered one of them venomously.

'I?' Freddie started to protest, but the leader cut him short with a terrific shaking.

'Never mind about you!' he said, 'We're the blokes who matter! ' He looked at his companions. 'Look here, I think it's dangerous to keep this chap here. He knows we did the raid on the house round the corner. If he doesn't, what was he running away for? We can't afford to be found out; we've got too much to answer for as it is. Shoot him and chuck him in the pond back there! He won't be found for days.'

The other two men looked a trifle hesitant.

'Truss him up and leave him in that barn,' suggested one.

'No time to stop here making up our minds,' said the leader. ' We'll march him over there and decide on the way.'

Thereupon Freddie was hustled along the road in the direction of ths pond and the barn, while his captors conferred together in whispers. But he was never to know the actual fate they might have settled for him, because he suddenly collapsed in a dead faint.

When he came to he found his Rugby playing friends gathered in concern round him, and gradually he learned that they had found him lying there, with not a soul in sight. Freddie did not try to explain anything.

But did he write a realistic story founded faithfully on his adventure?

He did. So realistic and so incredible a story, that it came back by return of post from Fleming, with a brief scrawled note: 'This is too improbable. Coincidences like that do not happen in real life. Stick to fact for your fiction.'

Freddie laughed a little bitterly and then sent the story to The Megaphone.  The Megaphone snapped it up, and within a week it was in print.

'And that's that!' Freddie told himself.

But it wasn't. Edith McGill rang him up on the 'phone.

'I've missed you so much, Freddie! Come and see me tonight,' she said.

Freddie's heart gave a leap, and he went.

Edith was obviously sincere in her welcome.

'You're a darling, after all, Freddie,' she said. 'We'll never quarrel again, will we?' Freddie had no desire to seek the reason for this somewhat surprising change of front, but Edith herself enlightened him.'

'I read your story in The Megaphone,' she explained, 'and I was so glad. I knew you would come round to my way of thinking sooner or later. That was one of the finest bits of imaginative fiction I've read.'

Freddie left it at that.

_____________________

11: The Adventure of the Two Collaborators

Sir James M. Barrie

1860-1937

In Memories and Adventures, Conan Doyle, 1924

"Sir James Barrie paid his respects to Sherlock Holmes in a rollicking parody. It was really a gay gesture of resignation over the failure which we had encountered with a comic opera for which he undertook to write the libretto. I collaborated with him on this, but in spite of our joint efforts, the piece fell flat. Whereupon Barrie sent me a parody on Holmes, written on the flyleaves of one of his books."

—Sir Arthur Conan  Doyle, in his autobiography.

IN BRINGING to a close the adventures of my friend Sherlock Holmes I am perforce reminded that he never, save on the occasion which, as you will now hear, brought his singular career to an end, consented to act in any mystery which was concerned with persons who made a livelihood by their pen.

"I am not particular about the people I mix among for business purposes," he would say, "but at literary characters I draw the line."

We were in our rooms in Baker Street one evening. I was (I remember) by the centre table writing out The Adventure of the Man without a Cork Leg (which had so puzzled the Royal Society and all the other scientific bodies of Europe), and Holmes was amusing himself with a little revolver practice. It was his custom of a summer evening to fire round my head, just shaving my face, until he had made a photograph of me on the opposite wall, and it is a slight proof of his skill that many of these portraits in pistol shots are considered admirable likenesses.

I happened to look out of the window, and perceiving two gentlemen advancing rapidly along Baker Street asked him who they were. He immediately lit his pipe, and, twisting himself on a chair into the figure 8, replied:

"They are two collaborators in comic opera, and their play has not been a triumph." I sprang from my chair to the ceiling in amazement, and he then explained:

"My dear Watson, they are obviously men who follow some low calling. That much even you should be able to read in their faces. Those little pieces of blue paper which they fling angrily from them are Durrani's Press Notices. Of these they have obviously hundreds about their person (see how their pockets bulge). They would not dance on them if they were pleasant reading."

I again sprang to the ceiling (which is much dented), and shouted: "Amazing! But they may be mere authors."

"No," said Holmes, "for mere authors only get one press notice a week. Only criminals, dramatists and actors get them by the hundred."

"Then they may be actors."

"No, actors would come in a carriage."

"Can you tell me anything else about them?"

"A great deal. From the mud on the boots of the tall one I perceive that he comes from South Norwood. The other is as obviously a Scotch author."

"How can you tell that?"

"He is carrying in his pocket a book called (I clearly see) Auld Licht Something. Would anyone but the author be likely to carry about a book with such a title?"

I had to confess that this was improbable.

It was now evident that the two men (if such they can be called) were seeking our, lodgings. I have said (often) that my friend Holmes seldom gave way to emotion of any kind, but he now turned livid with passion. Presently this gave place to a strange look of triumph.

"Watson," he said, "that big fellow has for years taken the credit for my most remarkable doings, but at last I have him— at last!"

Up I went to the ceiling, and when I returned the strangers were in the room.

"I perceive, gentlemen," said Mr. Sherlock Holmes, "that you are at present afflicted by an extraordinary novelty."

The handsomer of our visitors asked in amazement how he knew this, but the big one only scowled.

"You forget that you wear a ring on your fourth finger," replied Mr. Holmes calmly.

I was about to jump to the ceiling when the big brute interposed.

"That tommy-rot is all very well for the public, Holmes," said he, "but you can drop it before me. And, Watson, if you go up to the ceiling again I shall make you stay there."

Here I observed a curious phenomenon. My friend Sherlock Holmes shrank. He became small before my eyes. I looked longingly at the ceiling, but dared not.

"Let us cut the first four pages," said the big man, "and proceed to business. I want to know why—"

"Allow me," said Mr. Holmes, with some of his old courage. "You want to know why the public does not go to your opera."

"Exactly," said the other ironically, "as you perceive by my shirt stud." He added more gravely, "And as you can only find out in one way I must insist on your witnessing an entire performance of the piece."

It was an anxious moment for me. I shuddered, for I knew that if Holmes went I should have to go with him. But my friend had a heart of gold.

"Never," he cried fiercely, "I will do anything for you save that."

"Your continued existence depends on it," said the big man menacingly.

"I would rather melt into air," replied Holmes, proudly taking another chair. "But I can tell you why the public don't go to your piece without sitting the thing out myself."

"Why?"

"Because," replied Holmes calmly, "they prefer to stay away."

A dead silence followed that extraordinary remark. For a moment the two intruders gazed with awe upon the man who had unravelled their mystery so wonderfully. Then drawing their knives—

Holmes grew less and less, until nothing was left save a ring of smoke which slowly circled to the ceiling.

The last words of great men are often noteworthy. These were the last words of Sherlock Holmes: "Fool, fool! I have kept you in luxury for years. By my help you have ridden extensively in cabs, where no author was ever seen before. Henceforth you will ride in buses!"

The brute sunk into a chair aghast.

The other author did not turn a hair.

—To A. Conan Doyle,

from his friend J. M. Barrie

_______________________

12: Wrong Number

Miles  Overholt

c1879-1945

Complete Story Magazine 25 Jan 1925

IF they'd use a ouija board instead of a switchboard, I don't suppose we'd get any more wrong numbers than we now do— maybe not so many.

It's got to be so easy to get a wrong number over the telephone that I always ask for two wrong ones first so's the third time will be the lucky one.

And Doug Turner, he does the same thing— only he ain't quite so lucky as I am.

Doug owned sixty-seven head of fat steers which he had acquired by different kinds of methods while working for old man Wortham, and he wanted to sell 'em and use the money for buying houses and lands and supporting a family— a bootlegger's family— and for banking it and playing pool and a few things like that.

The buyer from Kansas City, whose name was Abe, and therefore not to be trifled with, was waiting at Keystone for Doug to telephone him when the cattle would be ready to ship. So Doug tried to tell him.

No, ma'am, the phone wasn't working that day, it being a hollerday, I reckon— anyway, everybody was hollering at the phone— and so Doug, he didn't get his number.

For the sixty-sixth time he went into one of those little telephone bugabooths and said to the operator, he said:

''Hello, is this the wrong number?"

And a voice that was sweet enough to eat without sugar and cream on it came back, "Yes."

So Doug, he said, "Thanks," and hung up the receiver and came out for air.

Then we took it upon ourselves to walk about town a bit to see if we couldn't walk off some of Doug's pent-up cussing. It was giving him hardening of the arteries.

Weil, sir, wherever we went we could see folks trying to get themselves a telephone number to see if they could use it for any purpose, but they weren't doing it. Men and women, widows and orphans, hired girls and bald-headed men were not making any headway whatsoever in their mad endeavors to connect up with the right party at the right moment of time.

So it looked as though it was a kind of hopeless case in favor of the telephone. Because Doug had to get word through to Abe, the hand-talking buyer, right pronto or there wouldn't be any sale. And if there wasn't any sale there wouldn't be any jack, which is one simple way to starve to death.

"I'm getting to be a regular telephoniac," said Doug as we sashayed about the sidewalks of Galt. "I'll bet that if I was a receiver for a defunct telephone company, they wouldn't let me get my hooks on it. That's how lucky I am. No, sir, I don't suppose I could even get a hearing then!"

Then he found a pay station and tried to buy himself some conversation, but all he got was language.

The telephone office closed at ten o'clock that night, and as the clock was striking the hour, Doug was still trying to pour himself into the mouthpiece. But it didn't do anybody any good. He didn't make it.

The best he could do was to file a telegram and then go forth and gaze at the moonshine through a glass.

We stayed around till the telegraph office opened the next morning and Doug plucked himself a message, sent collect, from the open-handed Abe at Keystone. The message alleged:

Could not wait any longer for your answer, so bought Ed Myers' cattle. All I can handle now. Abe Hesse.

"That settles that," said Doug, kind of savagely. "From now on, me and the telephone are comparative strangers. If there was any way of doing it, I would declare a vendetta on 'em," he said.

"What's a vendetta?" I asked him.

"It's an Italian dish with garlic on it," said Doug, after thinking it over for a while.

"Gosh!" I said, "I thought it was something you sang."

Well, sir, I reckon it was what you would call the ornery fate that caused J. Fred Powley, the president of the Gait-Keystone Telephone Company, to make up his feeble mind to come to old man Wortham's ranch to rest up his nervous system for a couple of weeks.

But that's what happened. Yes, ma'am. We hadn't any sooner seen the old man that morning that he up and told us. It was right after Doug had gone and called the telephone company some harsh names that Mr. Wortham said:

"Now that's a right smaft coincidence, ain't it?" Then he kind of chuckled between his whiskers. "Mr. Powley, the head of the phone company, will be out here to-morrow to spend a few restful days— he and I being old collie's chumps— and I want you two boys to see that he enjoys his stay on the ranch. You take him hunting, fishing and the like, and do anything he wants. That'll be your job for the next couple of weeks."

Doug's face fell. Well, mebbe it didn't fall, but it slipped its mooring quite a bit," and I turned away to keep from swallowing my Adam's apple, or something, and to grin me a few vendettas.

That evening Doug said to me, he said:

"It has casually occurred to me that somebody ought to be made to pay for them cattle. It wasn't my fault or Abe Hess' that they weren't sold and the money turned into the Sunday school, or wherever I pleased to turn it. 'Whose fault was it?' I ask in morbid tones'!"

"Mrs. Telephone's," I answered, stepping briskly to the head of the class.

"Wrong," said Doug, preparing to make me stay after school. "Powley's."

"Shucks, he didn't stop you," I argued, so's I wouldn't have to stand in the corner, or anything. "He's only the head of the company, Mr. Wortham says."

"He ain't the head of anything," scoffed Doug. "That telephone company ain't got a head. I'll bet he's only a foot— with corns on it."

"It wouldn't surprise me if he was only a callous," I remarked, trying to "yes" the foreman of Mr. Wortham's cow rancho.

"He's calloused, all right," grinned Doug. "I guess mebbe it's up to us to trim him, in that case. Mebbe then he won't ache so much."

"But you can't go and make him pay for them cattle," I argued. "You still got 'em."

"Jesse James never put up no such an argument," Doug said. And then I knew he was planning to do something financial to Mr. Powley, which is something new in cow-punchers.

Yes, ma'am, by reading swiftly from left to right it could be seen that Mr. Doug Turner was in a kind of a mood — one of them seething, ominous calms before a storm, or something.

"First, I'll torture him for a few days," Doug went on in a serpentine manner. "Then when he is plumb dejected and life ain't hardly worth the scandal, I'll figger out something else— with that guy's signature on it."

So you see how it was— Doug had gone and turned into a him of hate, and it looked as though he needed another note from Mr. Powley in order to make it popular.

NEXT morning, Mr. Powley arrived all wrapped up in wrong numbers and a sickly grin. His nerves were all on edge, he said, so Doug decided he would file 'em off right pronto.

In the afternoon, Mr. Wortham and Mr. Powley came forth, Mr. Wortham bringing a few words with him. Mr. Powley, it would seem to 'the casual observer, would like to take a little trot into the hills and slay himself a few beasts of the fields and some birds of the air and some fish of the sea. Mr. Turner and Mr. Hazard, which was me, would kindly ride forth with the said Mr. Powley and see that everything went off well— especially the gun.

Well, Doug went and roped out old Yellow Fin, the bucking bronc from Buckinghurst, and led him gaily forward so that Mr. Powley might mount and ride— if any.

That was Doug Turner's aim and ambition. Only it didn't work.

Mr. Wortham's long-distance eyesight ain't any too good, but she seemed to be in working order that gladsome day. Instead of mistaking Yellow Fin for Buckskin Sam, as Doug so fondly hoped, the old man recognized the yellow streak and came out and said so in short, understandable words.

"I thought I told you that Mr. Powley was to be treated more or less like a gentleman," said Mr. Wortham, our boss and provider. "You and I both know that any time Mr. Powley climbs aboard that there yellow hyena, he would be thrown so far he wouldn't get back till the new moon. Go and catch Buckskin Sam for him, like I told you. He's gun-broke."

So Doug had to go and drag Buckskin Sam out and saddle him. Then Mr. Wortham came and looked the noble steed over.

"Sure you haven't gone and slipped a cockle burr or something under the saddle blanket?" inquired our boss gently, thereby hurting Doug's feelings something distressing.

"Of course not. Look for yourself," said Doug, rolling up his sleeves so that there would be nothing to deceive Mr. Wortham. Then, as he deftly threw the blanket onto the back of the yellow hawse, he slid a corkscrew, which he always carried for such emergencies, under the blanket and it was well. Buckskin Sam did the rest as soon as he felt the weight of Mr, Powley pressing on the corkscrew.

Yes,'ma'am, Buckskin Sam did very well indeed. He threw his head down among his forelegs and pitched about quite entertainingly, speaking from a mere spectator's standpoint. Then, as a climax, he flipped our good friend, Mr. Powley, into a bed of cactus and kicked at him, just to make it snappy and educational.

I went over and retrieved Mr. Powley from the bed of unease and spoke words to him that were meant to soothe and to mollify.

"You'll have to excuse it, please," I murmured into the ear of the telephone person. "Seems like," I said, "that there was something wrong with the line. Mebbe we ought to call 'Trouble.' "

But the head of the Wrong Number Company was too badly wrecked to frame a snappy reply. He was pricked with remorse and cactus, and he was stabbed with pain and thorns. But I propped him up and uncactused him, while Doug went and caught Buckskin Sam and uncorkscrewed him and brought him back for the second act.

We persuaded Mr. Powley to try it again, Mr. Wortham marveling in a strange, subdued way and wearing a glint in his weather eye, and this time the yellow steed, being made to understand that the show for the time being was over, let the telephony man get on and ride. Buckskin Sam is a gentle, mild-mannered old cayuse when you don't go and try to make an illicit something out of him, and he trotted amiably alongside Pinto Pete and Old Gravy as we dangled over toward Verdant Mesa.

We made camp early in (the evening, and while Doug went around looking for something of an unusual nature, I massaged up a few biscuits and wrestled a group of beans, and the only reason we didn't up and eat 'em was because Doug had found what he was looking for.

Our very good friend, Mr. Powley, it seems, had laid down under a tree and Mr. Turner had gone out into the highways and byways and procured for purely entertainment reasons a well filled and totally inhospitable nest of disgruntled hornets. This he had carried at great risk of physical discomfort to himself to the tree under which Mr. Powley was reclining with his eyes closed and his mouth open like a railroad tunnel that had caved in.

And then, placing the nest on a limb directly above Mr. Powley so that it would be an unanimous affair entirely, why, Doug went and hurled a couple of stones with sermons in 'em at the nest, and left the rest to nature.

Well, sir, it wasn't hardly any time at all till Mr. Powley was absent. Yes, ma'am, he leaped to his feet like a nimble fawn, or something, and went on away from there in an aimless and haphazard manner. He backtracked and seesawed and jackknifed. He ran up hill and down dale, and back again and forward to center, to say nothing of do-se-do and right hand to partner.

It was an awe-inspiring sight, and my only regret was that I wasn't one of them hornets so's I could have seen it all.

Powley finally was stung plumb into the creek and there he languished like a crippled fish and yelled till he went and awakened: all the echoes there were in the mountains. Doug said at the time that he'd bet an echo was the only thing that ever dared talk back to Mr. Powley.

After the hornets had retired to talk over the unusual warfare tactics in which their enemy was indulging, why Doug and I, we stalked down to empty Mr. Powley from the damp stream and asked him did he want central.

"Chase those dad-laddety, d'ashedty-dashed bees away and help me out of here!" he yiped. "I'm freezing!"

"Well, now, I'm right sorry," mourned Doug, "but we can't do it You see, we can't throw you a line because the line is out of order."

"Mebbe 'Information' could help you out," I suggested. "If I knew the number, I'd sure like to connect you," I said.

"Oh, well, the party has hung up, anyway," sighed Doug.

All the while the telephony man was floundering away there in the creek like a flounder and trying to scramble himself over the slick rocks and slipping in deeper with every passing moment and cussing in a telephonic manner.

A couple of times he fell in past his neck, which, if you ever had seen his neck, looked entirely impossible, and when he grabbed at a sapling and missed it, Doug said to him, gently:

"If you take your receiver off'n the hook that way, your line will be reported out of order."

Well, we laughed right heartily and we thanked Mr. Powley very profusely for providing us with the little diversion. We told him that it was as good a show as we ever had seen for the money, and could he repeat that last act?

Other folks, we said, could brag about their radio performances, but as for us, we told Mr. Powley, give us the telephone. We told him any number of things like that when something interrupted the conversation with words. Some of the shorter and uglier words were:

"Doug Turner! You and 'Hap' Hazard ought to be ashamed of yourselves. The idea!"

"Gosh! I didn't know this was a party line!" said Doug, turning, as I did, to see Mattie Downs flip her rope over Mr. Powley's shoulders and drag him onto terrible firma.

Then she dismounted from her old pony and undid the rope and said it was a shame.

"It sure is," agreed Doug. "Rotten service, ain't it!"

Mattie was a widow on her husband's side and owned the ranch adjoining Mr. Wortham's place, and Doug and I had made it a practice for the past two years to go over and ask her to marry us, at least once a week.

Powley managed to stand up all in one piece after a while and thank Mattie for saving his life. But he was as unfriendly with Doug and me as if we hadn't paid our telephone bill for the last three months and were protesting the tolls on the long-distance calls.

"Why didn't you pull him from the water?" Mattie turned on me. "He might catch his death of co-id."

"Shucks! I didn't know he wanted to get out," I told her. "We saw him doing some tricks in the water and we thought he was some kind of a fancy swimmer, or something."

"Yeah, it looked to us like a new kind of a vaudeville act," Doug said. "Mr. Powley is a stranger to us. We didn't know that he wasn't doing it so as to take up a collection. We been fooled that way lots of times," he said.

Well, sir, we finally induced Mr. Powley to believe that we didn't know there were hornets in that tree, or if we did, that they were the stinging kind. And as for the creek, we told him we thought he was only kidding us. And he tried to act like he believed it. But Mattie couldn't be flimflammed any.

After the widow had gone home, we told Mr. Powley that we would have to make mud plasters and plaster all the stings on him so as to draw the inflammation out. He had read that in some book or other, anyway, so it wasn't much trouble to talk him into the idea.

The trouble was, we couldn't find the right kind of mud, Mr. Powley arguing that clay was the only kind that would do the work, and there not being any clay in the mountains.

But we did the best we could till Doug could ride down into the valley and bring back some adobe mud. What Mr. Powley didn't know was that Doug had gone over to Charlie Jones' and had got a sackful of cement, which we carefully mixed with the clay and plastered it quite extemporaneously upon Mr. Powley's person. Then we told him to lie quietly till morning and everything would be jake.

Which it was— with us.

Yes, indeed, Mr. Powley was in solid with us after that. We had cemented his mouth shut and his arms were held to his sides. He looked more like a mummy than mummy herself. He couldn't talk and he couldn't make signs, so how were we to understand that he wanted us to remove the mud?

Along about noon of the following day, after Mr. Powley was fully as starved as six or seven Armenians, why, we went and got the ax and some other tools and started to work on him. I guess we bumped him a good deal, but we left the mouth till the last so there wouldn't be any argument about the matter.

We told him while we worked that his wires must have been crossed, and we asked him if he would like to talk to the complaint department. We said that while he was running away from them hornets, it looked to us as though he had the buzzy signal.

It took us a couple of hours to unmud him, and he wasn't any too beautiful when we had finished with him. No, ma'am, you can say all you want to about clay as a beautifier, but it didn't work with Mr. Powley.

He looked as though he and the switchboard had become switched. Yes, sir, he looked exactly like a wrong number, himself.

But he managed to drag himself over to the food I had gone and unlimbered, and then he lay down arid went to sleep. I guess he didn't sleep much the night before, the mud and cement sort of pulling at him here and there, and drying up his pores and otherwise making a stone foundation out of him.

Mattie Downs came riding past the next day and stopped in to see if we were behaving ourselves, she said, and she and Mr. Powley began to get on first-rate. Which was another reason why we decided he hadn't had enough.

Doug and I, we went over under another tree and tried to figger out other means of entertaining Mr. Wortham's guest and we pretty nearly sprained something doing it. There didn't seem to be anything handy, when, all of a sudden, I saw what we had been looking for— a porcupine!

Mattie mounted her cayuse and started away when we hollered at her and told her we would be over on Sunday.

"I don't think I'll be home," she said. "Was it something important?"

"Oh, no," we said. "Only it's been about ten days since we asked you to marry one or the other of us, and we kind o' thought we'd renew the question so's you won't forget what it is we intend to ask you some day."

"Well, that'll be all right," she smiled, snakishly. "You don't need to worry about it. I'll remember it, all right— whenever I want a good laugh."

Which didn't add any to our joy, so I went and caught the porcupine and slapped it among Mr. Powley's sleeping bag while Doug engaged the telephone head in interesting conversation pertaining to this and that.

The prickly porcupine made a good deal of fuss for a while, and it wasn't any easy job snaking him along into the bag, but I did it all by myself. Doug looked, and then the playful little animal fretting himself pretty nearly sick long before bedtime, and we talked loud and laughed long so's Mr. Powley wouldn't hear him making merry with his bedding. And then when it came time to call it a day, why, I got up and rattled the dishes in a promiscuous manner so that it would drown out the other sounds, and Mr. Powley got himself all ready to hit the hay.

Then he opened the bag and the porcupine went and stepped on him. Yes, ma'am, somehow or other Mr. Powley had got himself in trouble again, and the fretful porcupine had slapped him several times about the legs and places that the hornets, in their haste, had overlooked, and then the playful little animal went hurriedly away to tell his folks about it.

But Mr. Powley's legs looked like a pincushion that had got itself mixed in a cyclone. He was as stuck up as the wife of a plumber, and he yowled like a man that had been give the dog pound when he had asked the phone operator for K-9.

Doug hollered at him, "Hey, mister, your line is busy!"

And it was, too. Anyway, his line of language was. During the war I heard men swear in thirteen or fourteen different languages, but Mr. Powley, he did it in thirty-eight. I reckon that our telephoniac had got so much practice talking over the telephone free of charge that way that he didn't have any competitors any more.

"Which one of you blankety-blanky blanks put that animal in my bed!" he shouted like he was talking to the chief operator.

"What animal?" we wanted to know, innocently.

"That four-legged prickly pear!" he yiped. "It stabbed me from hell to breakfast."

"Shucks! that wasn't no animal," I told Mr. Powley. "That was one of them rolling dinky-doo-dads— 'half bird and half Vegetable. It flies down off'n a tree and rolls into things. I've killed 'em by the dozens," I said.

"Yeh, it's a kind of a habitat of these mountains," Doug said. "Sometimes they get into the biscuits and make life perfectly unbearable."

"But this one didn't roll," said Mr. Powley, plucking some quills from his shin. "It ran and it slapped."

"Oh, well, I guess that was one of them slapdoodles," said Doug. "It is a dfifferenit species, but similar," he went on. "It only runs when it meets a superior foe. Still the principle's the same."

Then we helped extract the quills from Mr. Powley's better self and kidded him along till it looked as though he believed us. But I don't think he slept very well the rest of the night. He seemed to feel that mebbe the mountains wasn't exactly a restful spot. A nice jail somewheres, or mebbe the crater of an active volcano appeared to be more appealing to him.

Anyway, he told us next morning that, if it was all the same to us, he would like to go back to the ranch, and we said it was- O. K. There weren't enough features of entertainment up there in the hills, anyway.

We reached the ranch that evening and Mr. Wortham looked kind of fisheyed at Doug and me after he had let his eyes linger on Mr. Powley for a minute.

"Everything been all right ?" he asked the telephone president, and Mr. Powley, not being certain whether all them accidents were done on purpose or were they figgered out ahead of time, said, "Sure."

The telephone man stuck pretty close to the house all next day and sort of recuperated himself and visited with the old man and slept and loafed and we were afraid that he would tell our boss of his suspicions, if any, but Mr. Wortham didn't fire us or anything, so it looked as though it was all right so far, as the optimist said while falling out of a twelve-story window.

ON THE SECOND day, though, Mr. Wortham suggested to his little playmate and guest that there was a stream down in the lower forty that was plumb running over with trout, and why didn't he let the boys get him some tackle and go and take a fling at 'em.

Well, it sounded perfectly reasonable to Mr. Powley, and while I dug up some fishing lines and one thing and another, why, Doug, he went and chased old Gotch-ear, the ungentlemanly bull that has a mad on at most everybody, and got him into the south forty. Gotch-ear's specialty is hazing folks who travel on foot, and, the day being hot, the bull was plumb sore and bull-headed by the time I had coaxed Mr. Powley down into the field.

I showed our fisherman just where to fish, watching Gotch-ear out of the corner of my other eye, and then I climbed the fence, waving a red handkerchief in a surreptitious manner as I did so.

Doug and I, we weren't present when old Gotch-ear came looking for the insulting guy that had waved the red bandanna, but Mr. Powley was acting as a welcoming delegation.

Yes, ma'am, Mr. Isaac Walton Powley had managed to catch himself a couple of fish by the time we had completed all our bullish arrangements, and he was wrapped up in his piscatorial efforts when Gotch-ear bellowed in a cold, harsh tone of voice practically in Mr. Powley's best, or telephone, ear.

Well, sir, in less than eight tenths of a fractional part of time our good friend, Mr. Powley, fled the scene. He faltered into the creek and then he faltered out again. He ran in a given direction faster than the eye, and then Gotch-ear took it upon himself to make the occasion a festive one. He hurried along behind Mr. Powley, halting only long enough to emit an occasional beller. And with every beller, Mr. Powley would make an extra leap, so that by the time Gotch-ear had called him eight or ten names, our guest had busted all world's records, and was going after those of the other planets.

Doug said he never saw anything faster than a taxicab meter till he had observed Mr. Powley hastening on that way. So he yelled at Powley:

"Hey! Long distance wants you!"

Well, long distance got him. Heck, old Gotch-ear might have been nimble and fleet-footed in his youth, but Mr. Powley, he went and showed up the bull for a has-been.

As for long-distance foot racing, I never heard of a man running faster than sixty miles an hour, but our guest must have beaten that record. Because in less than eight consecutive minutes he was plumb out of sight of the human eye and was passing long-winded jack rabbits and fast-moving coyotes as if they were standing still.

"Now, that was quite a break," said Doug, as we went and caught our cayuses and chased Gotch-ear out onto the open range. "It'll take quite a bit of work to get it fixed so's we can use the line again. I guess we'd better run out the emergency wagon."

Then we started in to trail Mr. Powley and try and intercept him before he reached the Mexico line.

"That was a bully race," I said to Doug as we rode along.

"Yeh, fair," said Doug, worrying a bit. "Did the old man go into town today?"

"Yes, the telephone line doesn't work and he went in to see Josh Biggs about some calves," I told him.

Well, sir, it looked as though our telephone man had flown a good deal of the time, and that made it a hard job to track him. Then, whenever he did hit the ground, he dad it so lightly that we couldn't tell whether those were his tracks or were they shadows.

"Mebbe he melted down somewheres and ran off into the creek," I suggested, educationally.

"Shucks, that guy wouldn't melt," said Doug, "You can't melt anything that you can't cook up— and he's already hard-boiled."

The farther we traveled, the more certain we were that Mr. Powley was part kangaroo, because his jumps were averaging about sixty-seven feet, and I don't know of any better jumper than a kangaroo, unless it is a Polish checker player.

It was about two hours later that we overtook the fleeing citizen. We weren't looking for him, either, when we found his voice. We had kind of sneaked up to Mattie Downs' place for the pleasurable purpose of saying soft, apple-saucish words to her, and as we dangled around the comer of the house we stopped and listened a few ounces.

"Yes, indeed," we heard Powley say. "If those roughneck cow persons are trying to convince me that our telephone service is poor, they certainly are succeeding. But I didn't think it was that bad."

I looked through a window and saw Mattie Downs putting bandages and things on Powley's arms and face, and otherwise nursing him just as though he had that minute returned from the front.

"Oh, I don't believe they would wilfully hurt any one," Mattie defended. "All of those coincidences might have just happened."

"Do you really think that?" wondered Powley.

"Well— h'm!— well, of course, I didn't witness any but the hornet episode," she dodged.

"Well, now, if I may use your phone I think I shall call up Mr. Wortham and tell him where I am— and why," said the telephone man, and then with his words still ringing in my ears, I sneaked around the house and cut the telephone wires, promising myself to fix it before we left.

So Mr. Powley had quite a time trying to get his number. He nearly cranked his arm loose at one of the joints, but all he got out of it was a dull, aching sound. Then he went back to where Mattie was at and grinned.

"It's almost as bad as the boys seem to think it is," he said.

"You're not— you won't make them any trouble with Mr. Wortham, will you?" Mattie then asked, and I wanted to go right in and ask her to marry me, but I didn't do that same. I didn't go in and make any kind of a proposal to Mrs. Downs because Jeff Higgs, Mattie's hired man, drove into the corral about that time and looked at us as though he was wondering in a vague sort of a way if we were burglars or what. He yelled at us to come and open the barn door. So we acted as though we had just flown down out of a tree to pick up a worm or something, and then went down and became Jeff's hired men for a few minutes.

After a bit we went into the house with Jeff, and Mr. Powley said he wondered where we had gone after he had started fishing for fish.

"Oh, there was a calf in the field and we went and drove it out," Doug told him.

"It was a kind of a playful young calf and we had quite a job getting it to leave the nice fresh grass," I said.

"But we were determined," Doug busted in. "Never," said Doug, "have we let a calf skin us."

"Did you say it was a calf?" wondered Mr. Powley.

"A calf," answered Doug.

"In that case," grinned the telephone man, "I guess I must have had the wrong number."

Mattie motioned for me to come out into the kitchen. I went. Said the widow: "Before you go, Hap, I wish you'd repair the telephone line. I might want to call the sheriff, or somebody."

"What telephone line ?" I blinked, like a window shade. "Oh— you mean the telephone line?"

"Yes, the telephone line— the telephone wire you cut."

"Oh— that one!" I said, knowing darn well she had seen me cut it. So I went out and fixed it while nobody was looking.

Mattie drove Mr. Powley home in her flivver, and Doug and I, we cut through the fields, beating them home by half an hour. We told Mr. Wortham, who was back from town, that Mr. Powley was having a good time fishing, and that Mattie Downs saw him fishing that way and was bringing him home in her car.

"I hope he hasn't any complaints to make at the way you boys are treating him," said Mr. Wortham. "Why's Mattie bringing him home?"

"He couldn't carry all the fish," said Doug.

"You couldn't have driven out after him, I suppose," said good, kind Mr. Wortham.

"Sure," answered Doug, "but Mattie was coming over, anyway."

As soon as Mr. Powley and Mattie arrived, Mr. Wortham spoke right up.

"I hear you got so many fish you had to hire a flivver to bring 'em in."

"Yes, I— er— did pretty well," said Mr. Powley, looking for Doug for the next cue and not getting it any to speak of. So he looked again at Doug in a sterner manner and said,

"Where— er— what did we do with those fish?"

"Fish! Oh, yeh, the fish," said Doug.

"Sure, we got to consider the fish. Hey, Hap," he turned to me, "what did you do with Mr. Powley's fish?"

"Fish! Oh, gosh!" I yiped. "Was them fish? You mean that gunny sack full? Why, I fed 'em to the hogs. I thought they was tomatoes!"

Old man Wortham didn't say anything, and Powley grinned at Mattie Downs, and everything seemed to have passed off quietly. But, of course, you never can tell about old man Wortham.

Well, sir, Mattie Downs came over next morning and loaded Mr. Powley into her flivver. She was going to show him her ranch and some funny caves or something down in her field. Yes, ma'am, they were getting right friendly, and none of that friendliness boded Mr. Powley any good, lemme tell ya, Mr. Powley being a widower and all.

Doug and I, we were pesticating around the ranch that morning when we saw a snappy, red roadster come trotting down the lane like a new moon and stop in front of the big house. Then a snappier-looking girl got out and said we would have gone up and asked could we do anything when she slithered back into her car and went zipping away.

Mr. Wortham told us a few minutes later that the girl was Gloria Powley, her father being the telephoniac, and that she had tried to call him up the evening before, but that the phone wasn't working, so she drove out to see him, and he had sent her on to the Widow Downs' place.

Which is no way to treat a gal like that.

"Seems that Mike Blake and 'Snowy' King, those bandits from down Tularosa way, have been laying for Mr. Powley for a couple of years to try and shake him down;" Mr. Wortham told us. "They were seen over on Verdant Mesa only yesterday, and the girl came to warn her dad to come back to town and safety."

"Shucks! I don't believe those hombres have nerve enough to tackle anything but rustling a few steers," Doug Turner said. "Heck! I know three or four of that gang personally."

"Which doesn't surprise me in the least," grinned our kind-hearted boss. "I wondered why your herd increased so fast."

Well, sir, it is surprising the way things can happen sometimes. There we were drilling around the ranch as carefree as a roll of linoleum, without having any more knowledge than a largesized jay bird, when all the while a tragedy was taking place right under our noses, or between the face and eyes.

Mattie Downs and Mr. Powley were spinning blithely along toward the Wortham ranch that evening when Mr. Powley took his eyes off'n Mattie's face long enough to look and see what was that red object obstructing the road in such an unseemly manner. Then he gasped himself a couple of gasps and looked closer.

It was his daughter's little red car loafing there like it didn't have a thing in the world to do. It was standing right plumb in the road, gentle and unharmed, just as though the driver had met a bootlegger and had taken a walk with him, or something, but that was all. There wasn't any note or a lock of hair, but Mattie Downs, she being a kind of a woman with the eye of an eagle and the instincts of a married person— Mattie, she looked and read the signs.

The signs said to Mattie:

"Two horsemen— meaning gents on cayuses— rode alongside the car while it was stopped. Apparently the driver had tarried to fill the radiator at the spring at the side of the road. Two pairs of footprints, one large pair and one teeny-weeny pair, showed that there had been a kind of a struggle in the dust. Then, a short distance from the car, the little tracks went plumb out of business, and a horse stepped in their shoes, as you might say."

Getting right down to hard, brass-covered facts, somebody on a hawse had up and eloped Gloria Powley away from there, and you could lay to that.

Well, sir, Mr. Powley, he went wild. He went so goofy that while they were speeding along toward Mr. Wortham's cow domicile, he attempted to lend a hand on the wheel and a foot on the gas, or something, and Mattie became excited through it all— and the flivver went over the embankment right above the gate leading into the Wortham's front, back and side yard.

Two or three of the cow hands saw the episode, or chapter, as the case may be, and rushed up there, expecting to pick 'em up with a blotting pad, but they weren't scattered much. They carried 'em into the house in two pieces, and then Mr. Wortham, he went to the telephone to see what about a doctor. But as was customary, the phone wasn't working that day.

Everybody took a turn at twisting the tail of that there farmers' cuss machine, but the results weren't worth putting down in a little red book or anything. So Mr. Wortham, he turned to the standing- around- helpless punchers and said:

"Hap, you fork a bronc and ride to Galt for Doc Sawyer. Henry, you do the same— only ride to Ryepatch for Old Doc Warren. Sim, you beat it over to the Muddy and bring Doc Green back with you. Mebbe some of 'em won't be home and we can't take any chances."

So we all started forth to see could we snag us a doctor apiece, and the other hands and our boss went to see what could be done with the injured and the halt.

We weren't any sooner out of the house than Mr. Powley up and revived himself and told Mr. Wortham it didn't make any never-mind about him, but what about his daughter!

Well, that was something else. Mr. Wortham went to the phone and tried to get the sheriff's office, and nobody gave him the wrong number. Nobody gave him any number.

Then Doug Turner went outside and gulped himself full of remorse and mountain air, and saddled up his pinto mustang.

When I got back to the ranch with Doc Sawyer, and Hen Marvin had brought Doc Warren over from Ryepatch and Sim Blackburn had snagged in Doc Green from over on the Muddy — when these doctors and surgeons and what not came marching into the house, why, all the ducks on the ranch began to quack!

But Doug Turner, he whistled to me and poured forth the tale about Gloria Powley having been kidnaped by Mike Blake's gang of rustlers and said it was his fault, or mebbe mine and his together.

"If I hadn't got the idea of picking on Powley, this wouldn't have happened," he said, nervously jangling his spurs and tearing a homemade cigarette in two. "I'm going after her. Do you want to go along— or ride with the sheriff?"

"Shucks! I want to get back the gal," I told him. "I don't want to go on no sheriff's picnic party."

So we sneaked away while a couple of the other fellows rode for the sheriff. Mattie was sitting up talking to the doctors about how well she was when we rode past the house, and Mr. Powley was biting holes in the no-good telephone.

Then, one of the boys told us afterwards, the phone suddenly started ringing as if its heart would break, and a voice asked for Mr. Powley.

"We got your gal an' we're gonna keep her till you stick fifty thousand bucks under the rock twenty feet south of the county line monument, six miles south of Wortham's ranch," said the hard egg over the wire. "I suggest that you put the dough under that boulder to-morrow night— and then beat it away from there."

Then the voice stopped and Mr. Powley, after working half the night, learned that the tough egg was talking through a lineman's portable outfit, but that's all he did find out.

But Doug and I, we didn't know the gal really had been kidnaped. We were just kind of playing a hunch.

Well, it wasn't such a bad hunch, at that, because we found some fresh tracks in the moonlight along about midnight, and followed 'em down to a creek where they disappeared. But, shucks! that didn't fool us any. We had trailed too many cows and rustlers to worry about that. One of us rode down and the other went up the creek, and when Doug found the trail again two miles farther on, why, he shot his six-gun once and I went and met him.

The only trouble was— trouble.

Yes, ma'am, the rustlers weren't very far away, it looked like, and six or seven" of 'em took it upon themselves to see could they shoot us so's we would look natural at the funeral. They shot at us from the darkness in a stealthy and ungentlemanly manner, and we went and hurried away from there in about as spontaneous a manner as you'd care to witness with the naked eye.

But them kidnapers hurried after us, too, and that made it kind of unanimous. They shot rings around us, and little parabolas and a few right-angle triangles, and every one of them bullets seemed to say:

"I am trying to get your party!"

Well, one of 'em did it. I don't know when it happened, but something had gone and ringed its way through my shirt sleeve and fooled around there till it found my arm, and then it dug in for the winter and stayed there. I didn't know it, I say, till I thought I'd use the arm for something or other, and it wouldn't be used. No, ma'am, it just hung there like a pair of pants on a clothesline, and then I came to the conclusion that mebbe I was shot.

That is one reason why I kept on riding back toward the ranch. I was afraid them outlaws would get sore and puncture one of my tires in a whole lot fatal'ler spot. Anyway, I had lost Doug, or he had lost himself, or something, and what was the use of me making a bull's-eye out of myself when all I wanted to be was a homing pigeon!

So I pigeoned home l

But Doug, he fooled them bandits. He was riding on ahead of 'em like a feather blown by a cyclone, as the poet says, and they got so close to him that he could smell their breaths with licker on 'em. Which made him homesick or something, and when he passed under a tree, why, he swung up a couple of arms and grabbed a limb and let his pinto keep a-running.

The rustlers chased his pony plumb ragged, thinking Doug was in the saddle, and our hero, Mr. Turner, went back up the gulch a ways on foot and saw the camp fire of the kidnapers.

Not only that, but he saw Gloria Powley sitting in a cave, surrounded by two men and a wall.

Having lost his six-gun in the scramble to become a monkey, why, Doug had to see what could be done with a few fingers and a couple of thumbs.

He sneaked up on them guards and jumped down the throat of one of 'em, or pretty near it, and knocked him plumb silly. Then before the other one could club him to death with his sawed-off gun, why, Mr. Turner kicked him very industriously indeed, till you would have said he ought to go into the thrashing business and flail flaxseed.

In less time than it could have been done in the movies, he had tied up them two bad guys and -had taken their guns and the gal and had gone pit-a-pat down the gulch, because he was afraid the rest of the gang would come back and make goulash out of him.

But by the time the others had returned to find their home in a state bordering onto hysteria, why, Mr. Turner and Miss Powley were wedged in behind a flock of boulders, waiting for daylight to show 'em how to get out of the darn gulch, quite a ways from the cave which the rustlers were using as a summer home.

But, as the poet says, they reckoned without their host. Because Mike Blake and his shifty-eyed partners could read tracks pretty well, themselves, and they went and followed Doug and Gloria to their resting place.

It wasn't right, they argued among themselves in a friendly fashion, for a single gent to come along that way and take away their meal ticket like that. What was the world coming to, anyway, they said, if an honest kidnaper isn't permitted to make a living any more? Or words to that effect.

The fleeing pair hadn't traveled more than three or four miles as the old crow flies, and the bandits found 'em right soon and began plowing up the ground around 'em with bullets, just as though they were going to plant a spring crop of something— wild oats, mebbe.

So Doug and the gal began looking around for a place to kind of ooze into, and the gal found it. What she found was a cave right back of them, and they went into it and made themselves perfectly at home. They went into that there domicile because Doug discovered that the guns they carried had only three cartridges apiece in them, and you can't go and shoot nine men with six bullets, unless they catch 'em when they fly up from the ground. Which bandits hardly ever do.

So Doug shot all but two of the cartridges at the rustlers, saving those two for a rainy day, or something. And then, when the firing ceased, why, the outlaws began shaking hands with each other and commenting on the beautiful summer's day, and kindred subjects.

But they couldn't shoot the cave to pieces, or anything like that, so Mike got the idea that mebbe they could smoke the pair out, he being kind of fond of smoked meat in his early youth, and that is what they proceeded to begin to commence to do.

They stole tip and built a fire at the mouth of the cave so the smoke would go inside and get into the gal's eyes and make her cry. And then they waited for Doug to wave 'em a flag of truth.

Which didn't work out the way they figgered it. Because Gloria Powley, she scouted around till she had located an opening at the top of the cavern, and while the outlaws were playing pinochle with one eye and guarding the cave entrance with the other, why, Doug and Gloria, they went up the flue.

They crawled out of said flue and sneaked over the hill at the rear, and skipped lightly down another gulch and kept on walking, hand in hand, like they had just got out of school.

Then when the gal became too tired to walk, why, Doug, he picked her up and carried her in his arms, which is a fairly good way to become acquainted with the daughter of a telephone president.

Well, sir, Doug he went and staggered along with Mr. Powley's only child in his arms all the rest of the day, only stopping to rest when night came on apace. Then he covered 'her with his coat and wished a sandwich cart would come along and wreck itself at his feet. Which no sandwich wagon did.

And by the time they were so nearly frozen that they were afraid to sneeze for fear they would fly all to pieces, why, they got up and started on again.

Along about sunup the next morning, Doug saw a sight that would have caused a blind man to throw away his crutches. It was a ranch house in the hills, and over the gate was a sign which said:

J. P. SMITH

Justice of the Peace

Judge Smith and his wife fed and watered the pair and made them take a rest. Then the judge, he called up Mr. Wortham and told him to tell Mr. Powley that his unmarried daughter was safe and prosperous, and how was all his folks?

Sheriff Jim Caywood and some of his hired hands then went and found Mike Blake and his playful friends, and I sat under an apple tree in Mr. Wortham's orchard and made up my mind to get married and settle down to a steady ranch life and quit chasing kidnapers, as soon as my arm got well.

Mr. Powley didn't worry about his daughter as soon as he knew she was all right, and went over to see how was Mattie Downs feeling after the automobile accident and could he do anything about buying her a new car.

Doug and Gloria stayed at Smith's nearly a week, enjoying the air, or the scenery, or something.

Doug told me afterwards that Justice Smith said to him and the gal one day, he said:

"Can I do anything for you folks? You see, I am a justice of the peach"— looking at Gloria— "I mean, justice of the peace— "

"Well," said Doug, grinning.

"Well," said Gloria, blushing.

And later that afternoon Justice Smith, he called up Mattie Downs' place and asked for Mr. Powley. And Mr. Powley, he wanted to talk to his daughter. So Gloria took the phone.

"Hello," said Mr. Powley. "Is this Gloria?"

No answer. Gloria giggled.

"Is this Gloria Powley?" inquired the old man once more.

"I guess you have the wrong number," his daughter gurgled. "This is Mrs. Doug Turner talking."

Mr. Powley gasped, chuckled, and. beckoned to Mattie. Mattie took the phone and asked could she speak to Mr. Turner.

Doug took the receiver.

When Mattie said, "Hello, Doug," why, Doug, just to make certain, said:

"Hello— is this Mattie Downs?"

"No— you must have the wrong number. This is Mrs. J. Fred Powley speaking!"

____________________________

13: A Solicitor's Story

By "S.S."

World's News (Sydney) 23 July 1927

I can not find the identity of "S.S." from any available source. It seems to me the story was already fairly old, probably pre-Great War, when published in "The World's News" in 1927.  The American author and journalist Richard Harding Davis (1864-1916) published a story entitled "The Solicitor's Story" in 1901. The story below is clearly by an English writer.

ON the morning of February 20, 1870, I reached my office at the usual hour, 9.30. and. having read my letters, summoned my confidential clerk, Mr. Wilson.

"Are Mr. North's papers ready?" I asked, as he entered my room.

"Quite ready." replied Mr. Wilson, who, guessing what I wanted, had brought the documents with him

He placed them in due order before me, and, after glancing through them and satisfying myself as to the manner in which they had been prepared, I sat awaiting the appearance of the gentleman for whose signature the papers were ready.

Roland North was not only a good client but a particular friend of mine. His father before him bad borne the same relations to me. As my age lay about midway between the two generations, it had been my fortune to be able to stand on equal terms of friendship with both father and son, so that upon the death of the former the management of all the legal business connected with the estate continued in my hands as before. The particular business which now engaged me on Roland's behalf was a very pleasant task to me. He was to be married in a few days, and the match was in every way a suitable and desirable one.

Miss Murray, the lady of his choice, was well-born, well -dowered, and. moreover, a handsome and attractive girl. Everything was going well and smoothly— no hitches in the settlements, no unpleasantness with friends on either side. In all human probability the union would bring happiness to both.

I was very fond of Roland North, but, having known him from a boy, did not hesitate to lecture him on certain things connected with his bachelor life which had from time to time come to my knowledge. Yet many of these were only the faults common to young men, and I felt convinced that marriage with a girl he really loved would lead him so far away from the errors of youth that there would be little chance of his returning to them.

He possessed a large property, and as there were several things connected with his estate which I wished settled before his marriage and departure on the long tour he purposed making with his bride, I was very busy with his affairs. This morning he had promised to call at my office about 10 o'clock to sign several documents. Later on. I knew, he intended to leave town, so, as the papers were of importance, I felt rather annoyed when half-past 10 came and he had not made his appearance.

I looked over the papers once more, then said to my clerk, "Perhaps Mr. North misunderstood me, and thinks I am coming to him. I will take a cab. and go to Jermyn Street. If he should call, ask him to wait till I return." Roland North lived in chambers in Jermyn Street. His town house had been let furnished since his father's death.

In a few minutes I arrived at my destination. Even as my hand was on the bell, the door was suddenly thrown open, and someone rushing ont nearly threw me down. It was Roland's groom, a decent sort of fellow, whom I knew well by sight. His lace was blanched with terror, his looks were wild. He seemed to recognise me. and gasped, "Oh, God! My master! Upstairs:" Then shouting. "Police, police!" he rushed madly down the street.

I ran upstairs to Roland's rooms. Outside the bedroom door crouched a terrified servant-maid, with horror in her eyes. Inside. on the bed, lay Roland North, apparently fast asleep, but in a sleep that would never be broken, for a felon hand, had driven a knife deep into his heart.

It was a sight I have never forgotten— a sight I shall never forget. Even, after all years, it comes to me in my dreams. Had the murdered man been a total stranger to me, that sight would have haunted use. but as one of my dearest friends lay there, what wonder if the shock almost deprived me of my senses. Then came the rush of feet, and the room filled with people.

Policemen hustled me from the bedside, and I heard the words. "Make room for the doctor!" I saw someone bend over and examine the body; then he shook his head, and I knew the worst—that Roland North lay dead before me, murdered as he slept. But by whom?

As I stood by the dressing-table, resting my hand upon it for support. I placed it accidentally upon a morsel of paper— why, I knew not— but my fingers' closed on it. Mechanically I read a few words written there. I am sure at the time I was quite unable to grasp the meaning, but the idea must have come to me somehow that the substance of that piece of paper ought not to be exposed to every curious eye. This must have been the reason why I folded the paper and placed it in my pocket. Shortly after the room was cleared, and the necessary steps began to solve the dreadful tragedy

The inquest opened the next day, and after some formal evidence was adjourned

The doctor deposed that death was caused by a stab from a knife, the point of which had penetrated the heart, so that death must have been Instantaneous. The groom stated that, according: to custom, he had called for his master's orders at nine o'clock in the morning. He was Informed that Mr. North had not yet risen. He had then waited an hour, and, as his master did not make his appearance, had rapped at the bedroom door without getting: any response. At 10.30 he knocked again without success. Shortly afterwards, fearing his master, who was generally an early riser, must be ill, he had ventured to open the door, and so made the ghastly discovery. I stated the little I knew about it, and the inquest was then adjourned for several days. I should mention that, in the doctor's opinion, the murder must have been committed between eight and nine o'clock in the morning.

At the adjourned inquest fresh evidence came forward. Roland's watch and chain were missing. This might show that robbery was the object of the crime.

The knife was produced. It was simply a short-bladed, whitehandled carving-knife, such as are designed to carve poultry or game. Use had worn it to a sharp point, and a strong hand had found it an easy task to drive it up to the very handle in poor Roland's breast. It afforded no clue whatever likely to lead to the detection of the assassin. The maker's name had long been worn away, and there must have been millions of similar knives in existence.

The servant at the chambers next gave evidence. At first she roundly stated thnt by no possibility could anyone have entered the house that morning without her knowledge; but, under pressure, admitted that, while cleaning the doorsteps, between eight and nine o'clock, she had crossed the road to say a few words to another servent, leaving the door wide open during her absence. How long had she been away? Af first she only confessed to a minute, but a series of judicious questions proved her to have been absent from a quarter to. half an hour. She was sure no one had entered the house, although she admitted that she had gone into the opposite house to inspect some new article of finery which her friend had purchased. This was sufficient. The uurderer had waited his time; entered the open door, perhaps intent upon robbery; then, having struck the fatal blow, had got away unnoticed. It was all clear.

The jury returned a verdict of "Wilful murder by some person or persons unknown." Government offered the usual reward of one hundred pounds; the heirs of the dead man increased this to five hundred pounds, and Scotland Yard was ail agog.

I need not enlarge upon the terrlble time I had during those days. The anguish of Miss Murray, who insisted upon seeing me and hearing all the harrowing details from my lips. The genuine sorrow I myself felt in the loss of my friend. The utter sadness and dreariness of the funeral, which took the place of the anticipated say wedding. The dreadful sight that, was ever before my eyes All these combined to render me almost unfit for business. Indeed, what I should have done without the assistance of my confidential clerk, Mr. Wilson, I cannot tell. He rendered me yeoman service, and I resolved to repay him whenever an opportunity arose.

James Wilson was a man of about thirty-six— gentlemanly, sedate, and, above all, trustworthy. He had been with me some four years, and I placed every confidence in him. and respected his great ability. Originally he had practised on his own account as a solicitor, somewhere in the West of England, I believe, but being one of those many men who are better off as employees, he had managed to come to grief over that precipice that yawns before all ycung solicitors— transactions with speculative builders. After his failure he was strongly recommended to me as fit to All a responsible position, and I installed him as my principal clerk.

Although a quiet, reticent man, I soon discovered he was well educated. I knew nothing: of him in his private life. The few well-meaning advances, in a social way which I had at first mnde to him had been respectfully but decidedly declined, so that when office hours were over he went his own way. I did not even know where he lived. For all I knew, it might be In an attic; but as he was the first to reach the office and the last to leave it, It was no concern of mine. He was an excellent clerk; but at first I was distressed by the melancholy look he always wore— a look as though the world had not been kind to him— but after a time I ceased to notice it, or concluded that, in spite of his unhappy looks my clerk was as comfortable as the majority of people.

The press of a professional business always seems to come when you are least able to cope with it. It was so at the time the terrible event happened. Leaving everything connected with Roland North out of the question, I had more work than I could do. Wilson was my right hand, left hand, head, and all at the time. He worked as I believe no clerk ever yet worked, and his pale face told of nights spent in my service. I was afraid the strain would be too great for his rather delicate-looking frame, but he assured me his health was good, even if his appearance belied it.

It was well I had with me someone whom I could trust to attend to my work, as, in truth, for some days I could think of little else than Roland North, and wonder who had killed him.

Robbery, said the general public; murdered by a common criminal for the sake of plunder. Robbery, said Scotland Yard, and easily to be traced; the watch and chain will give us the clue. Robbery, too, was Mr. Wilson's opinion when I talked the matter over with him. Robbery said all Roland's friends save one; I alone knew that robbery had not been the murderer's aim; that if the watch and chain had been taken, it was but to throw the police on a false scent— that the man who struck that deadly blow struck it for vengeance, and vengeance only. Not that I knew anyone who was Roland's enemy. Gay, pleasant Roland, with a smile, a kind word, and, when needed, an open purse for everyoneBut, as I smoothed out that slip of paper, which I had picked up from his dressingtable, I found these words:—

"My husband knows all. I could not... help it. Beware."

The writing was, of course, a woman's. The first thing that struck me, as I examined the paper when alone, was the peculiar character of the writing. I noticed that, good as the writing was, it was rather tremulous in places, as though written by an elderly woman, or by one in great haste or suffering from some powerful emotion. The paper had been twisted into a knot, and then addressed; so there was no envelope for it. and the note, from the outside appearance, must have been delivered by hand.

As I sat with that paper in front of me I knew for certain that the man who had slain Roland in his sleep was the husband of the woman who had penned those words of warning. Roland had lived, as many another man lives, taking his pleasure where he found it. and counting not the cost. His life had been taken to appease the vengeance of an injured husband. He was no libertine, but he was young, and few young men can resist temptation when it comes in the shape of a fair woman.

I may have been wrong. I was wrong in the course I took, but I was fully resolved that the piece of paper which I alone had seen should not become public property. Already the papers had begun to comment on the incompetency of the detectives and to hint that a change in the present system was desirable.

Moreover. I was anxious that no word of what, I suspected should reach Miss Murray's ears. So I decided to keep the matter secret until the inquest was over. Then sent for the detective in charge of the case.

"Before you go any further," I said. "I want you to dismiss the idea that the murder was for robbery."

"The detective smiled, as much as to say, "Everyone thinks he knows better than we do."

"If I wanted to earn this large reward," I continued, "I should ascertain all about Mr. North's habits. I know that a day or two before the tragedy my poor friend received a letter warning him to beware of some woman's husband. I can tell you no more than that, but it ought to be enough."

"You should have said so before the coroner, sir."

"Yes, and given the guilty man full warning. Now he suspects nothing, and should easily be traced."

This reasoning of mine was so clear that the detective was forced to agree with it. I could give him no more information, so he departed, certain of claiming the reward within a fortnight

I heard no more for some days, except the usual statement that the police had a clue, and were following it.

When I saw the detective again he was quite crestfallen.

"I have made every inquiry," he said, "but I cannot find any trace of scandal against Mr. North. I think, sir, you are making a mistake."

"I am not." I replied; "the blow was struck in revenge, and the man who struck it is probably in London now."

But it was no use. The reward was never claimed, and poor Roland's murder went to swell the long list of undiscovered crimes.

After a while a still more appalling tragedy drove it from the public mind, and only those closely interested continued to think of it. I had done all I could, so I locked the mysterious slip of paper in my secretaire, wondering whether fate or chance would some day reveal the writer's name to me. It appeared to me that the whole affair had been badly managed, as, with such information as I was able to give, suspicion at least should have fallen on someone. However closely poor Roland might have veiled any indiscretion of his, surely the skill of Scotland Yard should have laid it bare. I must confess that as I placed the piece of paper in a safe drawer I was inclined to agree with the newspapers that a chaage was necessary in our detective system.

FOUR YEARS passed by. The grass had grown long on Roland's grave—his memory had vanished from all but a few hearts. If his name was mentioned casually in discussing unsolved crimes, men would say. "Ah yes, Roland North, he committed suicide or was killed, or something I forget now what it was." But I had a conviction that the piece of paper lying in my desk would some day bring the guilty person to justice.

The four years had been very uneventful to me. I was growing greyer and richer, and was beginning to look forward to taking life somewhat easier, but when a man is in the swim of a large professional business, he finds great difficulty in reaching the shores of retirement. During these four years I had once more drawn up settlements for Miss Murray. Time had healed her wounds, and she had now been married about a year.

My trusted clerk, Mr. James Wilson, was still with me. He was as grave, reserved, and correct as ever. Perhaps even more pale, unhappy, and delicate in appearance; but he never complained of his health, and as he worked early and late to my benefit, I could only suppose that his constitution was better than it looked. I never saw such a man to work. Certainly no man not working for himself. No sooner was one thing finished than another was commenced; and I may safely say that during those four years, except on business, he had not been absent from his desk for an hour. He reminded mo of a machine wound up, and sent into the world, to work with unerring accuracy until the wheels and the spring at last broke down.

Once or twice I had raised his salary. He had accepted the increase with quiet, but not effusive, thanks, as one who knew he fully earned it. As he was now so important to me in my business, and as he knew my clients almost as well as I knew them myself, I had once more gone out of iny way to endeavor to create some sort of friendship in private life between us. I invited him to spend a Sunday with me at Richmond. He declined in his usual polite way, and upon my telling him my reason for urging it was that I thought that men who spent so many hours in business together should not be entire strangers out of the office, he said:—

"You must really excuse me, Mr. Maitland, but I have visited no one for years. I am never happy in company. In fact, I dare say by this time you have noticed that I have notions of my own, and am quite unfitted for society."

I was more annoyed at this rebuff than I cared to say, and resolved that, in future, he should go his own way, live his own life, and I would trouble no more about it.

Yet at the time of which I now write— four years after Mr. North's murder—I began to realise the fact that I was getting on in years, so, after much consideration, I decided that the hour had come to offer Wilson a partnership. He had now been with me eight years. His conduct and general bearing had been irreproachable. He was a capital lawyer. His address was good. My clients liked him. His transactions were all strictly honorable. I felt that I should be happier with the business in the hands of a man whom I so thoroughly knew and trusted, than the uncertainty of taking in one unproved—although the latter course would be more to my advantage in a pecuniary sense.

I told Wilson of my good intentions towards him. His pale face flushed, and, for once, I saw him show signs of real feeling— so much so that I began to hope that, standing on terms of equality, we might be more companionable. Judge of my surprise when he said:— "I am really much obliged to you, Mr. Maitland— deeply grateful for this proof of confidence— but I must decline your offer."

"Decline it, Mr. Wilson? You must be mad."

"Perhaps I am. I told you I was peculiar, and had notions of my own. I am a restless man, and if I were bound in partnership with you I should want to leave you before three months were over. As it is, I am a free lance, and hope to remain so."

I did not like to see him throwing away his chances, in this fashion, so I said:—"But, Mr. Wilson, have you no family dependent upon you?"

"I have no near relatives," he replied.

"Why don't you get married. You would find life much easier with a good wife to look after you."

"I shall never marry. Women and I don't agree."

"Then you are quite determined to refuse my offer?"

"Quite, Mr. Maitland.' Thanks to your generosity I have a larger income than I want, and am free from all business worries, so I could not be better off."

After our conversation, Wilson returned to his desk and his drafts as calmly as though nothing unusual had happened, and lie had not deliberately thrown away the chance of a lifetime.

SOME months after this conversation with my extraordinary clerk, a very old client of mine died. I was "summoned to attend his luneral, and to read the will afterwards. The day before I went down to his country house, I thought it would be as well if I looked through the draft of his will, in order to be familiar with its provisions. This box was brought in, and I soon found the document I wanted. It was dated in 1867, the year Wilson came to me— and the draft was in my clerk's handwriting. It was a bulky document, consisting of a good many sheets of paper, joined together at the corner. To the front page was attached a slip of white paper, bearing sundry memoranda— also in Wilson's handwriting— suggesting a few alterations to be made.

As I bent this piece of paper back, to read the words it concealed, I saw writing on the other side of It, and my heart stood still, as I knew that the writing was identical with the writing of those words which had been stamped upon my brain since the day of Roland North's death.

WITH trembling hands I detached the slip of paper, opened my secretaire, and laid it. aide by side with the note of warning. I had been deceived by no fancied resemblance; the writing was the same, and so peculiar was the penmanship that I felt convinced that no two persona could write exactly similarly.

I compared letter with letter, and found them to correspond in their formation. The hand which wrote one wrote the other. Then, with professional instinct, I sat down to think calmly over my discovery. Now came the difficulty. How could I connect the two papers? What theory could I form? Here, through an extraordinary chance, was the clue starting from my very office. Here it had been lying all these years. Could It be possible that Wilson was in any way mixed up in the affair?

I shuddered at the thought. At first I even thought of asking him point blank, whose writing it might be on the back of the slip of paper he had used: but. recognising the necessity for extreme caution, I decided not to do so. I tried to throw my memory back to the time my old client's will was made. Looking through my old diaries. I found that about that time we had a press of business In hand, but I could recollect nothing more than taking my client's instructions as to his will, and afterwards seeing him execute it. So, pinning the two slips of paper together. I placed them in my pocket-book, and sent for Mr. Wilson.

I was quite composed when he entered, and, running over the sheets of the draft, asked:—

"Do you remember the circumstances under which you drew this up? I ask, as there are several little things in it I should have worded differently."

Wilson took the paper in his hand, looked at the date, and replied:—

"It was one of the first things I did for you before I had quite caught your style. I remember, as we were very busy, I drafted it at home, and you altered a good deal of it before it was ready."

The paper. then, whoever wrote it, came from Wilson's house. I saw clearly that my first proceeding must be to find out everything I could concerning his antecedents and private life. I looked up my letters of 1867, and found from them that Wilson had been recommended to me by a Bristol firm of very high standing— Forbes and Young. Having found this much, I went in search of a private inquiry agent. I hated the idea of having to spy on one of my household, as it were, but the serious nature of the case gave me no option.

"Can you attend to a bit of business for me?" I said; "a few inquiries I want made."

"Certainly, sir." replied the agent, producing his notetook. "We are rather slack just now."

"I want you to go to Bristol at once, inquire there of Forbes and Young, solicitors, from where James Wilson came. He was bankrupt in 1866, I believe, and they were concerned."

The heads of my instructions were rapidly Jotted down.

"Then you will go to the place at which he originally lived, and find out all you can about him— his connections, private life, etc. Then you will ascertain his private address in London, and get all the particulars you can of his history since he came to town. As soon as you know enough, write me, and I will call for your report. Do not post it."

"Case of defalcation, I suppose," said the man inquiringly

"Something of the sort," I replied, and wished him good morning.

I did not choose to take anyone into my confidence this time. I would get all the links together before I put the chain into other hands.

In a week the agent wrote me that his report was ready. I had been anxiously awaiting it, so hastened to hear what he had discovered. The agent reported that James Wilson was of respectable family. He had been well educated, then articled to a firm of solicitors. Afterwards he set up in practice at a rising watering-place on the Bristol Channel, where, as I have already noted, he became involved in some unfortunate building transactions, falling in consequence. He had married, whilst in practice, the daughter of a well-to-do retired tradesman; but as several members of his wife's family lost considerable sums of money by his failure, they became completely estranged. Wilson came to London in 1867, taking rooms in Chelsea. His wife died on February 22, 1870, since when Wilson had continued to occupy the same rooms.

"And," added the agent, "I find that since he has been in London he has held the position of confidential clerk to a Mr. Maitland, solicitor, of Bedford Row."

"Thank you," said Mr. Maitland, "I am much obliged to you."

Although I had gained little direct evidence, my suspicions gathered strength.

Impossible as the idea seemed, the testimony of the handwriting proclaimed that James Wilson must in some way be connected with the perpetrator of the crime. At least, he would be able to identify the writer of the message. My agent had ascertained that Mr. Wilson had died two days after the murder. As I thought the matter over, the fact of Wilson not having mentioned his wife's death at the time, and his misleading words to me on a recent occasion, which had made me conclude be was unmarried. tended to make it appear possible that the writer of that warning note was Mrs. Wilson herself. Even the tremulous nature of the handwriting would be accounted for, as she must have been at that moment lying on her deathbed. How Roland North became entangled with James Wilson's wife was a matter of no consequence now. For me, at present, it was sufficient to know that, if I could prove the writer of those two papers lying in my pocket to be Wilson's wife, 1 had enough ground to justify his arrest as the murderer. His identification must be my first act. I determined to make no delay.

The thought that for all these years I had been in daily contact with the murderer of one of my dearest friends was to me horrible. I left the office, stating that an urgent private matter had called me into the country.

I knew the name of the church in which Wilson had been married. The object of my journey was to visit it. I inspected the register of marriages, and, knowing the date of the ceremony, had little difficulty in finding the signatures of James Wilson and Ada Fletcher. The resemblance in the writing here was even closer to the warning message.

With all my lingering doubts, with all the hopes I cherished as to Wilson's innocence dispelled, I hastened back to town, nerving myself to perform a harrowing duty the next day— the duty of denouncing as the murderer of Roland North the man who had been for eight years my constant companion and trusted associate in business.

Late as the hour was when I reached Paddington, I drove straight to Inspector Sharpe's house.

Accustomed to surprises at all hours, that astute gentleman expressed no astonishment at seeing me, but awaited patiently any communication I had to make for his benefit. Yet, for once at least in the course of his chequered career, I believe he was taken aback.

"If you will be at my office at eleven o'clock precisely to-morrow morning, I will point out to you the man who murdered Roland North."

The Inspector started.

"Tell me where to find him, and I will arrest him to-night."

I hesitated. Something restrained me from telling him to whom my suspicions pointed.

It was not mercy, but I wished to give Wilson one chance of explaining the thing which had led me to accuse him of the crime.

"No," I replied, "I cannot even tell you his name at this moment. I must manage affairs in my own way. He will come to my office to-morrow, utterly unsuspecting. I will then point him out to you, and you can take the proper course."

Inspector Sharpe promised obedience to my Instructions, so I left him, to dream, no doubt, of the reward be might claim tomorrow.

Tired as I was with the day's work, I slept but little that night. I was drawing mental pictures of the painful proceeding of tomorrow.

Then, between waking and sleeping, a wild thought took possession of me. I fancied that for some reason or another Wilson had divined my suspicions, and that, on the morrow, he would be absent. So strongly did this idea impress me that I actually rose, determined to go to the detectives, reveal all I knew, and let the arrest be made at once, so that justice should not be defeated. Then, as my senses returned to me, I saw how utterly impossible it was that Wilson could suspect anything, and, lying down once more, I resolved to let matters follow in the train I had designed.

Still, It was not without relief that I saw, upon entering my office in the morning, my confidential clerk at his usual post. He saluted me with his invariable calm politeness. For the life of me I could not return that greeting, but, averting my face, hurried into my own room, the entrance to which lay through his. I opened my letters in a mechanical way. in the present excited state of my mind giving little heed to their contents. I could think only of one thing— was I not wrong, after all?

Could that quiet, self-possessed, gentlespoken man. now sitting within a few feet of me, be guility of such a foul crime? I began now almost to wish that my fear of the preceding night had been well founded, and his flight had given me assurance of his guilt.

In a few minutes the door of my office opened and Wilson entered. He had a number of papers in his hand, and, running through them, said, "If you are at liberty now, Mr. Maitland, there are several things about which 1 should like to consult you."

I shuddered as he spoke; but, as he stood there, with his impassive exterior, his mind bent, evidently, only on business, it seemed absurd to suppose that this man was the being who, with hellish vengeance in his heart, crept up the staircase to Roland's bedroom; that those white fingers, now holding a harmless pen, were the same which closed round the handle of a knife which pierced my old friend's breast.

But the time for hesitation and uncertainty had gone by. In an hour Sharpe would be here, eager for his prey, and until he came I determined that Mr. James Wilson should not be a moment out of my sight.

I rose and walked to the office door, locked It, and placed the key In my pocket. Then I resumed my seat, and motioned Wilson to one near me.

My unusual proceedings, I fancied, troubled him— he turned a shade paler, if that were possible, but he said nothng.

Many a time afterwards, in cold blood, I wondered at my folly at thus, of my own free will, shutting myself up with a man whom I suspected to be a murderer— a man who might have made preparations against a surprise of this nature, and to whom my life might have been as nothing.

But I was the stronger, although the older, man of the two. Wilson, although tall, was glim almost to thinness, and I was oertaln that in a hand-to-hand struggle I could overpower him. I felt disgust and horror at my companion, but not fear. He looked at me inquiringly.

"Mr. Wilson," I said, "some time ago you led me to understand that you were unmarried. I have since ascertained that your wife died in February, 1870."

Wilson, whose acuteness told him that I did not make this assertion with the primary object of reproaching him for concealing the true state of his domestic affairs from me, made a simple gesture of assent.

"I find," I continued, "that your wife died on the 22nd of February, 1870, two days after the murder of Roland North."

As I spoke the last words he knew what was coming. I could see it in the man's face.

"And," I concluded, "from certain facts which have come to my knowledge, I have decided that you, even if you did not strike the blow yourself, must know the murderer."

Wilson rose from his chair. He was perfectly calm, and, speaking in his usual quiet voice, said:—

"Are you mad, Mr. Maitland, to make such an accusation— against me, of all men, without troubling to verify it? I ask you, as a lawyer and man of business, what possible motive could I have had for committing such a crime?"

"The day before he was killed," I replied, "Roland North received a letter of warning from a woman— a woman whose husband he had doubtless wronged. Till a few days ago her name was unknown. Now, from the similarity of the curious writing to that of another specimen, which I have ascertained was written by your wife, I know that the warning was sent by her. James Wilson, you wretched murderer! Your hour has come! I have already denounced you, and in a few minutes the police will be here."

Wilson sat silent for some time. I was on the alert, expecting that my accusation would be the signal for an attempt to escape.

But nothing seemed further from his thoughts. After a while he raised his eyes to mine, and said quietly, "Your knowledge of common law cannot be very great, Mr. Maitland, if you think that any English jury will convict a man upon the fancied resemblance between two scraps of writing. But your deductions are more correct than your law. I did kill Roland North!"

The audacity of this full confession, spoken as if he were mentioning an incident in his career of little moment, so surprised me that I could only stare at him and ejaculate:—

"Villain! Ruffian!"

"Yes," continued this strange man, "I killed him, and I will tell you why I killed him— that is, if you care to listen to the tale, and if there is time before the warrant arrives."

He began to speak, and in a moment his whole manner changed. He was transfigured. I knew that at last I was face to face with the true man. His brows contracted, his deep-set eyes burned with fierce light, his cheeks flushed, and the veins on his forebead stood out with emotion. His speech was rapid, and his language eloquent. His fingers clasped each other, or were extended to give emphasis to his powerful words, and, as I watched and listened, I comprehended that, under that cold surface of reserve beat a heart shaken by the strongest passions and capable of the deepest feeling.

As I stood face to face with him I could scarcely realise that this was the same man whom I had seen daily for eight years.

"I will be brief, Mr. Maitland," he said. "I killed Roland North because he wronged my wife. I loved her as a boy, and married her as a man. I believed her to be the most pure of women. To me she was simply my life. Every thought of mine was for her happiness. And that night, when, stricken with the illness which she knew would be fatal, she whispered that cursed confession to me, my life was at an end for ever. And, trembling at death and the judgment she feared after death, she prayed lor my forgiveness, so that the God whom she dreaded might forgive her, then I laid my lips beside her ear and whispered, "When I have killed him, I will forgive you— not till then!'

"Had you ever loved a woman as I loved her, you would pity even while condemning me for what you call the crime. I cared not which was to blame, the man or the woman, but I said, "That man shall die!" The details of their intrigue were of little interest. She was a beautiful woman, and he was a gallant, handsome young fellow. Yet the day has been when I could have shown as gallant and gay a front as Roland North. He had made an end of my life, and his own should pay forfeit. The next morning I was outside his home, but found no means of gaining an entrance. I knew all his habits well, and several times had been to his rooms on business. The opportunity soon came. You know the rest."

"You wretched man!" I cried. "Do you feel no remorse?"

"I feel no remorse. My life became a blank. Since then I have cared nothing for life— nothing for death."

Wilson had again seated himself. His recent excitement had vanished and left no trace.

"I tell you, Mr. Maitland," he said, "I neither felt nor feel remorse, regret, or wish to evade justice. My life, as I understand life, ended long ago. Now you see why I refused your offer of a partnership. It will matter very little, your clerk being arrested for murder; but had I been your partner. It would not have improved the standing of the firm."

I thanked him mentally for his consideration, but said nothing,

"I see that my time is short," he said. "I have one letter I wish to write. Will you leave me for a few minutes?"

I told him he could write what he liked, but that I should not leave the room. He slightly shrugged his shoulders, saying, "As you will," and, taking a sheet of paper, commenced writing.

His letter was a very short one. He placed it in an envelope, laying It on the table, with the address downwards.

The minutes stole on. Surely it must now be eleven o'clock. I would have looked at my watch, but a feeling of delicacy restrained me.

I waited some little time longer, and then glanced at Wilson. I was sitting nearer the door, with the idea of cutting off any attempt at escape. Wilson was in my chair at the table, which was littered with letters and legal documents. This table was between us. As he finished his letter, he took up a brief, and commenced perusing it. Even at this awful moment he appeared to be interested only In the work which he had done so well for so many years. His left band held the sheet he was perusing near his eyes, the rest, of the document fell down, hiding his right hand, and most of the body.

"I have been thinking, Mr. Maitiand," he said, "that, after all, I should like to escape the gallows. As there are only two ways of escaping— one over your body, and another, I choose that other one."

And before I could comprehend the bidden meaning of his words, I heard the loud report of a pistol, and James Wilson fell forward across my office table, deluging it with his heart's blood. Before I could call for assistance, Inspector Sharpe arrived, to find he was too late.

The letter Wilson had written was addressed to me. It contained only these words: —"The reason of my rash act is extensive defalcations, which sooner or later you must discover."

AT THE inquest held on my ill-fated clerk, I had to appear. The letter which I produced apparently explained all. The verdict was "Suicide whilst in an unsound state of mind." I never looked for any defalcations, well knowing that none would be found. The detective probably formed his own conclusions, for he asked me nothing more about Wilson. But I— and I only— know the whole truth why Roland North was murdered, and why James Wilson shot himself in my office. And the truth (and moral) is the narrative above written.

___________________

14: The Dumb Avenger

Max Pemberton

1863-1950

World's News (Sydney) 27 July 1918

WHAT did Sir Roger want with him?

Seymour Hollingford asked himself the question as he looked up at the window of the cottage and waited for Mary to appear. That was a pretty picture— the brown-haired English girl, and the crimson ramblers, and the sunlight about the place. Seymour never tired of it; but this summer afternoon he was thinking of something else.

"Hullo," he cried, and then, when my lady appeared— "I say, Mary, what do you think? The old boy's sent for me."

She could hardly believe her ears.

"What?" she exclaimed, "Uncle Roger!"

"Just as I say— I'm to go and dine at the Manor to-night. Now, what the deuce does that mean; what do you make of it all?"

She came downstairs to tell him, so impor-tant it was. Her mother, Sir Roger's sister-in-law, had driven over to Carlisle, and there was nobody with her in the cottage but Elsie, the maid. She certainly had not been expecting that Seymour would get away from his work so early. He was agent to Lord Athel-down, and Friday usually found him busy at his office. Yet, here he was in the porch, telling her that a wonderful thing had hap-pened.

"I can't believe it," she said; "only a week ago he advised mother to go away from here and get me some work to do in London. He wants me to go on the stage— just because he knows that that was the last thing father would have liked me to do. And, now he's asked the enemy to dinner. It must be a joke, Seymour. He wants to make fun of you."

Seymour did not know what to think. He was well acquainted with the family story, and perfectly aware of the bitterness and meanness Sir Roger had shown to the wife and the child of his dead brother. A rich man, the baronet had a hundred excuses for making them an allowance which would have brought a blush to the cheek of Shylock. The truth really was that he had always been jealous of the clean-living, upright soldier, Horace Cayley, who had been killed in Uganda, in his prime. He himself had no such reputation. If the tongue of rumor were to be believed, there was not a greater rascal between the Cheviots and Land's End.

Hollingford knew all this, but it was difficult to speak to Mary about it. He was engaged to her, it is true, but the Atheldown finances were not equal to the payment of any salary upon which a prudent man might marry, and his ambition to take Kenwick Farm and start upon his own needed a good fifteen hundred pounds to finance it. Where the money was to come from he knew no more than the dead, and had often thought of cutting the whole business and emigrating to America. Now came this odd invitation, that he should go and dine with Sir Roger Cayley. It really was perplexing.

"Perhaps he wants to talk to me about you, Mary. Wasn't he saying something about your going on the stage the other day?"

"Oh, yes; and many other days. He says I have just the voice and the appearance. There's a friend of his at some theatre or other he wants me to see—"

She looked up at Seymour archly, knowing quite well what he would say. The attitude was provoking, and he took her into his arms immediately and kissed her on both cheeks.

"He's right about the voice and the appearance. When I meet the man he speaks of, I shall know what to say to him. Perhaps I'd better go and have dinner with him, Mary. I'd like the chance of telling him off if he'll give me it. It isn't often that he hears any thing like the truth, I suppose. Well, I shall tell it to him to-night, if I go—"

She was a little afraid of that.

"Be careful, Seymour," she said, "I don't want to say anything against my own uncle, but you must know what a passionate man he is—"

He laughed and kissed her again.

"I like passionate men," he said— and so he left her, standing there at the gate with the roses thick about her.

BELTON MANOR was an old Tudor house, standing on a spur of the Cheviots. The wide moor ran before its grim iron gates as a lonely sea by some citadel that the Saxons had built. There had been gardens, but they were long neglected, and had become but a desolate jungle of weed and wild-flower. In the stables, where many horses had been, there stood, in that year, 1914, a great motor-car, whose flaming headlights were often seen in the hills long after midnight had been chimed by the village clocks.

The house itself assuredly had been built upon a rock. Defying the lavages of time and of its owner's absence, its stones were impervious to all that wind and weather could effect. A great, rambling mansion. Sir Roger inhabited but the west wing of it, and here Seymour Hollingford found him three hours after he had left Mary at the garden gate.

It is true that he had gone to the house with some trepidation, for he knew the baronet's reputation, and would not have been surprised at anything he did. This man's record was a mystery, but many did not hesitate to say that it was black. Seymour was quite sure that the old rogue would do him an injury if he could; but he had plenty of pluck— and when the crazy bell set the dogs barking in the stable yard, he said that, after all, he could take care of himself, even though the devil were about to sit down to dinner with him.

An Indian answered his ring— a sleuth-hound kind of a fellow, with a tread like a cat and the cunning eyes of the Oriental. He spoke English very well, and at once ushered the visitor into a saloon on the western wing, where the baronet's history was written upon the flooring and the walls in trophies that were unmistakable. Here were the skins of grizzly bears from the Rockies, and bears which were not grizzly from Franz Joseph Land. The antlers of a Zambesi buck stood guard over the stuffed head of a tiger from Malay. There were photographs of Uganda lions and giraffes in the great game pre-serves of Central Africa. Old weapons figured in the armory, which must have been unique. There were Burmese knives in a case, every one of which, as the inscription told you, had been deep in the body of a man.

Seymour did not hear the baronet enter. He had just taken up an uncanny-looking Japanese scimitar, and was scanning it when a voice said, "A pretty thing, isn't it?"— and, turning, he found himself in the presence of a man of some fifty years of age, whose hair was just turning grey, and in whose eyes there was an expression of sardonic humor not wholly unpleasant to see. When, however, the possessor of those eyes shook hands with his guest, his palm was moist and clammy, and his expression changed oddly to that of one who was greatly preoccupied mentally, and had almost forgotten that he had a stranger to dine with him at all.

"Mr. Hollingford— yes, of course— I asked you to dine with me, did I not?—very good of you to come on such a night—we'll go in at once and have a glass of wine—do us both good, you know"... and he turned towards the door as though impatient already to be at the table.

Seymour thought it rather strange, though, naturally, he made no observation upon it. The night seemed a very ordinary night of summer to him, and, while he liked a good glass of wine, he was in no particular hurry to enjoy it. Still, it might merely be the man's way, and he followed him into the great dining-room, and at once sat down to a excellent dinner.

The cooking was first rate, he thought. He was specially interested in certain Indian dishes to which Sir Roger called his attention, and the fact of their introduction turned the conversation to the East rather than to the West, where Seymour would have had it lie. He was still a thousand miles from guessing why he had been asked to the house, and never once so far had the baronet mentioned Mary or her mother.

"You know India well," he remarked. Sir Roger said that he had a better acquaintance with Burma.

"Kipling's right," he remarked; "set me East of Suez. I am not particularly concerned about the Ten Commandments anywhere, but the sun is another matter. We do not really live in the West; we are fighting nature all the time, and nature is getting the better of us. You should go to Burma if you want to make your fortune, Hollingford. Take the little girl with you, and show her the world. It's better than sticking to these God-forsaken hills, believe me. You'll both be rich enough by-and-by, when you get my money— take her away and let her see things. That's life... you might as well be buried alive as live in this place."

Seymour thought it curious, but he did not know how to reply. The intimation that Mary, after all, was to get her uncle's money staggered him, for nobody had believed that she would get a penny of it. Yet here was Sir Roger saying so as carelessly as a man might remark that the sun would shine to morrow. If there were any fly in the particular ointment it was the way in which the thing was said. The baronet's manner seemed absent and not a little restless. He looked at the clock from time to time, and fingered the plate before him distractedly. It was very evident to Seymour that he had not yet been told why he was asked to the house.

They left the room directly the dessert was served, and went down a long corridor to a little library at the end of it. The night was hot and close; yet to Seymour's surprise the windows were barred and shuttered in this apartment, the heavy red velvet curtains drawn close. There were two electric lamps burning, and a box of cigars, with liqueurs, upon the table. Here Yeratz, the sleuth In-dian, served them wonderful Turkish coffee and long cheroots in the Eastern fashion. When the man had gone out, Sir Roger rose swiftly from his chair, and deliberately locked the door after him. Then he resumed his seat and began to smoke furiously.

"You don't know anything of Burma," he said to Seymour, repeating the observation he had already made in the dining-room.

"Nothing whatever," was the reply. "I went to Rome once, but I have been no further East."

Sir Roger nodded his head.

"Then this," he said, "would mean nothing to you," and he took up a sheath knife from the table, and passed it across to his guest.

Seymour examined it with curiosity. There was a curious label attached to the hilt of it, and an inscription in characters with which he was not familiar upon a tag of faded green paper. The knife itself was obviously Oriental, beautifully wrought, in a case encrusted with rubies and diamonds. It must be worth a great deal of money, he thought.

"That's a wonderful thing," he said. "How did you get it?"

"It was here on the table this afternoon when I came in. God knows how it got there. In Burma, you know, we should open our eyes at that. At Bisa, you send a man a knife, and it means that you will put another into him in four-and-twenty hours if you get the chance. Look at the writing on it— Burmese characters, you see. I know enough to read it. It says, 'I will repay.' That's odd, isn't it, that I should not have been in Burmah for three years and get a thing like that here in Cumberland."

He was evidently very much agitated, and, as Seymour thought, most obviously afraid. The laugh with which he followed his own words seemed boisterous and unnatural. From time to time the suspicious eyes searched the room, as though someone were already in hiding there, and Seymour no longer doubted why he had been sent for. "The man thinks some body is going to kill him," he said. "And I am here to protect him. Well, it's a funny job, anyway."

"Did you ever know anybody in Burma who had a grievance against you?" he asked.

Sir Roger looked askance at that.

"No man trades in the East who not," said he. "If every damned nigger got what he calls his due, we should be bankrupt. Then, of course, there are the women, and you know what that means among Europeans. I cannot say that I recollect anything in particular, but there was a fellow at Bisa who squealed over his rubies. Naoudal his name was. I remember he had a pretty Japanese wile, though God knows how he got her. Well, that's a long time ago, and Naoudal is not in England. You will agree to that yourself, Mr. Hollingford— Naoudal is not in England, he couldn't be, could he?"

It was the question of a man who was greatly afraid, and knew well that he had cause to be so. Seymour understood the case in a moment. Sir Roger's reputation would have made it plain to him had he been less quick-witted than he was. The man who shivered there in his armchair had done some great wrong to Naoudal, whoever Naoudal might be, and he had been followed to England by his victim or his victim's friends. Laugh at it as he might. Sir Roger Cayley was in some danger that night; yet of what Seymour could say no more than the dead.

"Have you made any inquiries?" he asked. "Have there been any Indians seen about the Manor? Surely in such a place as this the presence of such a man would be remarked. Have you asked anybody. Sir Roger?"

"I have asked Yeratz, my servant," he said; "there is no one I trust more; he would know. He was in Burma with me himself. There's been nobody here. God knows how they got that into the house, or who sent it. Of course. I laugh at it— why should I not? Yet, it is as well to think about things; you see, I may be in danger. Very well, you are here, and between us, good heavens, we could settle twenty Naoudals."

He leaned back in his chair and laughed as though determined to be the victim of no idle hallucination; yet his terror was apparent, and it began even to affect the man who sat before him. Seymour had read much of the dogged patience of the Oriental, and he was convinced that one of them had come to England to avenge Naoudal. The baronet's life was certainly in jeopardy. Beyond that, the room itself affected him strangely. He had the odd sensation that somebody was hidden there with them, and, imitating its owner, his eyes rolled from place to place, now being fixed upon the curtains, now upon the great mahogany bureau on the opposite side of the library. Presently he was unable to withstand the suggestion of it any longer. He rose and began to peer about the apartment for himself.

"You cannot be too careful," he said, I have heard of such things—Indians who came thousands of miles to pay off an old score. This jewel trading is very tricky, as you know yourself. The man has a grievance and won't forget it. Very well, he might come here; he might be at the Manor now. The first thing, Sir Roger, is to be sure that he is not."

The baronet watched him with restless eyes. Two men assuredly never found themselves in a stranger situation, or one which an onlooker might have thought so ridiculous. Had Seymour not been worked up by the baronet's obvious terror, he probably would have joined in the merriment; but, as it was, he felt strangely conscious of a presense in the place, of something that came from afar to warn and to threaten. In reality, the victim of a hypnotic suggestion, he was unconscious of the fact. There was obviously no one in the room with them. He searched every nook, pulled back every curtain, peered into every cupboard. Most certainly he was alone with the baronet.

"We must not let it get on our nerves," he said, about to return to his chair. "I will stop with you to-night, if you like, and to-morrow we will put the affair into the hands of the police. Somebody must have put that knife there, it didn't come on wings. Very well, we will find out who it is. You are sure there is no other writing, Sir Roger— that strip of paper is the only one?"

Sir Roger took up the knife, and began to look at it closely. He was just about to make a remark when the electric light went out suddenly, and left them in darkness.

It was a simple thing, yet it called from the baronet a loud cry, as that of a man who believes that his hour has come. Seymour, on the other hand, remembering in a flash that the switches were outside the room, made a dash for the door, and, throwing it open, he looked out into the corridor. There was nobody there. Whoever had switched off the light had made his disappearance good. He returned to Sir Roger and found him standing by the table, the knife still in his hand. He was deadly pale, and swayed upon his heels like a man who is giddy.

"These cursed lights are always going out." he said. "It's that gardener of mine who looks after the electric plant. I'll give him the sack to-morrow."

Seymour shook his head.

"I don't think I would," he said. "It seems to me that somebody must have switched off the light in the corridor. Perhaps he didn't know we were here— but, hello, you've cut your hand, haven't you?"

"Only a scratch," said the baronet. "I did it with this infernal knife when the light went out."

He turned round as though to put the weapon down; but in that moment he staggered and fell.

"By heavens— it's a poisoned blade," said he, "they've done for me!"— and in five seconds he was dead.

SEYMOUR left the house an hour afterwards, and set out swiftly for the cottage. What news he carried— what a story of tragedy! Yonder, in the Manor, were the lights of those who watched by the dead man's body. He passed the servant, Yeratz, who was going down towards the village, and they walked a little way together. Their talk was mainly ejaculatory— such a dreadful thing to happen. Could Yeratz throw any light upon it? The

Indian grinned.

"Why do you ask me, sir?" he said. "Am I not Naoudal's son?"

He turned and was lost instantly in the mists upon the moor. Seymour had no impulse to follow him. A man had avenged the memory of his mother. Should he quarrel with him for that?

___________________

15: Queen Of Diamonds

J. Johnston Smith

1874-1951

World's News (Sydney) 30 April 1910

[The Pall Mall Magazine April 1910]

THE big dark-green motor-car swung out of the Rue St. Honoré into the Rue Royale, swerved thence into the Boulevard and stopped finally, whirring and panting, before Katsenstein's.

From the tonneau stepped a lady— tall, dark, handsome, and elegantly dressed.

"Wait," said she to the chauffeur.

"Bien, Madame," and the chauffeur touched his cap.

Monsieur Pierre Katzenstein. smooth, polished, but hard as the diamonds he dealt in, awaited her on the threshold of his shop. M. Katzenstein was a shrewd man; this was suggested by his nationality and by his profess-sion-it was also endorsed by reputation.

"Good morning, Madame," said he, with his most Hebraic smile, and set a chair for her in a style worthy the court of the Pompadour.

Madame seated herself.

''You," said she at length, with just an inflection of hauteur in her languid voice, "I presume, are Monsieur Katzenstein?"

The jeweller bowed. "At your service, Madame."

"The famous Monsieur Katzenstein?" Madame made play with her lorgnette.

The jeweller acknowledged the compliment with an elaborate gesture of disparagement.

"Fame!" said he. "I do not like that word. Madame. Fame is generally of paste, but a reputation— honestly earned— is a jewel. If I have the latter, it is the most valuable jewel in my stock, since it brought you here, dear Madame."

Again the bow— slightly more elaborate than before, for he knew he could go further.

"Your compliments. Monsieur, are, it appears, as highly polished as your gems."

"A compliment and a gem, Madame, are, each in its own way, tributes to beauty; and, believe me, I can sell you the one with the same felicity as I make you a present of the other."

And he said it with such assertion, for he was a judge of character, and with such an air, that they both laughed.

Then they fell at once to the business in hand. Madame required a necklace of pearls.

M. Katzenstein sustained his first surprise. He looked at his customer again, and pictured her dark beauty set off by a setting dictated by his Jewish wealth of imagination, which preferred diamonds. Clearly pearls were a mistake.

"Hum!" said he thoughtfully, and then: "Why, certainly, if Madame desires pearls."

Madame felt rather than saw the jeweller's disapproval— M. Katzenstein was, of course, as good a shopkeeper as a courtier.

"My husband," said the lady, "has wished to make me the gift of a necklace of pearls."

"Madame," said the jeweller, "I understand your wishes— and his," and turning, he permitted himself a low chuckling laugh to the cases behind, and forthwith commenced to pull forth cases and boxes wherewith to tempt his customer.

A jeweller, and more especially, mayhap, a jeweller on the Grands Boulevards in Paris, sees, perforce, much of human nature; and, as you have been led to surmise, M. Katzenstein was no ordinary man. With many and intimate opportunities for observation, his perceptions had become wonderfully acute. The intuitive gift is necessary if one would become a fashion- able physician, no less than a famous jeweller.

But having found his diagnosis wrong in the first instance, M. Katzenstein suffered the second surprise with a diminished sense of shock.

"None of the necklaces you have yet shown me," said the lady, "quite please me; they are hardly what I require."

"There are pearls— and pearls, Madame," said the tradesman, "just as there are prices— and prices."

"There are husbands-and husbands, also, Monsieur," said the lady with a smile.

"Then, Madame," said the courtier, "I understand perfectly that you wish the gift, like the husband, to be exceptional and of the best. Is it not so?"

"Perfectly, Monsieur."

The jeweller closed the last case with a decided snap.  His air was confidential yet deeply earnest.

"Madame," said he impressively, "pardon me, but I feel as an artist, as a connoisseur, of mayhap some little distinction, you are about to make a mistake— a most serious mistake."

The lady's eyebrows rose in some surprise.

"Do not misunderstand me, Madame," continued the jeweller; "as a shopkeeper it is my duty to supply you with what you ask, and were I merely a shopkeeper I would place yet another tray before you, and there, for me, would be an end of it. But then, I am something a little more than a shopkeeper-for does not a butcher (gross word) also keep a shop? In a word, Madame, I am, as I have said, somewhat of an artist as well, and in my role of artist you will permit me, Madame, to venture to suggest instead— diamonds."

"But," said the lady, "my husband— "

"Has also the artistic sense," said M. Katzenstein suavely, his Jewish eyes pointing a compliment so apparently as to avoid insolence.

"You hesitate, Madame," he continued quickly. "But wait; for now the artist has spoken the shopkeeper returns."

He turned the handle of a small safe at the back, pulled out a drawer, and, the next moment, placed on the counter a necklace of diamonds.

Diamonds, some large, some small, strung together on a thin gold chain, they lay winking and flashing green and red under the electric light.

What woman has ever been able to behold the flashing of a diamond and refuse to covet its possession?

The jeweller watched the lady's face, for the shopkeeper was never long subordinated to the artist-have I not said M. Katzenstein was a Jew on the Grands Boulevards?

Madame gave herself up to the gems.

"Permit me," said the jeweller at last, and fastened the thread about her neck. Madame turned to the mirror and gasped.

"My husband—" she began after a pause.

"Tut!" said M. Katzenstein, "he has not seen you yet; and moreover, the shopkeeper's business is to sell. I have a plan."

"The price?" asked the lady abruptly.

"One hundred thousand francs," said the jeweller promptly, "as they say in the Marche St. Honoré, to take it or to leave it. Madame."

"Then I cannot take it," said the lady— "at least to-day "

"I was about to suggest," said the jeweller suavely, "that I bring it to-morrow, Madame."

The lady looked at him sharply. The jeweller smiled; he was really very pleased with himself— so pleased, indeed, that he omitted to notice how unprofessional had been the whole interview, and how unusual had been his methods. Clearly the artist's enthusiasm had, for once, got the better of the shopkeeper. Things happen like that sometimes, but rarely with the Katzensteins; and Madame, besides being beautiful, was singularly (how shall I express it?) provocative. Not only provocative of the artist in M. Katzenstein, but so artlessly provocative of the shopkeeper as well. M. Katzenstein, with his intuitive sense, that extra sense which all Jews have, saw the rich old husband at home as well as he now saw Madame on the other side of his glass-topped counter. And so M. Katzenstein failed to notice the lady's quick look of suspicion and astonishment; in a second it had passed.

At thirty minutes past eleven o'clock the next day behold the worthy M. Katzenstein descend from a taxi at No.—, Avenue do Bois Boulogne, before a large, stolid, and eminently fashionable house. M. Katzenstein knew all about it; for you may be sure he had verified the name and the address in the big grey-backed directory wherein he had read the name and the designation of the indulgent husband of Madame— the eminent Dr. Severin, no less.

The door was opened by a silent servitor dressed in professional black, who, without a word, showed M. Katzenstein into a big room on the left of the hall. Clearly, M. Katzenstein thought, he was expected. At his entrance Madame herself, dressed in walking costume and furs, rose from a big chair by the window,

"You have brought the necklace?" she asked; and M. Katzenstein saw she was excited and a little tremulous— most natural, he decided, for no doubt her husband was an ogre.

M. Katzenstein smiled reassuringly as he drew forth the case from his bag. "But wait, Madame," said he gallantly, "until Monsieur le Docteur sees for himself the effect when it is clasped about Madame's neck."

"But that is just it. Monsieur; the price frightens me, and I have not yet dared to tell him what it is to cost."

"But patience, Madame, have no fear of the result— after all it is but a fee or two from his fashionable and wealthy clients."

"You forget, Monsieur," said Madame quickly, but with a smile; "he is an alienist, and unsympathetic towards the foibles, the extravagances of the world, in most of whose actions he reads madness."

"Without which, dear Madame, neither he nor I would be where we are now. But you have a plan?"

Madame hesitated.

"Monsieur Katzenstein," said she, with a pretty air of confidence, "I have the idea of a little plot— a little deception, harmless in itself—"

M. Katzenstein chuckled. "But of course," said he, laughing, "you are a woman."

"You understand, Monsieur," said she, "I wish above all to possess the necklace, even if I have to use methods of—"

"Diplomacy," suggested M. Katzenstein.

"Of diplomacy," smiled the lady; "and I would propose to gain my ends by a bold coup! I would have the necklace clasped about my throat thus, and, boldly entering his consulting room, catch his imagination and his consent beore he has occasion to consider the necessity for writing out a cheque for you, Monsieur."

M. Katzenstein took but a fraction of a minute to weigh the suggestion, and then with-out a word clasped the necklace about Madame's throat.

Madame turned aside to a glass. "You will come when I call, Monsieur," said she; and then, with a smile, she drew aside a portiere, opened a door, and with still another backward smile at the jeweller, passed into the doctor's consulting-room.

M. Katzenstein, rubbing his hands thoughtfully together, sat down again to await Madame's call. He had but little fear of Madame's power of diplomacy, and he anticipated but little difficulty in the subsequent arrangement of the price with Monsieur le Docteur.

A really fine Corot on the wall opposite took his attention, and M. Katzenstein permitted himself the pleasure of examining it somewhat carefully.

Ten minutes elapsed by M. Katzenstein's watch, and still no sign came from the room beyond the portiere. A motor started whirring in the Avenue outside, and M. Katzenstein caught sight of a covered taxi flashing up the Avenue.

Just then the door into the hall opened, and the servitor in black appeared. "If Monsieur will come this way," he announced. "Monsieur le Docteur will now receive him."

M. Katzenstein picked up his bag with alacrity, and followed the man into the presence of Monsieur le Docteur Severin.

A large room, at the far end of which, near a tall window, sat a severe little man with sharp, professional eyes shining behind gold rimmed spectacles.

"Bonjour, Monsieur," said the famous doctor, rising and motioning M. Katzenstein to a big, comfortable leather armchair beside his desk.

"Be seated, please. A really charming day for the time of year."

M. Katzenstein agreed politely.

"In my profession," continued Dr. Severin, "and as much in my branch of study as in any other. Monsieur, the weather plays no unimportant part in the psychology of my cases."

M. Katzenetein had no doubt that such was, in effect, both natural and highly probable.

Dr. Severin composed himself comfortably in his chair, and clasped a pair of chubby hands over his waistcoat.

"The most elementary of the influences are, the reason that the human brain, on the alert to probe further into the skin of the problem. is, unless trained to proceed slowly by progressive steps, disregarding nothing, ready to discard data obvious, simple, and apparent."

M. Katzenstein again politely agreed, wondering slightly at the unusual prolixity of a busy man.

"In my own profession," said the jeweller, "one is of necessity trained to examine everything. To take anything for granted in dealing with precious stones is apt to be— costly."

"Then," said the doctor, with a keen look, "you are by profession a dealer in precious stones, Monsieur?"

"But certainly," exclaimed M. Katzenstein with testy surprise, and an equally keen look at the doctor. "My name is Katzenstein, the Katzenstein; and I am now here to sell you the diamond necklace chosen by your wife."

"Quite so, Monsieur," said the doctor sooth- ingly, "a diamond necklace-quite so. But for my wife, is it not so, Monsieur?" With a reassuring smile the doctor made a jotting on a tablet on the desk before him.

M. Katzenstein passed his hand over his brow as if in momentary perplexity. "Of course," said he sharply, "for Madame Severin, who was with you a moment ago in this room."

"Yes, yes. Monsieur," said the doctor in conciliatory tones, "a diamond necklace you are to sell— exactly as Madame indicated to me. But tell me. Monsieur" (and here Dr. Severin leant forward smiling), "since when did the lady you refer to become my wife?"

"Mon Dieu!" cried M. Katzenstein, rising wildly, "are you mad. Doctor, like your patients, or are you amusing yourself? I am here to sell you a necklace valued at one hundred thousand francs. Where is Madame? Were I not in the Avenue du Bole de Boulogne, I would think it better to show you this." He produced a revolver.

Dr. Severin, still calm, quietly touched a bell on his desk. The next instant the door behind M. Katzenstein opened, and before the jeweller could move an arm, he was on the ground, held securely by the servitor in black and another even more powerful fellow. The revolver now lay on Dr. Severin's desk, and the famous alienist himself was jotting down notes on the tablet in front of him.

M. Katzenstein was, as has been said already, no ordinary man. Besides, he had had adventures before; but he now felt himself out of his depth, mystified, and half stunned by his fall; and so, like a sensible man, he lay quiet whilst he tried to think the matter out.

"Mon Dieu!" he gasped at last, and this time his face went colorless.

"Ah!" said the doctor, turning to him. "Feeling better?"

"Yes," said M. Katzenstein with a gulp. Then, very quietly, M. Katzenstein sat up.

"Doctor," said he quietly, "my bag is lying beside the chair; will you do me the favor of opening it? At the same time will you ask one of your servants to pass you my pocket-book from inside my coat here? I wish to satisfy you that there is some horrible mistake, and that you, as well as I, have been duped."

Something in the quiet tone of the jeweller's voice prompted the doctor to obey. He opened the bag and took out a small case. This he opened, to reveal a small diamond pendant resting on a dark blue silk lining, stamped, as on the lid, in gold letters:-

KATZENSTEIN.

Pierres Fines,

Boulevard des Italiens, Paris.

"Mon Dieu!" said the doctor in turn, a suden light breaking in upon him. "I see it now; the real Monsieur Katzenstein, the real Dr. Severin and the lady—"

"In effect," said M. Katzenstein, now accepting the situation with philosophy, "we have both disregarded the elementary data in a beautiful fraud. Madame, to me, was Madame Severin, who wished to induce her husband to buy her a valuable necklace of diamonds."

"And to me," said the eminent doctor sternly, "she was Madame Katzenstein, the wife of a banker whose reason had become affected on the Stock Exchange, and who had the idea that he was a jeweller with a diamond necklace to sell; and for this reason to be examined by me. I am deeply sorry for you, Monsieur Katzenstein. The necklace was no doubt of considerable value?"

"Of such value, Monsieur," said M. Katzenstein, "that had Madame succeeded in obtaining it from any of my confrerés I should have said the reward was but fitting for Madame's amazing coolness and ingenuity. If you will now release me, Doctor, I would visit the Chef de Police. If, as I fear, I can do nothing else, I hope to keep the affair from the ears of the press."

______________________

16: Dixon's Romance

Ottwell Binns

1872-1935

Sunday Times (Perth) 12 June 1932

DIXON was tired of civilisation— very tired. With reason since his most recent acquaintance with it had been at Stony Mountain, which is the penitentiary of the Territory. Three years there had robbed him of all enthusiasm for the places where law and order hold sway, and he was running for the wilds just as fast as was possible in a land where landscapes are immense and the means of travel not those of the extreme civilisation that he hated.

Being short of cash he had stolen a ride from Edmonton to Waterways; and on the train had thriftily replenished his means by robbing a slumbering man of a roll of notes, with such deftness and lightness of touch that the man had smiled in his sleep. So equipped with the needful, he had taken the river-craft to Fort Simpson on the Mackenzie River. There, with what remained of the stolen bank-roll, he had outfitted with the skill of an old-timer: and shaking the last dust of civilisation from his mocassins, had taken his way up the Lizard River, making for the South Nahanni which empties into it.

The season was late and he pushed the pace, toiling amazingly through long hours; and camping only when night compelled. At the back of his haste was something more than the desire to leave all police-posts behind him— the lure of gold; and a haunting fear that one man would reach the gold ahead of him. All prisons are great gossiping places. In them men in surreptitious conversation pass news of other men, exchange confidences an boasts, and sometimes discuss enterprises to be carried out when once more they are on the right side of prison walls. And at Stony Mountain, Dixon had heard a story which had stirred the cupidity hidden in every man; and which had sent him on this headlong journey.

He had heard it in the hospital ward where a man delirious with fever, had raved about a creek with red, gold-like stones in its bed; which— given a man could get it to civilisation— would make him rich as Croesus. He had thought the story was pure delirium, until another prisoner who had been in hospital with the sick man. had mentioned the matter; and had vowed it must be true.

"Stuff!" Dixon had said. "You can hear that sort of dime-yarn from Athabasca Landing to Herschel, an' from Seattle to Dawson."

"Think so?" the other man who rejoiced in the name of 'Frisco Jim had laughed, and then under the nose of the warder had displayed in his palm a nugget of gold, more ruddy than any Dixon had ever seen. "What about that?"

"Where d'yo get it?" demanded Dixon, promptly.

"Molineau passed it to me for a chunk of tobacco a month back."

"Phew!" whistled Dixon, for Molineau was the delirious man; and the gold was as red as that which he had raved about.

"It's from somewhere up the South Nahanni," laughed 'Frisco Jim, "an' it's me for that Tom Tiddler's Creek when I'm loose-heeled again."

And 'Frisco Jim, being at that time almost due for his discharge from the shades of the prison-house, was a whole three weeks ahead of him in the race against winter and for the prize. Dixon deplored the fact, but did not repine. The chances of the wilderness, as he knew, were many; and furthermore in law a man could stake no more gold-bearing earth than the regulations permitted. Not that he set much store on that. A man's right arm was the strength of wilderness law, and having given the matter full consideration, and being desperately eager for the prize, he did not propose to let the other stand in the way.

"The man's a hen," he confided to the silent woods; "wants his neck wringing."

But 'Frisco Jim was not a hen. When roused he was rather something of a wolf, and not at all the man to take lightly the thwarting of his purpose.

Perhaps Dixon was aware of that in the background of his mind; and be-hind the new alertness that he displayed, the further he progressed on his journey, was not merely a desire to learn how far ahead of him 'Frisco might be; but a native cautiousness against being taken in an ambush from which there would be no escape.

When he struck the confluence of the Lizard and the South Nahanni his alertness was trebled. Only once had he come on the remains of a camp-fire that might have been lit by the man ahead of him; but he knew that at any time he might overrun the other; and make the discovery to the sound of a rifle-crack that would be the herald of death. He had another cause for alertness also— since he did not know on which side of the river the creek with its red treasure was situated; and he was forced to explore the creeks both sides for any evidence that Moli-neau had camped there.

And beyond all other undefined apprehensions was the one which rose out of the consciousness that but for some piece of stupendous luck, the race against the seasons was already lost, and that soon winter would march down on him with hurrying feet. That he was playing with death he knew very well. But Dixon had always lived adventurously and he kept on, every day moving miles further from that civilisation which he hated, but which, with the winter coming fast, meant sanctuary and safety.

He kept on still, when the river was locked with ice and the first great snow of the winter changed all the contours and left the land in winter's grip. Waiting until he was sure the storm had ended, he harnessed himself to a roughly made sled and resumed his way— a laborious way that would have broken the heart of Hercules but which left Dixon undaunted. And that day he had his first indication of the whereabouts of 'Frisco Jim, for far ahead, at a place where the course of the river gave a wide view, he lifted the smoke of a camp fire. A little further on he came on the trail of a sled which had left the right bank of the river and which was on the course he himself was following. He considered it carefully.

"Four dogs!" he muttered, "and two men!"

'Frisco Jim then had taken either a partner of a guide— possibly an Indian, since it was not likely that he had purchased the dogs at Fort Simpson.

"Well," he grunted philosophically, "he'll move faster; but he'll break the trail"

The packed trail of the pair in front made his own travelling easier. He went forward more quickly; but at no great pace; his rate being little better than a slow trudge; and in that white immensity to an onlooker he must have presented the the aspect of a fly crawling across, a white ceiling. But steadiness accomplishes much, and he found a further advantage in the trail which now he followed, and which he watched closely for the pair ahead, whom he had not yet seen, saved him much time by their exploration of the creeks. Whenever the trail turned towards the bank, he made a divergence of his own, being fairly certain that he would pick up the train further on: and with the assurance that the creek he left behind was not the one he sought.

But on the third day after striking the trail, when one of these divergences had not been made, the expected did not happen. The snow ahead was virgin, unbroken by the feet of dogs or men. His heart leaped at the realisation. That creek into which the other trail had diverged and had not returned was Molineau's treasure creek. He considered it— a mere dark gut between stark hills, with sharp steep mountains beyond, a place that had a suggestion of utter loneliness.

"Cheerful hole," he grunted, and turned back to face it.

At the mouth of the creek he came on a pair of fir trees lopped of all their lower boughs, sure evidence of the work of man.

"Lobsticks!" he thought. "Molineau's sign-post for a certainty."

He went forward cautiously, with a feeling that the next turn of the creek might bring him unexpectedly on the men in front. That did not happen, but something far more startling occurred. Rounding a high bluff which thrust itself like a wedge into the creek he came suddenly on a girl who was bent down examining the trail he himself was following.

The girl heard the crunch his sled made in the crisp snow, straightened herself and looked swiftly round. Before the girl turned on her heel and fled, Dixon had no more than a glimpse of an oval face, olive tinted, and dashed with rose, with wide, soft eyes black as night; but the glimpse changed the world for him.

He watched her with amazement— a straight tall figure lissom as a sapling, graceful as a running deer, and as swift. He gave himself no time to wonder who she was, where she came from, or what she was doing in that solitary creek six hundred miles from anywhere. An imperative need to establish himself in her favor awoke within him swift as lightning. And he called out to her.

"My dear.. .Miss ... Mam'selle..." Recognising friendly urgency in his voice, the girl stopped and turned half round. Her lips, red ripe, were part-ly open to aid quick breathing, the dark eyes appraised him keenly; and she stood poised ready to flee at the least sign of covert action on his part. Dixon repressed his eagerness and went forward lowly smiling, with an air of friendliness that was utterly disarming. Three or four yards away from her he stopped; and guessing that she was of the stock of the voy-ageurs gave her greeting accord-ingly.

"Bo' Jour, mam'selle! Pleased to meet you. I'm sure. I'm Dixon— and who you are you maybe'll have the goodness to tell me; for I'm fair perishing to know."

He spoke smilingly, and rogue though he was. Dixon's smile was a reassuring thing. The girl smiled back, the dark eyes flashing, the red lips raking the most maddening curves.

"Bo'jou', m'sieu! I am Joy Molineau."

"The devil!"

Dixon was flabbergasted. It had not entered into his thought that the grizzled man lying in hospital at Stony Mountain had left anyone to guard his treasure of red gold, and for a second he was in doubt as to the relation in which this splendid young creature of the wilds stood to the man whose gold he had come to annex. The truth leaped in his mind.

"Then you're the daughter of Pierre Molineau, I'll wager."

"M'sieu wins his wager!" the girl laughed lightly; and herself asked a question. "You know mon père, m'sieu?"

"As my own brother," answered Dixon, less anxious about truth than to win the girl's confidence.

"Ah! He is well, m'sieu?... He returns quickly?"

Dixon would have wagered a thousand dollars that Molineau was dead, but he did not say so outright; being conscious of an overpowering desire to stand between the girl and the trouble that she was bound to know presently.' He temporised.

"Pierre's none too well; an' I reckon you needn't expect him yet awhile,"

"Mais, he send a message by you, M'sieu Deexon, perhaps."

"He did," answered Dixon with ready invention. "He said you wasn't to worry about him mam'selle; an' that you was to beware of two scoundrels who were coming this way after his claim."

The girl's dark eyes went suddenly to the tell-tale trail in the snow which she had been examining at the moment of his advent.

"Two men haf gone up de creek—"

"Them's the rascals— 'Frisco Jim and another fellow— name unknown."

"Then m'sieu' eet ees time dat I run back to the cabin to get de rifle—"

"If you'll not run too fast, mam'selle, I'll come with you. But there's no running with this sled."

"Ah! I will yo' help to haul," cried the girl, and taking a hold of the rope which Dixon unslung from his shoulders bent to the line with a will.

Dixon was enchanted. And he was in a whirl. He even forgot Pierre Molineau's red gold in surreptitious contemplation of this young goddess of the creek, and wondered what he would find at the end of his journey.

"Your mother, mam'selle, she—"

"Alas!" There was a note of woe in the young voice. "She ees dead."

"Dead!"

"De month after mon père haf gone away to Fort Simpson."

"Mother of Heaven!" Dixon cried in genuine concern. "An' yo're alone up in this God-forsaken wilderness."

"Alone, m'sieu'!"

"Then by the living jingo, 'twas, Providence brought you an' me together this day!"

Dixon, who held 'Frisco Jim in mean esteem, really believed his own words, and was more than pleased to find the girl shared his conviction.

"Le bon Dieu! Certainment, M'sieu'!"

As an instrument of providence Dixon was conscious of a new burden of responsibility. He considered the trail ahead.

"You're not forgetting that brace of ruffians, Mam'selle Joy. If there's away round—"

"Dere ees no way, M'sieu' Deexon; an' dere ees de cabin!"

She pointed to the high bank as she spoke; and at the edge of the spruce a little way ahead. Dixon saw a small log cabin, with smoke rising from its stone chimney. Something else he saw also— a sled and a dog-team standing on the frozen creek, with a man at the gee pole, watching another man who stood in the shadow of the spruce, plainly taking stock of the cabin. Instantly he halted, and from the lashings of the sled slipped the Winchester rifle which had been one of the purchases made at Fort Simpson. He stripped the cover with lightning rapidity, and then hailed the man on the bank harshly.

"Come down out of that, 'Frisco."

The man whom he hailed jumped as if he had been shot, swung round, and then his hand went inside his parka.

"Don't, 'Frisco," said Dixon with a deadly quietness that was wholly convincing, for 'Frisco's hand came back empty; and Dixon spared a lightning glance for the man at the sled. "Breed," his mind registered; and then he spoke again. "Come down the bank, pronto! And you at the sled turn the team."

The half-breed obeyed without demur, and at Dixon's next command to "mush" drove the dogs down the creek. Frisco Jim began to bluster.

"Flames! What's the game. Dixon?"

"Game is home sweet home. You ain't wanted here. 'Frisco, so you're quitting. Now just hop along after them huskies and keep going, or—"

The lifted Winchester was more convincing than words. 'Frisco Jim had no option. He followed the huskies: but as he passed the pair he scowled and spat venomously.

"I'll have your hide for this Dixon, as sure as I live."

"Keep going!" replied Dixon imperatively, and with the Winchester to en-force the order 'Frisco Jim kept going.

Dixon watched the pair out of sight; then he turned to the girl.

"Best take cover. Mam'selle. I know Frisco. He'll double back come dark, and there'll be lively doings in this creek."

"But—"

"That gold Molineau found! That's what he's after, the scoundrel!"

There was a virtuous note in Dixon's voice that would have made "Frisco laugh. But it was quite sincere. The man had momentarily forgotten the reason for his own presence on the creek, and was really and deeply concerned for Joy Molineau's welfare. He began to drag his sled towards the hut, but had still some half score of yards to go when something whistled by his ears and plugged a tree beyond, whilst on the heels of it came a sound which reverberated through the silent wood.

"Cr-a-a-n-g!"

"Run Mam'selle," he shouted, and as the girl ran for the hut, he himself made a spurt

Before he reached the cabin the rifle spoke again, but he made the door unhurt, dragged the sled with its supplies inside; and as the girl shut the door swiftly he laughed.

" 'Frisco don't waste time. But I guess we beat him that go. But we ain't done with him yet. His sort don't throw in the cards till the game's clean bust."

That conviction was vindicated in the next two or three days. Neither of the pair could move from the hut without a shot from some unseen marksman driving them back again. Once Dixon had his cap carried clean off his head; and once the girl came running back, white-faced, with a hole through her parka torn by a bullet. That made Dixon angry. He waited until it was quite dark; and then he took up his rifle, put on his parka and cap, and made other significant preparations. The girl watched him with understanding eyes, and listened when he gave instructions.

"You stop here, Joy. Keep the door barred. Unless you hear me give your name don't you go for to open it. Sit with that little gun o' yours away from the window. If anybody starts meddling with it— shoot an' shoot again. I'm going out to get that pair; an' if I don't come back— well. I guess you'll know."

"But, Deexon," cried the girl, "yo' mus' come back. What weel I do without yo'?"

"God knows!" answered Dixon, quite piously. "But don't you fret, Joy, I'll come back or I'll be wolf-meat."

"Mais— O! Deexon, I cannot let yo" depart. Yo'—" Sobbing the girl buried her face in her hands. Dixon set down his rifle. There was a worried look on his face; but his eyes in the light of the stove had a gleam of honest love.

"But Joy, my dear—"

"O, mon cher—'

Before he knew it the girl was in his arms. He wiped the hair about his mouth and kissed her clumsily, and she clung to him, still sobbing, but smiling through her tears,

"Yo' lofe me, Deexon?"

"Never Adam loved Eve more."

"Yo' lofe me to marree me, Deexon?"

"I ain't fit, but I'll be honored, li'l one. An' I'II cherish yo' like a Christian. An' by God I swear yo'll never have cause to wish it otherwise. From now on it's the prophets and the ten commandments an' the plumb-line for me. I've run free an' wild; I've been in quod, an' Lord knows what else, but if I'd known you was waitin' for me up here. Joy, like an angel from Heaven— "

"Un ange!" The girl laughed tremulously. "I am not dat!"

"As near as makes no difference, little girl— an' whiter nor any o' them to me." He kissed again less clumsily, then he freed himself from her arms.

"Now it's business! Keep in mind what I said— an' Heaven take care o' you. Li'l one."

He picked up his rifle and went out into the snow. Notwithstanding the grim purpose that took him forth, his heart was light; and he had a sense of righteousness which he had not known for years. It was 'Frisco's life or his own and Joy Molineau's; and with two lives in the balance against one, in his eyes, his purpose was wholly justified.

There was a green aurora flashing ribbons of light across the northern heavens. The woods were full of the ghostly light; and presently when he came on the tracks of a man in the snow, he was able to follow them quite clearly. They led him to a camp deep in the woods, where a fire glowed redly, but where there was no indication of the presence of the man whom he sought. He was still reconnoitring when on the still air came the sound of a rifle shot, from the direction of the cabin. A little time afterwards another followed and another, but by that time, with fear for spur, he was running like a madman on the backward trail. As he neared the cabin he heard 'Frisco's voice roaring angrily.

"Come out o' that; an' put down the rifle, 'yo she-cat. or I'll blow you to blazes."

Dixon burst from the woods and saw the cabin in the aurora's ghostly radiance. The door was open, and lying on the snow was a man's huddled form.

"The half-breed!" his mind registered as he looked round for 'Frisco Jim

He glimpsed a man standing in the shadow of a giant spruce; and in the same moment 'Frisco became aware of him. 'Frisco fired first; and Dixon stumbled forward and dropped in the snow. From the cabin there came the sound of a despairing cry; and Joy Molineau appeared running across the snow. 'Frisco Jim laughed and stepped into the open. He laughed again, as he moved forward to intercept the girl.

"Don't yo' worry about that guy—" he began.

From the snow Dixon lifted his rifle and, with the deliberation of a marks-man firing at a range-target, pulled the trigger. 'Frisco Jim dropped with the shot. He moved only once and lay still. Dixon picked himself out of the snow, slowly and painfully. There was a bullet wound in his shoulder, and already it was stiffening with the bitter cold.

"O! mon pauvre Deexon," cried Joy, sobbingly, but Dixon cut her short.

"Get inside, my dear. You'll freeze without your furs."

"But you, mon cher—"

"I'm coming, too. This pair'll take no hurt out here in the snow."

He moved slowly towards the cabin; with an effort stooped over the half breed and saw that he was dead; then he dragged him from the doorway, shut the door, and gave expression to his emotion.

"Thank God, you're safe. Joy... What happened?"

The girl told him whilst she cleaned and dressed the wound. He had gone but a little while when she had heard the two men moving round the cabin A knock on the door had been followed by a rifle barrel thrust through the parchment window. She had promptly fired; and the rifle had been withdrawn, then she had heard 'Frisco Jim shout to his companion.

"Well burn the cabin. Roast the kitten alive,"

The threat had scared her. She had a horror of fire, having as a child with Molineau and her mother fled through the woods with the forest afire behind them. She had opened the door with a thought that she would flee to the woods and find Dixon. The half-breed had been close to the door. He had fired off-hand, missed and she had fired in return, the man falling in the very doorway. Intuition told her the words she had overheard were no more than an empty threat, and she had fallen back in the cabin sure that the sound of the firing would bring her lover.

"Thank God!" ejaculated Dixon. "I was in time. You didn't know that 'Frisco. He was an out-an'-outer!"

"Non! I not know heem, but mon Deexon, I know; an' I was sure da you run—"

"Run! Lord love you kid. I flew!"

Dixon knew that his own reputation was not good, so he did not report the matter to the Mounted Police; but using much timber for fires to thaw the ground, he buried the two men deep in the woods. And when two months later Père Despard from the Nahanni Catholic Mission came down the creek in response to a message that had reached him from Pierre Molineau at Stony Mountain, Dixon told him the whole story and showed him the grave.

" 'Twas them or us, father—"

"Oui, my son! Do I not know it?— And there was the girl's white soul—"

"White as snow, father. An angel—"

"Well, it is not all men who marry an angel, my son— as you will no doubt wish to do."

"Wish—"

"And Pierre Molineau will not mind when he learns how you saved his gold."

"Well, if you like to put it that way—"

"Oh, I know, my son! That was not your first thought. No! But it's the final deed that counts."

"You're right, of course, father. But I give you my honest word that now I wouldn't touch the stuff till Molineau gives the word, not for all the gold in the Territory."

And Père Despard, wise through much experience of men, knew that Dixon really meant it.

____________________

17: The Hidden Beast

J. D. Beresford

1873-1947

From Signs and Wonders, 1921

HIS HOUSE is the last in the village. Towards the forest the houses become more and more scattered, reaching out to the wild of the wood as if they yearned to separate themselves from the swarm that clusters about the church and the inn. And his house has taken so long a stride from the others that it is held to the village by no more than the slender thread of a long footpath. Yet the house is set with its face towards us, and has an air of resolutely holding on to the safety of our common life, as if dismayed at its boldness in swimming so far it had turned and desperately grasped the life-line of that footpath.

He lived alone, a strange man, surly and reticent. Some said that he had a sinister look; and on those rare occasions when he joined us at the inn, after sunset, he sat aside and spoke little.

I was surprised when, as we came out of the inn one night, he took my arm and asked me if I would go home with him. The moon was at the full, and the black shadows of the dis- persing crowd that lunged down the street seemed to gesticu- late an alarm of weird dismay. The village was momentarily mad with the clatter of footsteps and the noise of laughter, and somewhere down towards the forest a dog was baying.

I wondered if I had not misunderstood him.

As he watched my hesitation his face pleaded with me. "There are times when a man is glad of company," he said.

We spoke little as we passed through the village towards the silences of his lonely house. But when we came to the footpath he stopped and looked back.

"I live between two worlds," he said, "the wild and..."— he paused before he rejected the obvious antithesis, and continued, "—the restrained."

Are we so restrained?" I asked, staring at the huddle of black-and-silver houses clinging to their refuge on the hill.

He murmured something about a "compact," and my thoughts turned to the symbol of the chalk-white church-tower that dominated the honeycomb of the village.

"The compact of public opinion," he said more boldly.

My imagination lagged. I was thinking less of him than of the transfiguration of the familiar scene before me. I did not remember ever to have studied it thus under the reflections of a full moon. An echo of his word, differently accented, drifted through my mind. I saw our life as being in truth compact, little and limited.

He took up his theme again when we had entered the house and were facing each other across the table, in a room that looked out over the forest. The shutters were unfastened, the window open, and I could see how, on the further shore of the waste-lands, the light feebly ebbed and died against the black cliff of the wood.

"We have to choose between freedom and safety," he said. "The individual is too wild and dangerous for the common life. He must make his agreement with the community; submit to become a member of the people's body. But I"— he paused and laughed— "I have taken the liberty of looking out of the back window."

While he spoke I had been aware of a sound that seemed to come from below the floor of the room in which we were sitting. And when he laughed I fancied that I heard the response of a snuffling cry.

He looked at me mockingly across the table.

"It's an echo from the jungle," he said. "Some trick of reflected sound. I can always hear it in this room at night."

I shivered and stood up. "I prefer the safety of our common life," I told him. "It may be that I have a limited mind and am afraid, but I find my happiness in the joys of security and shelter. The wild terrifies me."

"A limited mind?" he commented. "Probably it is rather that you lack a fire in the blood."

I was glad to leave him, and he on his part made no effort to detain me.

It was not long after this visit of mine that the people first began to whisper about him in the village. At the beginning they brought no charge against him, talking only of his strangeness and of his separation from our common interests. But presently I heard a story of some fierce wild animal that he caged and tortured in the prison of his house. One said that he had heard it screaming in the night, and another that he had heard it beating against the door. And some argued that it was a threat to our safety, since the beast might escape and make its way into the village; and some that such brutality, even though it were to a wild animal, could not be tolerated. But I wondered inwardly whether the affair were any business of ours so long as he kept the beast to himself.

I was a member of the Council that year, and so took part in the voting when presently the case was laid before us. But no vote of mine would have helped him if I had dared to overcome my reluctance and speak in his favour. For whatever reservations may have been secretly withheld by the members of the Council, they were unanimous in condemning him.

We went, six of us, in full daylight, to search his house. He received us with a laugh, and told us that we might seek at our leisure. But though we sought high and low, peering and tapping, we found no evidence that any wild thing had ever been concealed there.

And within a month of the day of our search he left the village.

I saw him alone once before he went, and he told me that he had chosen for the wild and freedom, that he could no longer endure to be held to the village even by the thread of the footpath.

But he did not thank me for having allowed the search of his house to be conducted by daylight, although he knew that I at least was sure no echo of the forest could be heard in that little room of his save in the transfigured hours between the dusk and the dawn.

__________________

18: Heritage of Osiris

Fred Engelhardt

Thrilling Mystery, Sep 1939

Engelhardt was active as an author for less than 2 years in the period 1939-40. No reliable facts can be found out about him.

SETH FIELDS sat on the terrace of Shepheard's Hotel in Cairo and methodically cursed the Egyptian police from chief to lowliest constable. It was mid-April, the tag-end of the season, and except for the organdie-clad honey blonde seated opposite him the terrace was deserted. A sweating horse hauling an arabiyeh along the Sharia Kemal Pasha reminded him that he was hot and thirsty, and he drained his Scotch and soda in one long satisfying draft.

The girl patiently sipped a Tom Collins and waited for her companion to exhaust his vocabulary. Seth Fields had been Glory Lane's hero since he, at the age of twelve, thrashed the toughest heir of the Newport set for tying her pigtails in knots. To her, no better yachtsman, rider, or fullback existed. Her faith in him had remained firm throughout fifteen long years, and not even the frightening tragedy that now overshadowed them could shake it.

Two weeks before Mrs. Edmund Fields and Mrs. Otis Lane, both wealthy, headstrong widows and social leaders, had suddenly packed and booked passage for England. Seth and Glory, who, with the passing of adolescence, had assumed responsibility for their respective parents, had insisted on accompanying them.

The two matrons had given their offspring the slip in London. Seth, by the judicious distribution of a few pounds among the hotel staff, learned they had sailed for Alexandria. He and Glory flew to Cairo and met them. It would be a long time before either forgot that meeting, or the torrent of angry recriminations that poured over them.

From the first Seth had suspected there was something besides a sudden desire for travel behind this hasty pilgrimage to the land of the Pharaohs. He knew his mother had "taken up" an Egyptian mystic, one Hesiri, the winter before in New York. From Glory he learned that Mrs. Lane, who was interested in Hesiri. His knowledge of his flighty mother's past follies made the addition of two and two simple. Hesiri, he decided, was about to cash in on a good thing.

Then, three days ago, both women had disappeared from the hotel. Their beds had not been slept in, but all their baggage and clothes, except what they were wearing, had been left behind. With the aid of the hotel detective, an ex-Scotland Yard man, wise in the ways of the natives, Seth had canvassed the place thoroughly, but no one had seen the women leave.

Enlisting the help of the American consul, Seth had turned the matter over to the police. The inspector in charge of the case had listened to Seth's theory of Hesiri and admitted that, according to the description, the man was undoubtedly an Egyptian, probably a better class Copt. But the police had turned up no clue to the women's disappearance, nor, as far as the young couple could see, had they made any effort to do so. It was this that now impelled him to curse the force from top to bottom.

Seizing an opportiinity when her companion paused for breath, the girl interjected, "Here's a policeman now, Seth. Maybe he has some news."

Seth turned as a trim, uniformed figure approached the table and, with his foot, shoved out a chair as an invitation to sit. Touching his black tarboosh to Seth, and bowing stifiSy to the girl, the policeman accepted the chair. For a moment or two he fussed with a tiny mustache.

"I have news about your mother, Mr. Fields," he said finally.

Something in the officer's tone stifled an exclamation of joy in Seth's throat. He seized the man's arm in a viselike grip.

"She isn't— she's not dead?" he demanded.

"Oh, no. She's very much alive," the policeman reassured him, struggling to release his arm. "But— that is, you must be prepared for a shock."

"What is it, man?" Seth demanded. "Out with it."

"I'm afraid Madam Fields' experience has been too much for her. She was found wandering in the desert near Aboo-Seer, about twenty miles up the river. A troop of our cavalry on maneuvers found her and brought her back to the Citadel. She is, how do you say, a little out of the head."

"Let's go, then," Seth barked, snatching up his sun helmet.

"I'll go, too," Glory said.

The officer had an arabiyeh waiting, and during the drive down the Sharia Mohammed Ali, he expressed the police opinion that Mrs. Fields had become separated from a private party of tourists and had lost her mind from the heat and loneliness of the desert. Glory gripped Seth's hand as they were led into the hospital ward of the ancient fortress on the edge of the city.

Seth was glad for her comforting hand when an army doctor motioned them into a private room. Mrs Fields, three days before a robust, middle-aged American matron, was now a hideous caricature. Her skin hung loose in trembling folds. Yellow fingers picked nervously at the coverlet. Terror-stricken but unseeing eyes roamed aimlessly over the group. Her long wavy hair was streaked with white.

Her son dropped to his knees beside the bed. "Mother!" he cried.

The pitiful, trembling creature looked at him a moment without interest, then her eyes wandered again to the rest of the party. Seth appealed to the Egyptian doctor. The latter shrugged his shoulders and sighed.

"Perhaps with rest and quiet she will recover," he said. "I would not advise moving her now. Arrangements have been made for her to stay here."

Dully Seth allowed Glory and the policeman to lead him outside. They returned to Shepheard's, and for an hour the young man paced up and down his room in bitter silence. Glory watched him with tears of sympathy in her eyes. The officer had left them in the lobby. Suddenly Seth spun around.

"The police aren't doing anything," he declared. "They seem to be trying to hush this thing up. I don't know why. I'm going out to Aboo-Seer myself and camp there until I find this Hesiri and wring his neck."

"But how do you know he's there?" Glory asked.

"Mom's clothes were hanging on a chair in that room. She was wearing new shoes, and the soles were hardly worn. She couldn't have walked far in the desert. And unless she was deliberately dumped there, she must have been nearby all the time. It's the only clue we've got, anyway."

"Then I'm going with you," said Glory, determinedly.

Seth hesitated. "But it might be dangerous," he protested.

"Pooh! That's what you said when we went bear hunting in the Rockies last year, but I shot a bear. A big one, too. Besides, Seth, my mother may be out there with that awful Hesiri."

They enlisted the aid of the hotel clerk in preparing for the excursion, but were somewhat reluctant about engaging the dragoman he recommended, a ruffianly, whiskered Arab named Ali Hassan es Said. Ali Hassan, however, they discovered, had three virtues. He spoke excellent English, knew the Memphite necropolis where they proposed to camp, and he enjoyed a good fight.

"I still wish Abdul el Rasheed were going with us," Seth remarked, after the dragoman had left, promising to have everything ready in the morning. "He was born in this town. He's a good scout, too. Classmate of mine at Harvard."

"Why don't you get in touch with him?" Glory asked.

"He's up in the hills beyond Assouan, digging up mummies for the Egyptian Museum. I've sent him a wire, but maybe it hasn't reached him yet."

Ali Hassan was as good as his word. Seth and Glory, rising with the sun, found him in front of the hotel with an old but sturdy Buick. Behind the Buick stood a light Ford truck, laden with tents, supplies and four fellahin, the camp crew.

By noon they were encamped a little north of the four pyramids of Aboo-Seer, in the shadow of a high, rectangular mastaba tomb of some forgotten high priest. To the south, a mile or so away, loomed the great pyramid of Sakkarah, called the Pyramid of the Steps, from its six, set-back terraces. Other tombs and small pyramids dotted the landscape around them.

That evening, weary from hours of fruitless tramping through the ancient graveyard. Glory rested in a beach chair outside her tent and drank in the beauty of the black Egyptian night. Overhead the stars gleamed unwinkingly. The triangular forms of the pyramids were all that broke the even horizon. In another tent Seth was engaged in cleaning and reloading his revolver. Ali Hassan sucked musically at a hookah. The fellahin, crouched in the lee of the truck, were deep in their own affairs.

Deciding she wanted a cigarette, Glory eased herself out of the chair and stood up, stretching. Suddenly her eyes riveted on a weird glow to the south. The soft, greenish light appeared to be floating over the sands, heading for the camp. It came closer and an excited babble arose from the fellahin. Then Glory screamed. The glowing light had resolved into the figure of her mother.

GLORY'S cry brought Seth bounding from his tent. He reached the girl's side in half a dozen steps, then halted in amazement. Instinctively his arm crept around her shoulders. Subconsciously he realized that Ali Hassan was breathing heavily on the back of his neck. The fellahin appeared paralyzed.

Closer and closer the figure came, until it stood on the very edge of the camp. Then, raising a peremptory hand, the figure spoke.

"Go back. Glory. Go back to New York. And take these people away with you."

There was no mistaking Mrs. Otis Lane's nervous treble. Seth had heard it hundreds of times. But this time she spoke with an unwonted imperiousness. It was a command. Seth could feel the girl in his arms shaking with dry sobs.

"Mother!" she cried, tearing herself loose. "Mother!"

"Go," commanded the figure.

With that single word, the ghostly apparition began to retire, seemed to float back across the desert whence it came. Shrill cries of terror arose from the hitherto silent fellahin. There was a rasp of bare feet on sand, and they were gone, decamping en masse. Even the stalwart Ali Hassan gasped with a sort of terror.

"I'm going to find out what this is all about," Seth snarled, shaking off the numbness that had seized him. He thrust Glory at the dragoman. "You watch her," he barked.

Without pausing for a light, he set off at a lope after the retreating figure, still luminous in the distance.

For the first few minutes he easily kept the figure in sight. Then he stepped into an old excavation and tumbled head over heels. By the time he had scrambled out the other side of the pit the light was far away and barely visible. Watching the ground more carefully, the young man sprinted after it.

Straight toward the huge forbidding Step Pyramid drifted the luminous figure. Its speed seemed to have increased. Rounding a high mastaba that suddenly appeared in front of him, Seth saw the figure a few hundred yards ahead, at the base of the pyramid. Then the heavens burst with a roar and a display of lights, and he felt himself falling, falling into a bottomless pit.

Seth's first sensation on recovering consciousness was that someone on the other side of the world was calling to him, calling anxiously. He felt the back of his head with tender fingers and winced. His fingers came away sticky with blood. The voice sounded nearer now and he saw lights dancing along the sand. He closed his eyes for an instant, and then remembered.

He had been pursuing the ghost— it must have been, the ghost— of Glory's mother. It had vanished just as one of the pyramids fell on him. He stifled a deep-seated groan and forced his eyes open. The dancing lights were steady now, and focused on him. Then he realized they were flashlights. Glory and the dragoman must have followed. He answered Glory's worried hail, and a few moments later his head was cradled in her lap. He was glad to leave it there.

"SETH, my darling," Glory was saying. "Are you hurt badly? Tell me. Ali, for heaven's sake, do something!"

"I'm all right," Seth replied, struggling to sit up. "Wow! My head."

The dragoman helped him to his feet. When he could again open his eyes without spinning like a top, Seth related his pursuit of the phantom Mrs. Lane.

"I'm positive she went into that pyramid over there," he said. "The last thing I remember is her running up the mound to its base. Then someone must have blackjacked me. It's as dark as the inside of a cow here. Even if I had been expecting some thug to bop me, I couldn't have seen him."

"What are we going to do now?" Glory wanted to know.

"Do? I'm going into that pyramid and search it from top to bottom. That was your mother, wasn't it? Or her ghost. I wonder why she wanted us to leave. Some of Hesiri's doings, I bet."

Ali Hassan coughed politely. "So sorry to disappoint you, Effendi" he said, "but there is nothing in the Step Pyramid. There are a number of passages, it is true, but only two chambers, and they are both small. The pyramid has been very carefully explored."

"I know Mrs. Lane went in there," Seth insisted. "I saw her. I'm going to have a look, anyway."

"It will be necessary to return to camp first," the dragoman said. "We must have spare batteries for the lights, and there is your wound."

"But they might get away while we're gone," Seth protested.

"The evil ones will not escape," Ali Hassan said quietly. "The pyramid has only one entrance, opposite us on the second terrace. I know it well. And I will remain here on guard." He smiled a dangerous smile and tapped the curved knife stuck in his waistband.

"Yes, that will be best," Glory suddenly decided. "You come back with me, Seth, you hear. And let me look at that cut on your head. It isn't far to camp."

The landscape had once more began to spin like a merry-go-round, so Seth made only the feeblest protests as the girl led him away. With the aid of the flashlight, they avoided the excavation into which Seth had fallen, and were soon back at the camp. It was not Glory's first experience in bandaging Seth's wounds, and she did a neat, workmanlike job. Then, filling their pockets with spare batteries and taking Seth's revolver, they returned to Ali Hassan.

"Nothing has happened," the dragoman told them. "Nothing has left the pyramid but a few bats."

Glory shuddered. AH Hassan pointed to the huge structure, which tapered into the sky like a modern office building. The bright moon, which had now risen, illuminated the towering tomb.

"We can enter now. Night or day, it makes no difference inside the pyramid," he said.

The ascent to the first terrace was comparatively easy, enough rubble and stone having fallen along the side to make it no more than an easy climb. But to get to the second, twenty-seven feet above the first, they had to crawl up the broken face like ants.

"This pyramid," said Ali Hassan, lapsing into his tourists' guide spiel, "is very old. It was built by Zoser, a king of the Third Dynasty. It is more than six thousand years old and full of cracks. The cracks, I regret to say, are probably full of snakes."

Glory squealed in sudden fright. Seth turned to her.

"Perhaps you had better wait out here, Glory," he said kindly. "The moon is giving plenty of light and you won't be afraid."

"Who's afraid?" the girl demanded stoutly. "I'm coming with you."

Ali Hassan entered the low sloping passage first and carefully flashed his light around for possible traces of visiting cobras. Then, bracing his hands against the ceiling, he worked his way down. Glory followed, and Seth brought up the rear. The incline became steeper and more difficult after the first ten yards, and it was a quarter of an hour before they reached a level passage.

The heat, especially in contrast to the cool night outside, was intense, and the musty odor of countless dead centuries was overwhelming. Glory was gasping for breath, and even Seth found it difficult to bear. But Ali Hassan had already plunged into the even smaller opening of the level passage, and the pair gamely crawled in after him. About thirty yards farther on the passage grew larger and sloped upward at a thirty-degree angle. Footholds cut in the polished stone floor gave them purchase, and they struggled on until, without warning, they found themselves in a narrow, lofty chamber.

This room, hewn out of the very bowels of the vast granite pile, was the King's Chamber, Ali Hassan explained. A huge red stone sarcophagus was all that it contained, with the exception of the broken lid and other rubbish which littered the floor. Diagonally across the room was another entrance, less than two feet high, which the dragoman explained led to the other chamber.

Glory collapsed on a jagged section of the sarcophagus lid and fought for breath. Seth himself had difficulty in breathing, and the strain had told even on the dragoman, used as he was to such journeys.

"I'm going to have a look at the other chamber," Seth said. "Glory, you stay here. Ali Hassan can stay with you."

The girl was too exhausted to protest and without further words Seth dropped to his stomach and wriggled into the small opening. The passage grew even smaller as he progressed, and the coat was ripped from his back before he crawled out the other end.

This chamber was smaller than the King's and lined with blue tiles. In the center was an inscription containing the title of the bull, Apis, worshipped by the ancient Egyptians. All that interested Seth, however, was that this chamber, like the other, was empty.

He was searching the base of the walls for signs of another entrance when a shrill scream of terror jerked him to attention. It was followed by another, and still another. Hoarse shouts in a strange tongue echoed through the narrow passage as he flung himself to the floor and, revolver in hand, started the painful journey back to the other chamber. Prudence advised him to extinguish his light, lest he advertise his coming, and this made the passage still more difficult.

As suddenly as it had begun, the screaming and shouting ceased, and the old deathly quiet prevailed in the Pyramid. The flickering light at the end of the passage went out. Seth groaned inwardly and forced himself forward. When his back no longer scraped stone, he got quietly to his feet and switched on his light.

The King's Chamber was deserted.

SETH'S first thought was for the outside passage. He leaped across the room and flashed his powerful torch down the polished incline. It, too, was empty. Common sense and the knowledge of the difficulty of even a deliberate journey through such a tunnel convinced him that Glory and the dragoman had not gone that way. There had not been time for the long descent since the cries had ceased.

Cold fear clutched at the young man's heart. Alone in the bowels of the ancient pyramid, threatened by unknown terrors, he suddenly felt sick. The necessity for some sort of action impelled him to inspect every stone in the sides of the chamber. He remembered from a Sunday supplement story, read eons before in peaceful Newport, that the old tombs were honeycombed vidth ancient, sealed passages. In the hope that one of these might explain Glory's disappearance, he spent what seemed ages at the task of searching.

He had fed the last of his spare batteries into the big flashlight and had resigned himself to abandoning the search until help could be obtained when his eyes fell upon the one object in the chamber he had not searched, the sarcophagus. It stood on a granite base in the center of the chamber, and the open top was fully nine feet from the floor. Wedging his light under his belt, Seth leaped, caught the edge of the stone coffin and drew himself up. He flashed his light into the interior and a cry of horror escaped him.

Huddled on the bottom of the sarcophagus was the body of Ali Hassan. It lay on its side in a pool of blood. The unfortunate dragoman's head, almost severed from his body, lolled to one side and the bearded face stared up at him with wide-open, beady eyes.

Sickened by this sight which confirmed his worst fears, Seth slipped from the edge of the sarcophagus. His hands shot out instinctiyely and checked his fall as his flashlight clattered to the stone floor. Then, so quietly that he almost failed to realize it, his feet touched the floor. It was only when he noticed that his hands, still clutching the rim of the sarcophagus, were at the level of his waist that Seth understood what had happened.

Catching up his light, he directed the beam at the huge stone coffin. Only half of it remained visible, and that half was nearly perpendicidar to the floor. The rest had disappeared into an oblong hole. The canny architect of the old pyramid had set the king's sarcophagus on a pivot, and used the royal sepulcher itself as the door to still another passage.

Ali Hassan's body had slipped down to the lower end of the sarcophagus, thus upsetting its perfect equilibrium and preventing it from closing automatically with the release of Seth's weight. Seth, flashing his light into the hole, saw that the sides converged at a steep angle, but footholds had been cut into the rock. At the bottom of the pit loomed the entrance to a level passage.

Confident that this was the way Glory had disappeared, he unhesitatingly descended into the pit and examined the passage. It was less than thirty feet long, but a shadow at the end indicated a sharp turn.

The tunnel was high enough to permit him to stand almost upright, and the air, although at the moment he did not realize it, was exceptionally pure for a tomb. Thinking of nothing but the vanished girl, Seth hurried along the passage. After the turn it continued to slope downward until Seth calculated he was below even the foundation of the pyramid.

Suddenly the smooth, age-old passage ended in a tumbled mass of masonry which completely blocked it. Seth cursed automatically, then sat down to think. Mentally retracing his journey, he recalled a small jagged hole in one side of the tunnel about a hundred feet back. He returned to the point and examined the hole. Fresh drill marks told him it had been made recently, probably by hopeful archeologists.

He wriggled into the hole and crawled over the untrimmed stone and in a few minutes emerged into another polished passage, less than four feet square. Moving away from the hole at a crouch, he suddenly distinguished voices. He switched off his light and far ahead made out a faint glow. It marked, he exulted, the end of his journey.

In the darkness he crawled toward the light on his hands and knees. It became plainer and he could make out its square, regular form. The voices were plainer, though low, but the language was a strange one. The exit vras now less than fifty feet away. Seth became more cautious and barely moved. Then, with a crash that deafened him, the light disappeared. Instantly he switched on his own. The passage ahead was barred by a solid block of stone.

At once Seth understood what had happened. Ali Hassan had told him that the ancient architects of the tombs equipped the passages with stone portcullises that, once dropped, sealed the tombs forever. Even the grave robbers and archeologists had found it necessary to cut their way around them. Bitterly Seth realized that one of these granite gates, unused for sixty centuries, had finally been employed to cut him off from the girl he loved.

Even as this horror ran through his head, another crash echoed through the stone corridor. Seth flashed his light back along the passage. Another gate had been dropped behind him. He was sealed alive in a six-thousand-year- old tomb.

After a careful inspection of the fifty-odd feet of the passage in which he was imprisoned, the young American switched off his light and sat silently in the Stygian blackness, fighting desperately against a gnawing fear. In all his twenty-seven years, Seth Fields had never been afraid, but the events of the past few days, added to the growing menace of an invisible and all-powerful enemy, had sapped his confidence.

The air, never any too good, became more and more difficult to breath. The dead, musty odor that prevailed in all ancient passages was gradually becoming intolerable. It was hot, with an obscene, insidious, enervating heat. In spite of this, Seth discovered with a start, he felt cold and clammy. The nameless horror that held him fast was stronger even than the suffocating atmosphere of the tcunb.

HOW long he sat there before he heard the faint rustling, as of a shaken newspaper, he did not know. Engrossed as he was in his frightful situation, it made but a slight impress on his consciousness. He summoned the energy to switch on his light— and  froze into immobility. Not ten feet away reared a swaying, unblinking, black cobra. Not the garish, hooded Indian cobra, but his smaller and infinitely more deadly African cousin, the natural guardian of the tombs.

Seth's passive acceptance of fate vanished in a hideous scream that echoed and re-echoed through the passage. The unyielding touch of the stone gate, against which he had thrown himself, snapped him back to reality. The viper, green eyes glittering in the ray of the torch, was slithering towards him. Beyond glittered another pair of green eyes, and a third.

With a hysterical gesture, Seth jerked his revolver from his pocket and fired wildly. The thunder of the explosions deafened him, but he could see the green eyesv coming closer and closer. Calling on all his strength, he steadied his hand and took careful aim. This time the nearest eyes leaped and then vanished as the reptile's severed head thudded to the stone floor. Another shot, and another pair of eyes were extinguished.

The third pair of eyes, twin emeralds in the yellow ray of light, appeared over the square sight of the heavy Colt. Slowly, deliberately Seth pulled the trigger. The hammer fell with a hollow click on an empty cartridge.

Seth's forced calm vanished beneath a flood of wild hysteria. Dropping his useless gun, he turned and beat helplessly on the solid stone gate. His flashlight clattered to the floor unnoticed. Screaming madly, the young man hammered and hammered, until suddenly his blows drove through thin air and he tumbled forward into a bright light. The gate crashed again behind him, and, turning, he saw the ugly, triangular head of the last cobra skid across the polished floor, crushed cleanly off from the body.

Weak and sobbing, Seth remained sitting. He looked up and found several men before him— but what men. They were regarding him gravely with big black eyes. Shiny conical helmets topped their sharp, dark features. Gleaming plate-mail corselets and richly colored kilts covered their bodies. Armed with big spears and knives, they might have stepped directly from the friezes of the temples of Thebes. Seth was mildly amazed to find that he was not surprised. He heard the clatter of their sandals as they moved toward him, then darkness enveloped him.

Seth's first impression on waking was a pain all along his back and neck and a strange numbness in his hands. A confused murmur of voices, reminding him of the Khan el Khalili bazaars, drummed against his ears. An attempt to turn his head revealed that he was lying on his back across a stone block, his head dangling over one edge and his legs over another. His hands, were bound tightly. Except for a short white kilt, he was naked.

The voices rose and fell, and sheer curiosity impelled him to look. Below him, and stretching back into darkness, were row upon row of crouching figures, all dressed in the flowing kilts and robes of ancient Egypt. Although Seth did not know it, they were chanting the old Egyptian exorcisms.

What interested him most was that many of the faces were familiar. Here was an English woman he had met at Shepheard's, there a French traveler who had made the plane trip with him from London. His eyes searched for Mrs. Lane. He found her in the front row. She refused to recognize him.

An answering voice on his left caused him to look up. Above him, on a raised platform, stood a tall figure. The body was that of a normal man, but the head was the mask of a Pharaoh in ancient headdress and in keeping with the figure. Hesiri, without a doubt. From the open mouth came the hikaou, magic formulae forgotten for untold ages. Seth's eyes traveled on, then focused with a shock.

To the right of the queer-headed figure stood Glory, rigid and unseeing. She, like the other women, wore only a tight, sheer skirt, but around her waist was a jeweled girdle, the ends of which fell to the floor before her. Her ankles, wrists and throat were covered with jewels. A light, gold helmet, from which sprang the sacred asp of Egypt, covered her honey-colored hair and neck. In her right hand she held a glittering, long-bladed knife.

The chanting ceased and the queerheaded figure, whom Seth now recognized as Osiris, highest diefy of the old Egyptians, turned to the girl. He pointed to the helpless Seth and Glory, walking as though in a trance, descended the steps to the stone on which he was lying. For a full minute she stood over him, the knife poised at his throat. Sibilant hisses rose from the entranced mob below.

Seth found his voice. "Glory! Glory!" he screamed. "Wake up! It's me, Seth. Seth, do you hear?"

He struggled to free himself, to rise. Slowly the girl's eyes dropped until she was looking him straight in the face. One eye closed in an unmistakable wink, and a thrill of joy ran through the helpless man.

Osiris was again chanting. His voice rumbled on and on, then began to rise until he was almost screaming. The girl suddenly drew in her breath, bent over the recumbent Seth, rolled him over and slashed his bonds with one stroke of the keen blade. For a second the action went unnoticed, and Seth rubbed his wrists. Then cries of alarm arose from the multitude. Osiris turned from the altar to face an unfettered and raging All-American fullback.

Catching up a spearman who barred his path, Seth hurled him bodily over the sacidficial stone into the faces of the foremost spectators, A bound and he was beside the queer-headed god. A spear thudded into the wooden altar over their heads. "This way," he heard Glory crying. "Behind the altar. There's another entrance."

Osiris struggled futilely in Seth's iron grip as the latter backed with him to the brilliantly colored altar.

Half a dozen spearmen were climbing onto the platform when an interruption, in the shape of a black cat, the sacred Egyptian cat Bast, occurred. The animal strode out of the shadows, sat down and gravely inspected the soldiers. They drew back in confusion.

SETH felt a tugging at his arm, "Come on, now," Glory said.

"They won't dare pass that cat. Now's our chance."

She guided Seth, who still carried the wriggling hawk god, through a fold in the curtain beside the altar and into a stone passage. Taking a ceramic, pitcher-shaped lamp from a niche, she led the way through the corridor. From time to time they passed through beautifully painted and furnished chambers, worth an^ emperor's ransom to an Egyptologist. It was a completely undisturbed tomb. Still the girl pressed on. Seth noticed with satisfaction that the air was becoming fresher.

The passage was now rising. The grade became steeper and steeper, and they were obliged to dig their bare toes into the floor niches. Then, without warning, they were out in the open air.

The bright sun caused them to blink furiously for several minutes. When they were finally able to see, they observed a troop of cavalry galloping toward them. Glory emitted a short cheer, then, suddenly abashed, folded her arms over her bare breast and blushed as she threw an appealing look toward Seth.

But there was nothing he could offer her. Besides, he was busy tugging at the mask of their prisoner. Osiris, released from the pressure of Seth's brawny arms, lashed out with both hands and feet until the ex-fullback kneed him scientifically in the stomach. The mask came off, and Seth stepped back with an oath.

"Abdul el Rasheed!" he snarled. "Why, you double-crossing heel."

His fist whipped up, and Osiris slapped back against the stone side of the mastaba from which they had emerged. A hail from the foremost rider atracted Seth's attention. The American stared and his mouth fell open. For the rider's face was the face of the man he had just knocked cold.

"It is all right, my friend," the rider exclaimed. "It is really I, Abdul," He dismounted, bowed to Glory, then whipped off his long cloak and held it while she wrapped herself in its folds. "You should not have been so precipitate, Seth," Abdul said. "We were also on the trail of this Hesiri, and have feared for your lives since we found your empty camp two day ago."

So they had been two days in the tombs. Seth looked at the prone figure and then at Abdul. "I see," he said slowly. "Your brother?"

Abdul nodded and gazed at his brother with oriental unconcern. "Kasr," he said, "is my twin. He was a brilliant scholar, and knew more about the old tombs and customs than the rest of us put together. Then his mind began to slip. He traced, or thought he had traced, our ancesfay back to old Osiris, who, as you may know, was a real king long before he became a diety.

"For a while we kept Kasr at home, then one day he disappeared. We followed him to Paris, then London, Berlin, and on to New York. He used the name Hesiri, which is Egyptian for Osiris, and collected a rich following of foreign dupes. With their money and the aid of superstitious natives, he planned to seize the throne of Egypt.

"His plotting, ridiculous as it was, could have caused trouble, and the Khedive gave me my choice of locating Kasr and crushing this intended revolt, or else." Abdul smiled wryly. "Naturally, I did not want it openly known tihat my brother was insane, and the government did not want rumors of revolution floating around. The police—er—cooperated with us."

ABDUL paused, then went on. "Troops were assigned to help me in my search. It was some of my men who foimd your mother, Seth. By the way, the doctors say she will recover completely in a few days. Kasr locked her in a tomb when she became suspicious of him, then turned her loose on the desert to forestall a search. Tell me how you discovered Kasr's hideout. We couldn't."

Seth briefly related their experiences, including his discovery of the passage from the King's Chamber in the pyramid to the extensive undergrotmd tomb used by Hesiri as his headquarters. Both men then turned to Glory.

She explained that while Seth was in the second chamber of the pyramid, a group of spearmen sprang out of the secret passage and attacked her and Ali Hassan. The latter fought desperately, but was overccttne and butchered. She had fainted, and remembered nothing more until she woke up in an underground chamber, luxuriously furnished in the ancient fashion.

"Mother was there," she said simply. "She told me she had taken vows to devote herself and her money to Osiris and that I must do the same, now that I was there. I learned she had worn a robe painted with phosphorus when she came to our camp, so it wasn't magic after all.

"Later Osiris told me if I didn't obey him, he would kill Mother. He told me I was chosen to be the reincarnation of Isis, his wife. That's how I got these bracelets and things. But when I found that my duties included killing you Seth, I just couldn't Not even to save Mother."

"Kasr certainly made a find," Abdul remarked, examining the bracelets Glory held out. "These are genuine, and from what you have told me, he must have uncovered an untouched tomb of incredible value."

They were interrupted by a shout from one of the troopers. He was pointing to the Pyramid of Sakkarah, which, Seth and Glory were surprised to observe, was fully a mile away. From the entrance poured a stream of people, all wearing the fluttering garments of old Egypt. They were scrambling down the sides of the pyramid.

"Kasr's late followers," observed Abdul. "I'll have them rounded up." He barked an order and the troop wheeled and galloped away. "So the passage wasn't sealed after all," he said. "Kasr must have rigged counterweights to raise the stone gates, or else the old ones did it themselves and he discovered it. He is very clever, Kasr."

For a minute or two Abdul brooded over his prostrate twin. Then he smiled weirdly. "Kismet," he said. In answer to Seth's unspoken question, he explained. "Egyptian legend has it that Osiris was toppled from his throne by Set, the crocodile god. Do you get it? Set— Seth?"

Seth thought for a minute. "Very funny," he said soberly.

"Now," Abdul continued, "I am at your service. If there is anything you would like, command me."

"Yes," Seth said, and there was no hesitation in his voice. "Get me a pair of pants."

___________________

19: The Whistling Thief

Katharine Tynan

1859-1931

Umpire (Fremantle) 2 April 1902

IT WAS ALL through, a quarrel with Eily Driscoll that Patrick O'Sullivan " 'listed;" and before she had time to repent— and it didn't take long to do that— he was gone clean out of it.

Eily was a beauty and a bit of a coquette, and she hadn't the red tinge in her hair for nothing— for she had a temper— at least she had till the day she saw Patrick go by, trudging with the recruiting sergeant and his ribbons, and feeling that he had been uncommonly foolish, although he held his head so high.

When he came back in his fine scarlet coat, Eily would, maybe, not madden her by her sweetness to Michael Doyle, the elderly widower, who was Eily's persistent admirer. And that same sweetness of hers puzzled the poor man sorely, for it had a way of coming suddenly upon a very sharp manner, and he could never imagine what produced the sudden changes in the girl; for of course he did not associate it with poor Patrick O'Sullivan coming into their neighborhood.

It was Eily's own fault that people credited her with knowing on which side her bread was buttered, and preferring the "strong" farmer of 58, with his cows and his jaunting car and best parlor, to Patrick O'Sullivan, who had only a stony mountain plot, and a tiny cottage, and his youth and comeliness. Also Patrick was blithe and cheerful. He was like the larks that sang all day above the stones of his farm, and built nests as gratefully in a handful of scant grass between boulders as though it were a deep meadow. Patrick could whistle like the lark or blackbird. Someone had nicknamed him "The Whistling Thief," after a tune he was fond of.

Everyone felt the charm of his pleasant youth except, apparently, Eily. And she — she didn't know what was the matter with her, for she was always repenting and even weeping over his clouded face when he was out of sight ; but the minute be came back again she was as bad as ever. After all, Eily was not to see Patrick in the fine soldier's coat, for it was perhaps eighteen months after he had gone that his name appeared among the killed in some obscure border raid in India.

Eily had changed very much during those eighteen months. Her temper, which had been so quick to flare in the old days, had become incredibly mild. Her face had grown paler, and her large, dark-blue eyes had gained spirituality of expression which made her much handsomer, although to the eyes of the undiscerning critics about her she had lost her good looks in losing her color.

Her old mother used to watch her as she sat sprigging muslin by the little Window with wonder in her eyes.

"What's ever come to you, acushla?" she'd ask. "You aren't the same Eily."

"Am I a better one?" Eily would reply, smiling back at her with the new smile of hope and patience. And the mother could not but acknowlege that the change was for the better. Eily was never sharp or forward with her now, even when she made timid suggestions about the fine thing it would be to be Mrs. Doyle of the Glen Farm.

Instead of the old impatience the girl would come and kiss her, and draw the little shawl more closely round the thin shoulders and silence her more by her silence than by any speech she could have made.

But after the news of Patrick's death reached the village, Eily changed again. When she came out at last from hiding her face and went about the ordinary affairs of life once more, she seemed to have shrunk in height as though a great burden had fallen upon her and pressed her down. The light in her eyes had gone out. The poise of her head, which bad been beautiful, was gone. She went along now with her head down, not looking before her, as though no good news, nor no one she wanted to see was ever likely to come along the road again.

Yet she took up the burden of life for her mother's sake when she would gladly have relinquished it for her own. They were very poor, and it took all Eily's industry at the sprigging to keep the wolf from their door. After a time, when she began to grow sensitive to outward impressions again, she noticed something about her mother which filled her with dread. The little old woman had a way of sitting watchng her wistfully from her place in the chimney corner. Eily knew, though never a word was spoken, that the look meant what a happiness it would be if only Eily would take Michael Doyle.

That year there was a falling-off in the sprigging industry. Something in the American tariff laws made the sprigging less in demand, and prices were lower and buyers more capricious. Eily still managed to get her mother the cup of tea her soul loved, and the pinch of snuff she was fond of. But sometimes it seemed to her, in a mood of discouragement, that her ability to do so much would cease. And then... and then— Michael Doyle would still be waiting.

Eily's coldness had inflamed his dull elderly ardour. And now she was going to ignore the prayer in her mother's half-blind eyes when famine was on the floor with them.

In the nick of time there came a letter to the widow Driscoll which made a great commotion among the neighbors. Her son, Bill, who had been a graceless lot while he lived in the old country, but in America had grown rich and apparently forgotten them, took it into his head to send for his mother and sister.

At another time Eily would have refused to go, or to trust her mother to Bill's bounty. She had not much faith in Bill nor the unknown sister-in-law who had brought him for dowry the saloon in which he had been bartender. But now it was an open door, by which to escape the dreadful alternative of marrying Michael Doyle.

She hurried up the preparations for their departure, which were not many. Bill had sent them their steerage tickets and money for their small outfits with the manner of being magnificently generous. They had nothing to dispose of, nothing to hinder Eily's putting the breadth of the ocean between her and Cooldrina and its memories and the persistent wooing of Michael Doyle, with all possible speed.

The reformed Bill whisked them off in a hackney coach as soon as they landed. He had looked with a certain dissatisfaction at their peasant habiliments. He would have flung his mother's little bundle contemptuously to one of the loafers about Castle Gardens if Eily had not rescued it. There was a pot of shamrock in it and a couple of little "goldy" jugs which the widow had thought would be elegant presents for Mrs. Bill.

Looking at her brother, undazzled by his splendour, Eily felt a sinking of the heart as to their possible future under his roof. Bill was attired very finely in black broadcloth. A chain as big as a Lord Mayor's meandered across his waistcoat. He had half-a-dozen large rings on his dirty fingers. He bustled them into the coach, and remarked that it was well it was dark, so that no one should see the old woman in her white cap, with the hood of her cloak across it.

" You do look a pair of greenhorns," had been his salutation before be had been caught to his mother's quivering little breast. "Min would never forgive me if it was daylight," he said now, as he pulled up the window of the coach.

Presently they stopped at a little door beyond a circle of flaming lights, and Bill hustled them out of the cab.

"That's the saloon," he said, when he had got them safely into the deep shadow of the door, pointing to the blazing splendour beyond. "You never thought, did you, old woman, to see your precious boy running one of the biggest saloons on Bowery?"

In a room, all gilding and blue satin chairs, a large woman with a yellow dissatisfied face sat awaiting them. A boy and girl sat on blue satin footstools. The boy was dressed like Little Lord Fauntleroy, and the girl had ringlets to match his, and like his her tasteless finery was somewhat frayed and neglected.

Mrs. Bill held a large gilt fan in her coarse, thick fingered hands. She was dressed in black satin covered with bugles, and showing a grease stain here and there. She regarded her husband and his kinsfolk now with a blackness which deepened and spread over her ill-tempered face. Before it the redoubt able Bill evidently quailed.

"This is the old lady, Min," he faltered, "and my sister, Eily."

Min said nothing. The Widow Driscoll was quite oblivious of the coldness of her reception. She had gone, with an odd little cry, straight to the children. Little Lord Fauntleroy let his toys fall about him in a heap, thrust his curls out of his eyes, and addressed his grandmother in a nasal tone, bidding her keep off.

"You're not my gran, you old greenhorn," he cried in a shrill voice.

Eily stood miserably by, almost repenting that she had not tried to battle it out in Ireland somehow, rather than bring her mother here. O, how heavenly, seen at this distance, seemed little friendly Cooldrina, despite all the sorrows she had suffered there!

A wave of sick longing came over her from the little village among the mountains. She turned eyes of appeal towards the wretched Bill, who was shuffling his feet in the roses of the Brussels carpet, looking, down from Min's stormy gaze.

"It is your gran, Cony," he said at last. "You'll know her to-morrow when she has her store clothes on."

"Let him alone, William!" said Min sharply. "Come here, Coriolanus. He shan't speak to anyone if he doesn't want to."

Coriolanus went and down beside his mother on the blue satin sofa, and glowered at the visitors. Then the tension was broken by the little girl who sat on the other footstool.

"Carry's a fool!" she said tersely, "and so's ma! Come right upstairs and take off your bonnets. We'll rig you up to-morrow. Can't you feel to eat a bit?"

This outspoken infant, who had a far off resemblance to Eily herself, was certainly a friend in need. She saw to it that they had some food, and showed them the way to their garret into which all the broken furniture of the house seemed to have been flung It was hardly more luxurious than the place they had left.

Eily kissed the pert little face with real gratitude as the child was about to leave them.

"Say," said Julia, coming back, "Ma'll want, the old lady to mind all the babies. That's why she consented to Pap having you out. She thought she could do without a nurse. There are five younger'n me. But don't you mind. I'll stand by you."

In the miserable days and months that followed, Julia did indeed stand by them, and proved a not unimportant ally. They soon discovered that what she had told them was true, that they were brought out to be Min's unpaid nurses.

Not that Eily, who loved children, and the old woman who adored those of her blood, would have grumbled at that if they had been treated with common human kindness. No free and independent American "help" would have borne for a second with Min's insolence. The children were spoilt and sickly. Still, in time the children came to love them after their fashion, and so sweetened the drudgery somewhat.

Still, it was a miserable life. The old woman became blinder and blinder, was less equal to her task. Often Eily looked at her in despair, and thought of going out and seeking employment so that she might have the quietness and comfort her old age and weakness needed. But she could not leave her.

That journey over the ocean seemed to have put them beyond hope. There could be only one release for Eily; and she trembled when she thought of that and saw how the little old mother was being worn out quicker than need be. Bill kept out out of their way.

Min they saw only when she came into the nursery, where the children stood and looked at her with their fingers in their mouths. She hardly spoke to Eily or the widow, except to complain of the children's condition or manners, with her gaze out-of-window.

Meanwhile, soon after they had left Cooldrina, a paragraph had appeared in the newspapers to the effect that Corporal Patrick Sullivan, of the Connaught Rangers, reported killed, had been only missing, and had returned to camp.

Eily never heard of it. She had no heart to write to the people at home, and they thought that in her great prosperity she had forgotten them.

At last something happened. The children kept in the city through the hot inferno of the summer and the cold of the winter, sickened. The baby died— in its grandmother's arms— and the old woman was broken-hearted. She took to her bed.

Min came up and looked at her.

"I hate death in the house," she said. "I'm taking the children to the shore to-morrow. Better let her go to the hospital and come too. I don't see how I'm to manage those children without."

Eily's eyes flashed fire. "We shall both be gone when you return!" she said passionately, hardly knowing what she was saying.

Min, panting with wrath, went off to nag Bill, if she could find him.

"Never you mind ma— she's horrid." said Julia, at Eily's elbow.

The heat was stifling. The children were gone now, and they had the nursery to themselves. On the uncomfortable pallet-bed, the little old woman lay with the tears oozing through her eyelids. She was crying for the baby ; she had not seemed to miss the other children when they went. The nursery windows looked towards the river and over a narrow passage between high houses, as quiet as any place in the unquiet city can ever be. A little breeze floated in and touched the old woman's face.

"If we could go back to Cooldrina, she said, panting; "the wind from the mountains would make me well."

Eily stood listening, with her hands clenched so that the nails pierced the flesh. Only yesterday she had knelt to Bill and implored him to lend them the money to go back.

Bill had long repented of the foolish impulse of vanity which had induced him to bring them out as witnesses of his glory. But he could do nothing without Min; and Min was unconscionably fond of money, and looked upon herself as the real owner of the saloon, and all that accrued from it.

Suddenly something like the note of a blackbird pierced the air of the furnace. It was someone whistling in the street below, and the tune was "The Whistling Thief."

Eily stood listening as though turned to stone. She had forgotten that Patrick was dead. The old woman opened her eyes languidly.

"It can't be!" she began.

"Whist, acushla!" said Eily, coming out of her trance. "It is— like somebody at home. They told me he was dead, but sure no dead man ever whistled like that."

She flew from the room, down the steep stairs, and let herself out at the little dark door. A man was just disappearing round the street corner. She ran and overtook him, and laid a trembling hand on his arm. The man turned round and looked in her face.

"Eily Bawn!" he said— and the street being quiet he kissed her— "I've been whistling all over New York for you. There— sure it isn't going to faint you are? No; I wasn't killed then. And I'm not going to let you out of my sight again. I've a bit o' money saved, and we'll go back, as soon as we're man and wife, acushla machree. Yerra, what's the matter with the girl ? 'Tis not going to die of joy you are?"

He half-led, half-carried Eily back to the Jitttle dark door by which she had issued.

Some hours later Bill, coming up shamefacedly to see how his old mother was, found Eily hand-in-hand with a strange young man, while the old mother lay smiling weakly at the fine plans Patrick had for their return to Cooldrina, and the purchase of a farm there out of the dollars he had saved in his working hours, while he had whistled through the streets in his leisure moments.

When Min came back from the shore, to her indignation her pensioners had departed "without a word of thanks to her," as she said, with resentment.

But only Julia was really sorry.

______________________

20: Clarence

Edward Woodward

1882-1951

World's News (Sydney) 31 Jan 1920

There is little information on-line for Edward Emberlin Woodward, whose writing career lasted from about 1920 to about 1930.  Search "Edward Woodward" and of course you get the British actor; there are several other Edward Woodwards as well.

JACK HASTINGS and Minnie Metcalf married for love: and because of it. The world is full of women who married for it, but never got it: but Jack and Minnie were all in all to one another. They were very pleased with themselves.

After they had been sharing the same ham bone for twelve months, Clarence came to town. As a baby he was perfect. Minnie said so herself: and she ought to have known.

Clarence started growing and showing hia individuality. There are many different 6orts of kids, same as there are of other troubles; Clarence wasn't so much a troublesome kid as a malignant growth. He was like a fruit tree— the more you pruned him, the more heavily he fruited with misdeeds.

At four he had his curls cut off. and the next day played at being a barber with his mother's "rat" and best scissors. At six he had his tonsils out, and a week later attempted the same stunt on his pet rabbit. After that Jack and Minnie let him sprout where he wanted. He had adenoids, but they were frightened to have them touched. At eight Clarence had firmly established himself as a human toothache.

By then he was attending a preparatory school, and he did not like it. He had to do things there just because he was told to do them, even if he didn't want to a bit. The Hastings hadn't a maid, and it was one of Jack's jobs to rouse Clarence in time for school.

One morning when Jack called him, Clarence woke up with a fixed impression that all schools ought to be burnt. They made him tired, and, anyway, he felt too tired to get up on this bright, particular morning, and he said so.

"Nonsense!" said Jack. "Get up at once. If you went to sleep at night, instead of lying awake and calling down for more supper, you wouldn't feel so heavy in the morning. Come, hop out, you young...."

"Oh, Jack!" called Minnie from the other room, "don't speak so harshly to him. These young plants need sleep, remember."

Jack was feeling a bit cheap and his temper short-circuited.

"This young plant takes darn good care no one else gets any," he snapped back.

"Oh, Jack!" called Minnie, "you are positively brutal."

And then Clarence said he felt sick, and thought he had a "tempercher."

"Look here, my lad," said Jack, "don't you talk to me about temperatures; you ought not to know what a temperature is, and as for pains in your head, you'll have one somewhere else in two shakes if you don't jump out of bed."

Clarence had never seen his father like this before. He had heard of people going mad aaddenly and murdering the entire household, but he had never considered his father a likely subject. He began to feel frightened. His red hair stood on end and his freckles looked dark brown against his suddenly whitened face.

"Jack," exclaimed Minnie, entering the room, "how can you talk to dear Clarence like that? What is it, my precious?" she breathed, turning to the now slobbering child. "Do you feel poorly bad, then? Never mind, Mumiy will make you well."

It Is always difficult for a grown man to listen to that kind of stuff, especially when he is sketchily attired in home-made pyjamas, a bit crotchety about the fastenings. Jack ran his fingers through his hair, and, not trusting himself to speak, went off to his own room to dress.

Owing to the delay in her dressing, Minnie came down to give Jack his breakfast arrayed in her peignoir, a garment Jack abominated. It was unfortunate, with relations as they were, that one of the flowing sleeves should catch in Jack's coffee cup and upset the conteats on to his grey tweed trousers.

"I wish to goodness, Minnie," he cried, springing up, "that you wouldn't wear that... that... wrap."

Minnie want white. "Jack!" she said.

Jack was busy swabbing the deck, so to speak, with his napkin, and some of the pain on Minnie's face was lost to him. But still, he knew it was there— you you learn a lot in nine years of married life.

"You know I have not had time to dress properly," said Minnie. "I have been attending to Clarence."

Jack slammed his napkin down.

"That's it," he said, "every blessed thipg is Clarence. Clarence wants this, Clarence desires that, Clarence wishes for the world. That lad is becoming the worst sort of family trouble. He has enough irritation in his makeup to coax a growl out of a glow-worm."

Minnie was speechless. Jack had never spoken quite like this before.

"I tell you what it Is," went on Jack, recommencing his dry-cleaning operations. "You are bringing him up wrongly. He is bringing you up; he is making you believe what he thinks you ought to believe. In all our married life Clarence has performed the opening ceremony of any little tiff we've had, and it has got to stop." Jack pulled the damp patch away from his leg and looked at his wife.

"I think you are a beast," said Minnie, still white and trembling.

"Simply," said Jack, "because I have at last told you what I have thought for a long time. You don't know how to handle Clarence. He has got the better of you, and if you go on as you are you will let loose on the world as choice a young reptile as ever breathed."

"Do you think you could do better?" asked Minnie, with tears in her eyes and a flutter in her throat.

"I don't think!" said Jack. "I know I could. He wants a man's hand, and I have his measure to the last centimetre. If I could have him to myself for a month I'd make a difference."

There was a moment's tense silence. Minnie's eyes had taken on a certain glitter.

"Very well, Jack," said Minnie presently, "you shall take him In hand." She spoke deliberately, as one utters a threat.

When Jack reached home from business that night, he was greeted in the hall by Mrs. Felton, the charlady, and a hectic hoot from Clarence.

"Hello, man," cried the lad.

Jaek flashed round. He was still sore and full of resolute purpose.

"Look here!" he said, "just remember, once and for all, I won't be called 'man.' "

"Why, aren't you one?" asked the boy with the winning simplicity of innocent childhood.

"No," said Jack. "I mean yes, of course, but you are not to call me that."

"Why not?" lisped Clarence. "It isn't a had same, is it?"

"No," said Jack, hanging up his hat, "but to you I'm either 'Father' or 'Daddy.' Don't try to smash that umbrella stand. Where is mummy?"

"Mummy's gone," said Clarence.

"What do you mean by 'Mummy's gone'?" asked his father.

"Gone away and left a letter for you," said the boy.

Jack turned towards Mrs. Felton, who stood by pinching her chin.

"Yes, sir," said that lady. "I were sent for this morning, as Mrs. 'Astings were called away sudden to 'er ma's. 'Er said as I were to look after you and Mr. Clarence, and as there were a note for you up the mantelshelf.''

Jack strode into the dining-room, a cold vacuum round his heart. His hand trembled as he took up the letter which was propped against the clock. He tore the flap and read the note. In fact, he rend it four times quickly, and then, sitting down, read it again slowly. It was a simple, unaffected utterance.

Dear Jack.

Your wish has come true. I am leaving Clarence to you for a time. Mother has stten asked w to stay with her, and I wired her this morning to expect we. I shall be away a month.

Minnie.

Jack felt as though Joe Beckett had owed bin . grudge, and paid it. Then he looked at Clarence, and set his jaw. He would show her.

"When is Mummy coming back?" asked the boy.

"Mummy has gone to stay with Grannie; she will be back in a week or two," said Jack, rising, and going out to Mrs. Felton. He took her instructions, packed her off tor the night, and then came back.

"I wish Mummy was here," said Clarence, as his father returned.

"If wishes were horses..." commenced Jack, and then, seeing that the lad had shut his eyes and creased his mouth, he stopped. He had witnessed Clarence do that stunt before, and didn't like it.

"Here," he said quickly, "don't cry; Mummy will be back soon. Let's have dinner. You'll be a big man to-night, having dinner with Daddy."

But it was too late. The floodgates were opened, and by the time Jack had checked the flow, the chop Mrs. Felton had put down to cook looked like a burnt offering to the absent wife.

As he gnawed the charred bone, Jack glanced at the child by his side wallowing in bread and milk, and a flame of enthusiasm for the job before him warmed his heart. He would show Minnie what he could do with a man child.

"Finished?" asked Jack, presently.

"Yes," said Clarence.

"Then it's about 'bedtime for Billie,' isn't it?"

"I don't want to go to bed," said Clarence.

"Oh, but you must," said Jack, firmly.

"But I don't want to."

"Look here, Clarence," said Jack, "when I say a thing, I mean it; when I tell you to do a thing, you'll do it: and I tell you it is time for you to go to bed. Come along!"

But Clarence didn't come along. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth, and the next instant the atmosphere split. It tried Jack too high.

With one sweep he swept Clarence under his arm; and in half a minute that bright child was being undressed at about a mile a second. In another sixty ticks he was between the sheets, with his pyjamas on back to front, and Jack was standing at the foot of the stairs listening to him cry.

At that moment Jack thought Herod must have been rather a fine chap. Then suddenly he remembered that Minnie had often said it was bad for Clarence to cry; she had hinted that serious results might follow; and there he was letting the kid make a meal of it.

With the rapidity of a pound note changing to twopence h'penny, he darted into the dining-room, seized the sugar basin, and fled upstairs.

"There, there, Clarence!" he said, "don't cry. Here, look what I have!" With a dexterous aim, he popped a lump of sugar into the kid's mouth, as he took breath for another howl.

Realising that he had won the first round, Clarence, with a snuffling gulp, shut off the gas, but as he munched the sugar he regarded Jack with an unforgiving eye. A sort of "without prejudice" expression. With his eyes fixed on the sugar basin, he spoke.

"I shall tell mother you let me cry," he said, slowly. "It's awful bad for me to cry. Mother never lets me cry. I want some taore sugar."

Jack felt guilty, and gave him another piece of sugar.

"Tell you what, Clarence," he said, desperately, "would you like to go to the pictures?" Jack was beginning to believe in the bending reed theory of opposition.

"Yes," said Clarence. "I should like to go to the pictures; I want to go to the pictures. I will get up and dress now."

"No, no," said Jack quickly, "not to-night, it is much too late; I will take you to-morhow."

They went to the cinema the next evening. The programme was. Jack considered, wanton. Blood, murder, and sudden death were the main themes, with a few malicious Mexicans and Chinese torturers dotted about to make things humorous. Clarence enjoyed it all very much.

Clarence went to sleep that night like an angel, and Jack felt that he had made an important discovery. He had tired the young brain by giving him something to think about.

HE was quite right

It was two o'clock in the morning when Jack was roused by a blood-freeting cry. He sprang from his bed and rushed into Clarence's room.

Clarence, half out of bed. was shrieking wildly.

"The man with the sightless eyes!" he gasped. "He was running after me, and the Devil of Red Gulch was with him."

"Nonsense," said Jack. "Here, come into my bed." And the rest of the dark hours were spent by Jack in answering questions regarding Red Indians, Cowboys, and Chinamen.

Towards dawn, he dropped into a deep sleep, from which he was awakened by Mrs. Felton arriving for her day's work, exactly two hours late. Being Saturday morning, Clarence had not to go to school, but Jack had no breakfast and was an hour and a half late at the office. He began to doubt whether this first discovery of his was really a good one.

Owing to the hindrance, he lunched in town, and reached home in tbe middle of the afternoon. Mrs. Felton made him a cup of tea. and he settled down in front of the open French window? for a quiet snooze to make up for tbe lost hours of sleep.

Down the garden, he saw Clarence playing by the summer-house. After all, he thought, as he dreamily watched his son, he wasn't a bad little chap; he only wanted firmness Jack decided to make a good start next week. Loving firmness; that was the thing. At this point he fell asleep.

And then some slight thing happened. Either the house tumbled down or the end of the world occurred. Jack was not at all clear at the moment which it was. It felt something like a concerted item of both. Anyway, he found himself lying on his back, with the remains of a smashed arm-chair in the small of his back, and fifty-six pounds of boyhood pressed against his face.

"I've got you!" prattled Clarence, playfully. "At last I've runned you to earth. Now I'll torture you," and before Jack was alive to his position Clarence was seated across his neck, making menacing movements with the saw from the wood-shed.

Jack felt things had gone far enough, and tried to brush Clarence off. Not roughly, but with the "loving firmness" he had decided upon. Now, you can't really do that sort of thing well with your legs three feet higher than your head and a bunch of splintered cabinet work in the middle of your back. Jack realised it was a moment for decisive action, and, with a grunt, he shot Clarence off. Clarence, surprised, yelped; and Jack sprang to his feet.

"What the dickens do you think you're doing?" he gasped, trying to catch the burst end of his collar.

Clarence rose to his feet. He had daubed his face a sort of sickly gamboge, a pig-tall of black matting-wool was tied on to his head. In one hand he held the wood-saw and in the other a kitchen knife.

"I'm Ling-Ling, Bad Pedro's servant, what we saw at the pictures last night," said Clarence.

"How dare you knock me over? How could you do such a thing?" growled Jack.

"That was the easiest part," explained Clarence. "I just climbed on the table and then jumped on you."

"Oh, you did, did you?" said Jack, with a deadly calm.

"Yes," said Clarence. "It was easy, and I'm going to burn you alive to-night."

Jack moved quickly, and, seizing Bad Pedro's man by the slack of his pants, carted him, kicking, upstairs. The conference up there was short and sharp.

"There," cried Jack. "Now, perhaps you have had enough of Bad Pedro for one afternoon."

Clarence was howling.

"Burn me alive!" muttered Jack, as he fixed a new collar. "My goodness!" and as he walked down the stairs he wondered whether he could manage to keep awake all the coming night, just to prevent accidents.

Jack had tea alone. He was furious. Clarence was impossible. There was a look of fear in Jack's eyes, and every now and then he muttered Clarence's promise, "burn you alive!" For a long time he sat deep in thought, and then slowly the look of fear went from his features and one of fixed determination took its place; his jaw set. He would show Clarence who was boss!

There was only one thing to do; and, loath as Jack was to take the step, he felt it necessary and essential, it must be done! But how be hated it! And Minnie, what would she say? But it was the only way.

He took his hat and strode out of the house. His face was that of a hard, just man. The thought of Clarence growing up wayward and ungovernable made him desperate. What he was about to do seared his soul, but he did not flinch.

Reaching his destination, he indited the fatal document. He affixed his signature, and then read it through.

Return at once; Clarence needs you, so do I.

—Jack.

It was addressed to Minnie.

"Ninepence," said the post-office girl sharply, after counting the words.

This man, she guessed, had been pitting his wits against a woman, and had lost, and, like all post-office girls, she was a particularly proud person.

___________________

21: Aurora's Treasure

Lady Gilbert

(Rosa Mulholland, 1841-1921)

World's News (Sydney) 15 Sep 1917

Irish author Rosa Mulholland married John Thomas Gilbert in 1891; when he was  knighted in 1901 she became Lady Gilbert. A prolific Victorian novelist.

SHE was certainly a provokingly romantic girl, and the worst of it was (thought Aunt Jane) that she was proud of her absurd peculiarity. It had been urged on her from her babyhood that she belonged to a family remarkable for, common-sense, and she was expected to live up to her antecedents and belongings, yet the result had been that Aurora had found all her surroundings flat and stale, and had refused homage to the idol of matter-of-fact set up for her to worship. She held to her own ideal, hated common-sense, and adored the wilfulness of the sea and the wild winds, not noisily or rebelliously, it is true, but only just with that sweet, dreamy, irresistible look in her beautiful eyes which was the admiration, of her lovers and the despair of the solicitous relative who had charge of her.

Aunt Jane had several theories with regard to this awkward feature in the girl's character. One was that the silly name of Aurora bestowed on her by a mother of idealistic tastes had influenced her fancy, and even her appearance, notwithstanding that the family name of Jane had been tacked on to it as a sort of brake or make-weight. Even when severely addressed as Aurora Jane she re- mained Aurora, with the color of the sunrise in her hair, and the clear blue and the sea-shell tints of the early morning in her eyes and cheeks and lips.

Aunt Jane was the widowed mother of several daughters, all of whom she had successfully disposed of here and there about the world, and only that the charge of Aurora had developed upon her she would have found herself without an occupation. With all its cares and drawbacks it was a pleasant charge, for Aurora was a well-dowered little maid, owner of a pretty estate and home on the coast of Cornwall, very affectionate, and found quite sufficiently docile and tractable by her aunt on all but certain extraordinary matters.

One of the difficult matters was that of "settling herself" in life, as it was put to her. The good lady was rather disinterested in her zeal to hurry the child, for the Cornish home was a pleasant harbor, but when had selfishness ever been allowed to interfere with Aunt Jane's devotion to duty?

Daring her first visit to gay London friends Aurora had refused several perfectly suitable proposals of marriage, and, though severely lectured by her aunt, remained unrepentant.

"Having placed my own daughters happily in the world," said Aunt Jane, tragically, "am I to be left with you as an old maid on my hands?"

"No woman is an old maid till she is twentytwo," protested Aurora, "and I am still four years within the limit. Besides, there are no old maids in the world now, as I have learned, only single women who are too wise to buy or sell themselves into slavery, and who choose to live their own lives according to their own ideals."

"Fiddlesticks!" said Aunt Jane, rattling her knitting needles. "Have not men got ideals also?"

"They talk only about stocks and law cases, and financing, and big business contracts,'' said Aurora gleefully. "When I meet with one who has noble and lofty thoughts and aspirations I will marry him."

"If he will have you," said Aunt Jane. "By that time, however, you complexion and figure wlll both be gone, and nobody will want you."

"Delightful!" said Aurora, clapping her hands, "for I shall then be as free as— the sea-birds!"

It was at this time that Aurora found her treasure, a discovery which proved to her that there existed somewhere in the world a man of the most lofty aspirations and ideals. One day, when she was as usual roaming about the sea-shore, diving in and out of coves, and climbing up and down cliffs, envying the puffins and penguins and thoroughly enjoying her liberty as far as it went, she noticed a brown lump half buried in the seaweed on the side of a low rock left bare by the ebbing tide. At first she thought it was a lump of sea-rack, but on stirring it with her foot found it hard, and that in fact it was a book bound in solid brown leather and fastened with a lock from which hung attached a very tiny key. She shook it from its wet surroundings, and dried it as much as possible with her pocket-hand- kerchief. Then she sat in the sun on the beach and opened the book with the key and proceeded to examine its contents.

It proved to be a manuscript book, all written in a delicate, though strong masculine hand, quite legible, if a little injured by wetting. Dipping into its contents Aurora soon found that she had come in contact with a noble ideal mind, loftier in thought and aspiration than even her imagination had ever conceived of. She carried it home and enshrined it in her maiden cham- ber, where she read it and re-read it from day to day till the unknown writer became a sort of spirit companion to her, and his exalted utterances were accepted as the perfect ex- pression of her own hitherto unformulated ideals. No name was to be found within the book, only the initials G.N., for which she invented many a continuation of Christian name and surname. She acknowledged to herself that it was very unlikely she should ever meet with the real G.N., the owner of the book. To have advertised for him would have spoiled the romance of the whole thing. So she contented herself with making a vow that in case she ever met him she would marry him. In the more  probable event of her never happening to meet him she would remain to the end of her life in her sea-girt home, as free and as happy as the winds and her companions the sea-birds.

Aunt Jane, of course, was unaware of the existence of Aurora's treasure trove, and the romance she had woven round it. Several months went past, and the girl had studied the marvellous book from cover to cover, sometimes in her own room, sometimes sitting on the rocks above the tumbling waves, wrapped in delight at the eloquent revelations of an exalted mind which were made to her through its pages. Gradually her fancy penned an image of the author of these writings, and the unknown owner of the precious book became a sort of spiritual companion to her in her lonely way of life, a refuge from the prosaic preachments of the excellent but untactful Aunt Jane. At first she thought of him only as a spirit, one lost at sea, his book but a part of the wreckage of some vessel that had foundered, but later on she bethought her that as the book was not absolutely saturated to ruin by the sea water, it might have been dropped on the shore by a wayfarer along the beach, who might yet be alive in the world, and to be met with.

While living in her dream she found herself obliged to pay one of those visits to distant relatives whose example in matters of commonly sense was looked to by her anxious aunt as a possible moans for her salvation. And so, provided with plenty of pretty frocks and other matters suitable to her age and condition, she departed for Bilberry Park, the pre cious book packed away at the very bottom of the stoutest of her well-strapped and carefully locked travelling trunks, reserved there as a solace for probably weary days when she might be feeling tired of uncongenial company and longing for liberty and the sea-birds.

Lady Bilberry was her cousin, the eldest and most sensible of Aunt Jane's well brought up and well "settled" daughters, whose hus- band was a worthy retired brewer who had become a magnate in his county. She had assembled a few pleasant people to meet her young cousin, of whom she was really fond, though looking on her rather as a sentimental little idiot.

Several agreeable and more or less eligible men were of the party, and on the first evening Aurora was taken in to dinner by a shrewd-looking, elderly personage, who was inroduced as Sir Gregory Nicholls to the young lady from Cornwall. The name gave her a little shock as bearing the magic initials, but on her other hand sat an attractive young barrister, whose name she discovered was Mr. Geoffry Norman. Both were exceedingly atentive to Aurora, who was indeed looking most charming, with the color of the sea breezes in her checks and a light of unusual excitement in her eyes.

"G.N." she was thinking. "Both of these are G.N.s. Is the world full of them? But they cannot all have lost my precious book. Sir Gregory couldn't. He is too old for high ideals. And lawyers are too matter-of-fact. It cannot be that I am bound to marry one of these men!" One minute her blood ran cold at the thought, the next her heart was beating wildly. "Oh," she reflected, "let me try not to be as foolish as Aunt Jane thinks me!"

She plucked up her spirits, and a few weeks passed of gaieties in contrast to the quietude of Aurora's life at home. She enjoyed herself extremely, and there were no weary days when she was obliged to seek companionship from the book that lay buried and forgotten at the very bottom of her trunk.

The fact was that she had begun to live un-der the overwhelming spell of Geoffrey Nor-man's delightful personality, aware that he had fallen in iove with her at the first mo-ment of their meeting, and having made up her mind that, even if, he were a matter-of-fact lawyer, he was the only creature in the world for whose sake she could clip her wing!' and set her feet on the ordinary highways of life.

Out of a new and astonishingly happy dream she was awakened with a shock. Sir Gregory Nicholls was talking to Lady Bilberry about Cornwall.

"Cornwall!" the gentleman was saying. "I agree with you. It is a charming spot. And yet I confess that I owe it a grudge. About a year ago I lost on the beach there one of the most valuable things I have ever possessed—"

"Not your heart, I hope, Sir Gregory," said the lady sweetly.

"Oh no, oh no! That loss was reserved as an experience for Bilberry Park,"' said the old gentleman testily, with an expressive glance at Aurora, who was sitting at some distance absorbed in her own pleasant reflections.

"It was, in fact, a manuscript book, written in my own hand when I was young. It was full of the most beautiful sentiments, not perhaps so fashionable nowadays, but of perennial worth— an irreparable loss—"

"Did you advertise for it?' said Lady Bil-berry. "I should have done so and offered a reward."

"No," said Sir Gregory. "I felt sure it had been carried out to sea, as no doubt it was, for the tides are high round that coast."

Aurora, listening, sat pale and stunned, feeling that an awful doom had overtaken her. When able to collect her thoughts and move, she got up and escaped to the garden, where she sat alone in a little bower in a distant nook and wept. Only the day before Sir Gregory had made her a proposal of marriage, which she had refused with a light heart and never a thought of the book that lay at the bottom of her trunk. And now, here she was face to face with her terrible vow, and overtaken by unspeakable disaster!

"Oh, you are in trouble!" said a sympathetic voice, and she looked up to see Geoffry Norman standing beside her. "Can I help you.

"No; nobody can help me!" moaned Aurora.

"Try me. Trust me!" pleaded Geoffry urgently.

"Oh, I can't say it!" cried Aurora in despair. "And yet I must tell someone. It's just this. I have been horribly foolish. But I won't marry Sir Gregory Nicholls, though I've got to do it."

"Who can compel you?" said Geoffry indignantly. "Who is trying to terrify you?"

"Nobody. Only my vow " said Aurora, trying to stop her sobs, but sobbing all the more for the effort.

Then it all came out— Aurora's romantic story of her folly, and Geoffry's outpouring of the most tender devotion.

"Such a vow is not binding in law," he assured her.

"But is it not binding in conscience?" said Aurora.

"Nor in conscience either," said the young lawyer in the most decided manner. "Let me see this extraordinary book."

Aurora brought it, holding the once-prized volume aloof from her, and looking at it with disgust.

"H'm!" said Geoffry, turning it over from cover to cover. "This is not original stuff at all. It is a collection of extracts from standard authors, most of them much in vogue in the days when Sir Gregory was young."

"Oh, the imposter!" cried Aurora. "I do not think so. You see he makes no claim to authorship. Now, tell me, did you vow to marry all the authors of all these fine sentiments (many of whom are dead), or only the owner of the book, in the event of his being found?"

Aurora reflected. "Oh," she said, "I believe I said I would marry the owner, imagining he must, of course, be the author also."

"No matter what you imagined. It is evident it was the owner that you intended to marry."

"It was," said Aurora with a fresh burst of weeping. "But I can't do it. Oh, what will become of me?"

"Just leave the matter to me," said Geoffry. "Let me look at the book, and I will see If I can't find a way out of the difficulty."

THAT evening, when the young barrister was having a quiet half-hour with Sir Gregory in the smoke-room, he said:—

"By the way, I think I have got a piece of property of yours, which has come to my hands accidentally— a manuscript book picked up on a Cornish beach by a friend of mine. I hear you have lost such a thing, and I am anxious to restore it to you."

"Nonsense!" said Sir Gregory. "Well, we have heard that the world is so small! I never thought to see the thing again— a relic of the days when books were not so easily bought, and we made extracts—"

"I have been looking through it," said Geoffry, "and I am greatly struck by the peculiar excellence of your choice. I am a busy lawyer, and have not time to read largely on such ideal lines, and yet passages such as you selected would be very useful, to me on occasions. I wonder if I might dare without offence to ask you to let me purchase it from you."

"My dear fellow!" said Sir Gregory, "you flatter me immensely. I shall be delighted to make you a present of the book. I have lived my life since the days when the ideals of others were of service, to me. I had made up my mind that the thing was lost, and to tell the truth I have no great desire ever to, see it again—"

"I am deeply grateful to you," said Geoffry.

"You have no idea how I shall prize this present. I will ask you just to look at it long enough to write my name in the book— as a gift from yourself. Curiously enough, our initials are the same, but I should like to see 'Geoffry Norman, from the compiler, Sir Gregory Nicholls.' "

"Certainly, my dear boy, certainly!" said Sir Gregory, and the book was produced, and a few strokes of the pen made the work of the elder man the property of the younger.

Geoffry hastened away with his new possession, and found Aurora in the garden.

"Your conscience is saved," he said. "I can assure you that the book no longer belongs to Sir Gregory Nicholls."

Aurora shook her head. "I heard him say that he lost it, also that he valued it immensely."

"Nevertheless he has given it away, and it is mine!"

Aurora looked within the cover of the book, and her cheeks turned the color of the roses beside her.

"You vowed to marry the owner of the volume," said Geoffry. "You shall not be bound by that vow unless you love me. Shall I tear it up, Aurora?"

"Oh no, no!" cried Aurora, stretching out both hands. "It is more precious than ever to me now. Give it to me."

It fell between them.

Aurora's hands had been seized and held; and the book lay on the grass forgotten.

THE NEWS was broken gently to Aunt Jane by Lady Bilberry. "After all," wrote the lady, "though Aurora might have done better, it must be admitted that such a romantic little fool might easily have done worse. Dear Old Sir Gregory bears it good-humoredly, says she was right to prefer a young man to an old one, and has nothing but praises for Geoffry, whom he considers an astute lawyer and a man of unusual literary taste. How he discovered it all I don't know, but men soon come to know each other.

"As to his chances of the Woolsack I am not a judge, but from my observation and experience I can assure you that the young man is good looking and amiable, and has a sensible way with him, which ought to have a good effect upon Aurora. There is no doubt he is genuinely in love with her, nonsense and all, and though I do not believe he knew anything about her fortune before he proposed to her, still it will be very useful to the young pair, as the law is such an uphill profession."

______________________

22: Passing of a God

Henry S. Whitehead

1882-1932

Weird Tales Jan 1931

Henry S Whitehead was resident in the American Virigin Islands for some years from the time the Islands were purchased from Denmark, and was deeply fascinated by the lore of the predominantly African population.

"YOU say that when Carswell came into your hospital over in Port au Prince his fingers looked as though they had been wound with string," said I, encouragingly.

'It is a very ugly story, that, Canevin," replied Doctor Pelletier, still reluctant, it appeared.

"You promised to tell me," I threw in.

"I know it, Canevin," admitted Doctor Pelletier of the U. S. Navy Medical Corps, now stationed here in the Virgin Islands. "But," he proceeded, "you couldn't use this story, anyhow. There are editorial taboos, aren't there? The thing is too— what shall I say?— too outrageous, too incredible."

"Yes," I admitted in turn, there are taboos, plenty of them. Still, after hearing about those fingers, as though wound with string — why not give me the story, Pelletier; leave it to me whether or not I 'use' it. It's the story I want, mostly. I'm burning up for it!"

"I suppose it's your lookout," said my guest. "If you find it too gruesome for you, tell me and I'll quit."

I plucked up hope once more. I had been trying for this story, after getting little scraps of it which allured and intrigued me, for weeks.

"Start in," I ventured, soothingly, pushing the silver swizzel-jug after the humidor of cigarettes from which Pelletier was even now making a selection. Pelletier helped himself to the swizzel frowningly. Evidently he was torn between the desire to pour out the story of Arthur Carswell and some complication of feelings against doing so. I sat back in my wicker lounge-chair and waited.

Pelletier moved his large bulk about in his chair. Plainly now he was cogitating how to open the tale. He began, meditatively;

"I DON'T KNOW as I ever heard public discussion of the malignant bodily growths except among medical people. Science knows little about them. The fact of such diseases, though, is well known to everybody, through campaigns of prevention, the life insurance companies, appeals for funds.

"Well, Carswell's case, primarily, is one of those cases."

He paused and gazed into the glowing end of his cigarette.

" 'Primarily?' " I threw in encouragingly.

"Yes. Speaking as a surgeon, that's where this thing begins, I suppose."

I kept still, waiting.

"Have you read Seabrook's book The Magic Island, Canevin?" asked Pelletier suddenly.

"Yes," I answered. "What about it?"

"Then I suppose that from your own experience knocking around the West Indies and your study of it all, a good bit of that stuff of Seabrook's is familiar to you, isn't it?— the vodu, and the hill customs, and all the rest of it, especially over in Haiti— you could check up on a writer like Seabrook, couldn't you, more or less?"

"Yes," said I, "practically all of it was an old story to me— a very fine piece of work, however, the thing clicks all the way through— an honest and thorough piece of investigation."

"Anything in it new to you?"

"Yes— Seabrook's statement that there was an exchange of personalities between the sacrificial goat— at the 'baptism'— and the young Black girl, the chapter he calls: Girl-Cry— Goat- Cry. That, at least, was a new one on me, I admit.

"You will recall. If you read it care- fully, that he attributed that phenom- enon to his own personal 'slant' on the thing. Isn't that the case, Canevin?"

"Yes," I agreed, "I think that is the way he put it."

"Then," resumed Doctor Pelletier, "I take it that all that material of his — I notice that there have been a lot of story-writers using his terms lately!— is sufficiently familiar to you so that you have some clear idea of the Haitian- African demigods, like Ogoun Badagris, Damballa, and the others, taking up their residence for a short time in some devotee?"

"The idea is very well understood," said I. "Mr. Seabrook mentions it among a number of other local phenomena. It was an old Negro who came up to him while he was eating, thrust his soiled hands into the dishes of food, surprised him considerably— then was surrounded by worshippers who took him to the nearest houmfort or vodu-house, let him sit on the altar, brought him food, hung all their jewelry on him, worshipped him for the time being; then, characteristically, quite utterly ignored the original old fellow after the 'possession' on the part of the 'deity' ceased and reduced him to an unimportant old pantaloon as he was before."

"That summarizes it exactly," agreed Doctor Pelletier. "That, Canevin, that kind of thing, I mean, is the real starting-place of this dreadful matter of Arthur Carswell."

"You mean ?" I barged out at Pelletier, vastly intrigued. I had had no idea that there was vodti mixed in with the case.

"I mean that Arthur Carswell's first intimation that there was anything pressingly wrong with him was just such a 'possession' as the one you have recounted."

"But— but," I protested, "I had supposed— I had every reason to believe, that it was a surgical matter! Why, you just objected to telling about it on the ground that—"

"Precisely," said Doctor Pelletier, calmly. "It was such a surgical case, but, as I say, it began in much the same way as the 'occupation' of that old Negro's body by Ogoun Badagris or whichever one of their devilish deities that happened to be, just as, you say, is well known to fellows like yourself who go in for such things, and just as Seabrook recorded it."

"Well," said I, "you go ahead in your own way, Pelletier. "I'll do my best to listen. Do you mind an occasional question?"

"Not in the least," said Doctor Pelletier considerately, shifted himself to a still more pronouncedly recumbent position in my Chinese rattan lounge- chair, lit a fresh cigarette, and proceeded:

"CARSWELL had worked up a consid- erable intimacy with the snake- worship of interior Haiti, all the sort of thing familiar to you; the sort of thing set out, probably for the first time in English at least, in Seabrook's book; all the gatherings, and the 'baptism,' and the sacrifices of the fowls and the bull, and the goats; the orgies of the worshippers, the boom and thrill of the rata drums— all that strange, incomprehensible, rather silly-surfaced, deadly-underneathed worship of 'the Snake' which the Dahomeyans brought with them to old Hispaniola, now Haiti and the Dominican Republic.

"He had been there, as you may have heard, for a number of years; went there in the first place because everybody thought he was a kind of failure at home; made a good living, too, in a way nobody but an original-minded fellow like him would have thought of— shot ducks on the Leogane marshes, dried them, and exported them to New York and San Francisco to the United States' two largest Chinatowns.

"For a 'failure,' too, Carswell was a particularly smart-looking chap— smart, I mean. In the English sense of that word. He was one of those fellows who was always shaved, clean, freshly groomed, even under the rather adverse conditions of his living, there in Leogane by the salt marshes; and of his trade, which was to kill and dry ducks.

"A fellow can get pretty careless and let himself go at that sort of thing, away from 'home'; away, too, from such niceties as there are in a place like Port au Prince.

"He looked, in fact, like a fellow just off somebody's yacht the first time I saw him, there in the hospital in Port au Prince, and that, too, was right after a rather singular experience which would have unnerved or unsettled pretty nearly anybody.

"But not so old Carswell. No, indeed. I speak of him as 'Old Carswell,' Canevin. That, though, is a kind of affectionate term. He was somewhere about forty-five then; it was two years ago, you see, and, in addition to his being very spick and span, well groomed, you know he looked surprisingly young, somehow. One of those faces which showed experience, but, along with the experience, a philosophy. The lines in his face were good lines, if you get what I mean— lines of humor and courage; no dissipation, no let-down kind of lines, nothing of slackness such as you would see in the face of even a comparatively young beach-comber. No, as he strode into my office, almost jauntily, there in the hospital, there was nothing, nothing whatever, about him, to suggest anything else but a prosperous fellow American, a professional chap, for choice, who might, as I say, have just come ashore from somebody's yacht. "And yet — good God, Canevin, the story that came out "

Naval surgeon though he was, with service in Haiti, at sea, in Nicaragua and the China Station to his credit, Doctor Pelletier rose at this point, and, almost agitatedly, walked up and down my gallery. Then he sat down and lit a fresh cigarette.

"There is," he said, reflectively, and as though weighing his words carefully, "there is, Canevin, among various others, a somewhat 'wild' theory that somebody put forward several years ago, about the origin of malignant tumors. It never gained very much approval among the medical profession, but it has, at least, the merit of originality, and— it was new. Because of those facts, it had a certain amount of currency, and there are those, in and out of medicine, who still believe in it. It is that there are certain nuclei, certain masses, so to speak, of the bodily material which have persisted— not generally, you understand, but in certain cases— among certain persons, the kind who are 'susceptible' to this horrible disease, which, in the pre-natal state, did not develop fully or normally— little places in the bodily structure, that is— if I make myself clear?— which remain undeveloped.

"Something, according to this hypothesis, something like a sudden jar, or a bruise, a kick, a blow with the fist, the result of a fall, or whatnot, causes traumatism— physical injury, that is, you know— to one of the focus-places, and the undeveloped little mass of material starts in to grow, and so displaces the normal tissue which surrounds it.

"One objection to the theory is that there are at least two varieties, well- known and recognized scientifically; the carcinoma, which is itself subdivided into two kinds, the hard and the soft carcinoma, and the sarcoma, which is a soft thing, like what is popularly understood by a 'tumor.' Of course they are all 'tumors,' particular kinds of tumors, malignant tumors. What lends a certain credibility to the theory I have just mentioned is the malignancy, the growing element. For, whatever the underlying reason, they grow, Canevin, as is well recognized, and this explanation I have been talking about gives a reason for the growth. The 'malignancy' is, really, that one of the things seems to have, as it were. Its own life. All this, probably, you know?"

I NODDED. I did not wish to interrupt. I could see that this side-issue on a scientific by-path must have something to do with the story of Carswell.

"Now," resumed Pelletier, "notice this fact, Canevin. Let me put it in the form of a question, like this: To what kind, or type, of vodu worshipper, does the 'possession' by one of their deities occur— from your own knowledge of such things, what would you say?"

"To the incomplete; the abnormal, to an old man, or woman," said I, slowly, reflecting, "or— to a child, or, perhaps, to an idiot. Idiots, ancient crones, backward children, 'town-fools' and the like, all over Europe, are sup- posed to be in some mysterious way en rapport with deity— or with Satan! It is an established peasant belief. Even among the Mahometans, the moron or idiot is 'the afflicted of God.' There is no other better established belief along such lines of thought."

"Precisely !" exclaimed Pelletier, "and, Canevin, go back once more to Seabrook's instance that we spoke about. What type of person was 'possessed'?"

"An old doddering man," said I, "one well gone in his dotage apparently."

"Right once more! Note now, two things. First, I will admit to you, Canevin, that that theory I have just been expounding never made much of a hit with me. It might be true, but— very few first-rate men in our profession thought much of it, and I followed that negative lead and didn't think much of it, or, indeed, much about it. I put it down to the vaporings of the theorist who first thought it out and published it, and let it go at that. Now, Canevin, I am convinced that it is true! The second thing, then: When Carswell came into my office in the hospital over there in Port au Prince, the first thing I noticed about him— I had never seen him before, you see— was a peculiar, almost an indescribable, discrepancy. It was between his general appearance of weather-worn cleanliness, general fitness, his 'smart' appearance in his clothes— all that, which fitted together about the clean-cut, open character of the fellow; and what I can only describe as a pursiness. He seemed in good condition, I mean to say, and yet— there was something, somehow, flabby somewhere in his make-up. I couldn't put my finger on it, but— it was there, a suggestion of something that detracted from the impression he gave as being an upstanding fellow, a good- fellow- to- have- beside- you- in- a- pinch— that kind of person.

"THE second thing I noticed, it was just after he had taken a chair beside my desk, was his fingers, and thumbs. They were swollen, Canevin, looked sore, as though they had been wound with string. That was the first thing I thought of, being wound with string. He saw me looking at them, held them out to me abruptly, laid them side by side— his hands I mean— on my desk, and smiled at me.

" 'I see you have noticed them, Doctor,' he remarked, almost jovially. 'That makes it a little easier for me to tell you what I'm here for. It's— well, you might put it down as a "symptom".'

"I looked at his fingers and thumbs; every one of them was affected in the same way; and ended up with putting a magnifying glass over them.

"They were all bruised and reddened, and here and there on several of them, the skin was abraded, broken, circularly— it was a most curious-look- ing set of digits. My new patient was addressing me again :

" 'I'm not here to ask you riddles. Doctor,' he said, gravely, this time, 'but— would you care to make a guess at what did that to those fingers and thumbs of mine?'

" 'Well,' I came back at him, 'without knowing what's happened, it looks as if you'd been trying to wear about a hundred rings, all at one time, and most of them didn't fit!'

"Carswell nodded his head at me. 'Score one for the medico,' said he, and laughed. 'Even numerically you're almost on the dot, sir. The precise number was one hundred and six!'

"I confess, I stared at him then. But he wasn't fooling. It was a cold, sober, serious fact that he was stating; only, he saw that it had a humorous side, and that intrigued him, as any- thing humorous always did, I found out after I got to know Carswell a lot better than I did then."

"You said you wouldn't mind a few questions, Pelletier," I interjected.

"Fire away," said Pelletier. "Do you see any light, so far?"

"I was naturally figuring along with you, as you told about it all," said I. "Do you infer correctly that Carswell, having lived there, how long, four or five years or so—"

"Seven, to be exact," put in Pelletier.

"—that Carswell, being pretty familiar with the native doings, had mixed into things, got the confidence of his Black neighbors in and around Leogane, become somewhat 'adept,' had the run of the houmforts, so to speak— 'votre bougie, M'sieu'— the fortune-telling at the festivals and so forth, and — had been 'visited' by one of the Black deities? That, apparently, if I'm any judge of tendencies, is what your account seems to be leading up to. Those bruised fingers— the one hundred and six rings— good heavens, man, is it really possible?"

"CARSWELL told me all about that end of it, a little later— yes, that was, precisely, what happened, but— that, surprising incredible as it seems, is only the small end of it all. You just wait "

"Go ahead," said I, "I am all ears, I assure you!"

"Well, Carswell took his hands off the desk after I had looked at them through my magnifying glass, and then waved one of them at me in a kind of deprecating gesture.

" 'I'll go into all that, if you're interested to hear about it. Doctor,' he assured me, 'but that isn't what I'm here about.' His face grew suddenly very grave. 'Have you plenty of time?' he asked. 'I don't want to let my case interfere with anything.'

" 'Fire ahead,' says I, and he leaned forward in his chair.

" 'Doctor,' says he, 'I don't know whether or not you ever heard of me before. My name's Carswell, and I live over Leogane way. I'm an American, like yourself, as you can probably see, and, even after seven vears of it, out there, duck-hunting, mostly, with virtually no White-man's doings for a pretty long time, I haven't "gone native" or anything of the sort. I wouldn't want you to think I'm one of those wasters.' He looked up at me inquiringly for my estimate of him. He had been by himself a good deal; perhaps too much. I nodded at him. He looked me in the eye, squarely, and nodded back. 'I guess we understand each other,' he said. Then he went on.

" 'Seven years ago, it was, I came down here. I've lived over there ever since. What few people know about me regard me as a kind of failure, I daresay. But— Doctor, there was a reason for that, a pretty definite reason. I won't go into it beyond your end of it— the medical end, I mean. I came down because of this.'

"He stood up then, and I saw what made that 'discrepancy' I spoke about, that 'flabbiness' which went so ill with the general cut of the man. He turned up the lower ends of his white drill jacket, and put his hand a little to the left of the middle of his stomach. 'Just notice this,' he said, and stepped toward me.

"There, just over the left center of that area and extending up toward the spleen, on the left side, you know, there was a protuberance. Seen closely it was apparent that here was some sort of internal growth. It was that which made him look flabby, stomachish.

" 'This was diagnosed for me in New York,' Carswell explained, 'a little more than seven years ago. They told me it was inoperable then. After seven years, probably, I daresay it's worse, if anything. To put the thing in a nutshell, Doctor, I had to "let go" then. I got out of a promising business, broke off my engagement, came here. I won't expatiate on it all, but — it was pretty tough, Doctor, pretty tough. I've lasted all right, so far. It hasn't trou- bled me — until just lately. That's why I drove in this afternoon, to see you, to sec if anything could be done.'

" 'Has it been kicking up lately?' I asked him.

" 'Yes,' said Carswell, simply. 'They said it would kill me, probably within a year or so, as it grew. It hasn't grown — much. I've lasted a little more than seven years, so far.'

" 'Come in to the operating-room,' I Invited him, 'and take your clothes off, and let's get a good look at it.'

" 'Anything you say,' returned Cars- well, and followed me back into the operating-room then and there.

"I had a good look at Carswell, first, superficially. That preliminary examination revealed a growth quite typical, the self-contained, not the 'fibrous' type. In the location I've already described, and about the size of an average man's head. It lay imbedded, fairly deep. It was what we call 'encapsulated.' That, of course, is what had kept Carswell alive.

"Then we put the X-rays on It, fore- and-aft, and side-wise. One of those things doesn't always respond very well to skiagraphic examination, to the X-ray, that is, but this one showed clearly enough. Inside it appeared a kind of dark, triangular mass, with the small end at the top. When Doctor Smithson and I had looked him over thoroughly, I asked Carswell whether or not he wanted to stay with us, to come into the hospital as a patient, for treatment.

" 'I'm quite in your hands. Doctor,' he told me. 'I'll stay, or do whatever you want me to. But, first,' and for the first time he looked a trifle embarrassed, 'I think I'd better tell you the story that goes with my coming here. However, speaking plainly, do you think I have a chance?'

" 'Well,' said I, 'speaking plainly, yes, there is a chance, maybe a "fifty- fifty" chance, maybe a little less. On the one hand, this thing has been let alone for seven years since original diagnosis. It's probably less operable than it was when you were in New York. On the other hand, we know a lot more, not about these things, Mr. Carswell, but about surgical technique, than they did seven years ago. On the whole. I'd advise you to stay and get ready for an operation, and, say about "forty-sixty" you'll go back to Leogane, or back to New York if you feel like It, several pounds lighter in weight and a new man. If it takes you, on the table, well, you've had a lot more time out there gunning for ducks in Leogane than those New York fellows allowed you.'

" 'I'm with you,' said Carswell, and we assigned him a room, took his 'history', and began to get him ready for his operation.

"WE did the operation two days later, at ten-thirty in the morning, and in the meantime Carswell told me his 'story' about it.

"It seems that he had made quite a place for himself, there in Leogane, among the negroes and the ducks. In seven years a man like Carswell, with his mental and dispositional equipment, can go quite a long way, anywhere. He had managed to make quite a good thing out of his duck-drying industry, employed five or six 'hands' in his little wooden 'factory,' rebuilt a rather good house he had secured there for a song right after he had arrived, collected local antiques to add to the equipment he had brought along with him, made himself a real home of a peculiar, bachelor kind, and, above all, got in solid with the Black People all around him. Almost incidentally I gathered from him— he had no gift of narrative, and I had to question him a great deal — he had got onto, and into, the know in the vodu thing. There wasn't, as far as I could get it, any aspect of it all that he hadn't been in on, except, that is, 'la chevre sans comes'— the goat without horns, you know— the human sacrifice on great occasions. In fact, he strenuously denied that the voduists resorted to that; said it was a canard against them; that they never, really, did such things, never had, unless back in prehistoric times, in Guinea— Africa.

"But, there wasn't anything about it all that he hadn't at his very finger- ends, and at first-hand, too. The man was a walking encyclopedia of the native beliefs, customs, and practises. He knew, too, every turn and twist of their speech. He hadn't, as he had said at first, 'gone native' in the slightest de- gree, and yet, without lowering his White Man's dignity by a trifle, he had got it all.

"That brings us to the specific happening, the 'story' which, he had said, went along with his reason for coming in to the hospital in Port au Prince, to us.

"It appears that his sarcoma had never, practically, troubled. Beyond noting a very gradual increase in its size from year to year, he said, he 'wouldn't know he had one.' In other words, characteristically, it never gave him any pain or direct annoyance beyond the sense of the wretched thing being there, and increasing on him, and always drawing him closer to that end of life which the New York doctors had warned him about.

"Then, it had happened only three days before he came to the hospital, he had gone suddenly unconscious one afternoon, as he was walking down his shell path to his gateway. The last thing he remembered then was being 'about four steps from the gate.' When he woke up, it was dark. He was seated in a big chair on his own front gallery, and the first thing he noticed was that his fingers and thumbs were sore and ached very painfully. The next thing was that there were flares burning all along the edge of the gallery, and down in the front yard, and along the road outside the paling fence that divided his property from the road, and in the light of these flares there swarmed literally hundreds of negroes, gathered about him and mostly on their knees; lined along the gallery and on the grounds below it; prostrating themselves, chanting, putting earth and sand on their heads; and, when he leaned back in his chair, something hurt the back of his neck, and he found that he was being nearly choked with the necklaces, strings of beads, gold and silver coin-strings, and other kinds, that had been draped over his head. His fingers, and the thumbs as well, were covered with gold and silver rings, many of them jammed on so as to stop the circulation.

"From his knowledge of their beliefs, he recognized what had happened to him. He had, he figured, probably fainted, although such a thing was not at all common with him, going down the pathway to the yard gate, and the Blacks had supposed him to be possessed as he had several times seen Black people, children, old men and women, morons, chiefly, similarly 'possessed.' He knew that, now that he was recovered from whatever had happened to him, the 'worship' ought to cease and if he simply sat quiet and took what was coming to him, they would, as soon as they realized he was 'himself' once more, leave him alone and he would get some relief from this uncomfortable set of surroundings; get rid of the necklaces and the rings; get a little privacy.

"But— the queer part of it all was that they didn't quit. No, the mob around the house and on the gallery increased rather than diminished, and at last he was put to it, from sheer discomfort— he said he came to the point where he felt he couldn't stand it all another instant— to speak up and ask the people to leave him in peace.

"THEY left him, he says, at that, immediately, without a protesting voice, but— and here was what started him on his major puzzlement — they didn't take off the necklaces and rings. No— they left the whole set of that metallic drapery which they had hung and thrust upon him right there, and, after he had been left alone, as he had requested, and had gone into his house, and lifted off the necklaces and worked the rings loose, the next thing that happened was that old Pa'p Josef, the local papaloi, together with three or four other neighboring papalois, witch- doctors from nearby villages, and followed by a very old man who was known to Carswell as the hougan or head witch-doctor of the whole country-side thereabouts, came in to him in a kind of procession, and knelt down all around him on the floor of his living-room, and laid down gourds of cream and bottles of red rum and cooked chickens, and even a big china bowl of Tannia soup— a dish he abominated, said it always tasted like soapy water to him!— and then backed out leaving him to these comestibles.

"He said that this sort of attention persisted in his case, right through the

three days that he remained in his house in Leogane, before he started out for the hospital ; would, apparently, be still going on if he hadn't come in to Port au Prince to us.

"But— his coming in was not, in the least, because of this. It had puzzled him a great deal, for there was nothing like it in his experience, nor, so far as he could gather from their attitude, in the experience of the people about him, of the papalois, or even of the hougan himself. They acted, in other words, precisely as though the 'deity' supposed to have taken up his abode within him had remained there, although there seemed no precedent for such an occurrence, and, so far as he knew, he felt precisely just as he had felt right along, that is, fully awake, and, certainly, not in anything like an abnormal condition, and, very positively, not in anything like a fainting-fit!

"That is to say, he felt precisely the same as usual except that— he attributed it to the probability that he must have fallen on the ground that time when he lost consciousness going down the pathway to the gate (he had been told that passers-by had picked him up and carried him to the gallery where he had awakened, later, these Good Samaritans meanwhile recognizing that one of the 'deities' had indwelt him)— he felt the same except for recurrent, almost unbearable pains in the vicinity of his lower abdominal region.

"There was nothing surprising to him in this accession of the new painfulness. He had been warned that that would be the beginning of the end. It was in the rather faint hope that something might be done that he had come in to the hospital. It speaks volumes for the man's fortitude, for his strength of character, that he came in so cheerfully; acquiesced in what we suggested to him to do; remained with us, facing these comparatively slim chances with complete cheerfulness.

"For— we did not deceive Carswell— the chances were somewhat slim. 'Sixty-forty' I had said, but as I afterward made clear to him, the favorable chances, as gleaned from the mortality tables, were a good deal less than that.

"He went to the table in a state of mind quite unchanged from his accustomed cheerfulness. He shook hands good-bye with Doctor Smithson and me, 'in case,' and also with Doctor Jackson, who acted as anesthetist.

"CARSWELL took an enormous amount of ether to get him off. His consciousness persisted longer, perhaps, than that of any surgical patient I can remember. At last, however. Doctor Jackson intimated to me that I might begin, and. Doctor Smithson standing by with the retracting forceps, I made the first incision. It was my in- tention, after careful study of the X-ray plates, to open it up from in front, in an up-and-down direction, establish drainage directly, and, leaving the wound in the sound tissue in front of it open, to attempt to get it healed up after removing its contents. Such is the technique of the major portion of successful operations.

"It was a comparatively simple matter to expose the outer wall. This accomplished, and after a few words of consultation with my colleague, I very carefully opened it. We recalled that the X-ray had shown, as I mentioned, a triangular-shaped mass within. This apparent content we attributed to some obscure chemical coloration of the contents.

"I made my incisions with the greatest care and delicacy, of course. The critical part of the operation lay right at this point, and the greatest exactitude was indicated.

"At last the outer coats of it were cut through, and retracted, and with re- newed caution I made the incision through the inmost wall of tissue. To my surprise, and to Doctor Smithson's, the inside was comparatively dry. The gauze which the nurse attending had caused to follow the path of the knife, was hardly moistened. I ran my knife down below the original scope of that last incision, then upward from its upper extremity, greatly lengthening the incision as a whole, if you are following me.

"Then, reaching my gloved hand within this long up-and-down aperture, I felt about and at once discovered that I could get my fingers in around the inner containing wall quite easily. I reached and worked my fingers in farther and farther, finally getting both hands inside and at last feeling my fingers touch inside the posterior or rear wall. Rapidly, now, I ran the edges of my hands around inside, and, quite easily, lifted out the 'inside.' This, a mass weighing several pounds, of more or less solid material, was laid aside on the small table beside the operating-table, and, again pausing to consult with Doctor Smithson— the operation was going, you see, a lot better than either of us had dared to anticipate— and being encouraged by him to proceed to a radical step which we had not hoped to be able to take, I began the dissection from the surrounding, normal tissue of the now collapsed walls. This, a long, difficult, and harassing job, was accomplished at the end of, perhaps, ten or twelve minutes of gruelling work, and the bag-like thing, now completely severed from the tissues in which it had been for so long imbedded, was placed also on the side table.

"Doctor Jackson reporting favor- ably on our patient's condition under the anesthetic, I now proceeded to dress the large aperture, and to close the body-wound. This was accomplished in a routine manner, and then, together, we bandaged Carswell, and he was taken back to his room to await awak- ening from the ether.

"Carswell disposed of. Doctor Jack- son and Doctor Smithson left the op- erating-room and the nurse started in cleaning up after the operation; drop- ping the instruments into the boiler, and so on— a routine set of duties. As for me, I picked up the shell in a pair, of forceps, turned it about under the strong electric operating-light, and laid it down again. It presented nothing of interest for a possible laboratory exam- ination.

"Then I picked up the more or less solid contents which I had laid, very hastily, and without looking at it— you see, my actual removal of it had been done inside, in the dark for the most part and by the sense of feeling, with my hands, you will remember— I picked it up; I still had my operating-gloves on to prevent infection when looking over these specimens, and, still, not looking at it particularly, carried it out into the laboratory.

"Canevin"— Doctor Pelletier looked at me somberly through the very gradu- ally fading light of late afternoon, the period just before the abrupt falling of our tropic dusk— "Canevin," he repeated, "honestly, I don't know how to tell you! Listen now, old man, do something for me, will you?'

"Why, yes— of course," said I, considerably mystified. "What is it you want me to do, Pelletier?"

"My car is out in front of the house. Come on home with me, up to my house, will you? Let's say I want to give you a cocktail! Anyhow, maybe you'll understand better when you are there ; I want to tell you the rest up at my house, not here. Will you please come, Canevin?"

I looked at him closely. This seemed to me a very strange, an abrupt, request. Still, there was nothing whatever unreasonable about such a sudden whim on Pelletier's part.

"Why, yes, certainly I'll go with you, Pelletier, if you want me to."

"Come on, then," said Pelletier, and we started for his car.

The doctor drove himself, and after we had taken the first turn in the rather complicated route from my house to his, on the extreme airy top of Denmark Hill, he said, in a quiet voice :

"Put together, now, Canevin, certain points if you please, in this story. Note, kindly, how the Black people over in Leogane acted, according to Carswell's story. Note, too, that theory I was telling you about; do you recollect it clearly?"

"Yes," said I, still more mystified.

"Just keep those two points in mind, then," added Doctor Pelletier, and devoted himself to navigating sharp turns and plodding up two steep roadways for the rest of the drive to his house.

WE went in and found his house-boy laying the table for his dinner. Doctor Pelletier is unmarried, keeps a hospitable bachelor establishment. He ordered cocktails, and the houseboy departed on this errand. Then he led me into a kind of office, littered with medical and surgical paraphernalia. He lifted some papers off a chair, motioned me into it, and took another near by. "Listen, now!" he said, and held up a finger at me.

"I took that thing, as I mentioned, into the laboratory," said he. "I carried it in my hand, with my gloves still on, as aforesaid. I laid it down on a table and turned on a powerful light over it. It was only then th.at I took a good look at it. It weighed several pounds at least, was about the bulk and heft of a full-grown coconut, and about the same color as a hulled coconut, that is, a kind of medium brown. As I looked at it, I saw that it was, as the X-ray had indicated, vaguely triangular in shape. It lay over on one of its sides under that powerful light, and — Canevin, so help me God"— Doctor Pelletier leaned toward me, his face working, a great seriousness in his eyes — "it moved, Canevin," he murmured; "and, as I looked— the thing breathed! I was just plain dumfounded. A biological specimen like that— does not move, Canevin I I shook all over, suddenly. I felt my hair prickle on the roots of my scalp. I felt chills go down my spine. Then I remembered that here I was, after an operation, in my own biological laboratory. I came close to the thing and propped it up, on what might be called its logical base, if you see what I mean, so that it stood as nearly upright as its triangular conformation permitted.

"THEN I saw that it had faint yellowish markings over the brown, and that what you might call its skin was moving, and— as I stared at the thing, Canevin — two things like little arms began to move, and the top of it gave a kind of convulsive shudder, and it opened straight at me, Canevin, a pair of eyes and looked me in the face.

"Those eyes— my God, Canevin, those eyes! They were eyes of some- thing more than human, Canevin, something incredibly evil, something vastly old, sophisticated, cold, immune from anything except pure evil, the eyes of something that had been worshipped, Canevin, from ages and ages out of a past that went back before all known human calculation, eyes that showed all the deliberate, lurking wickedness that has ever been in the world. The eyes closed, Canevin, and the thing sank over onto its side, and heaved and shud- dered convulsively.

"It was sick, Canevin; and now, emboldened, holding myself together, repeating over and over to myself that I had a case of the quavers, of post- operative 'nerves,' I forced myself to look closer, and as I did so I got from it a faint whiff of ether. Two tiny, ape-like nostrils, over a clamped-shut slit of a mouth, were exhaling and inhaling; drawing in the good, pure air, exhaling ether fumes. It popped into my head that Carswell had consumed a terrific amount of ether before he went under; we had commented on that, Doctor Jackson particularly. I put two and two together, Canevin, remembered we were in Haiti, where things are not like New York, or Boston, or Baltimore! Those negroes had believed that the 'deity' had not come out of Carswell, do you see? That was the thing that held the edge of my mind. The thing stirred uneasily, put out one of its 'arms,' groped about, stiffened.

"I reached for a near-by specimen-jar, Canevin, reasoning, almost blindly, that if this thing were susceptible to ether, it would be susceptible to— well, my gloves were still on my hands, and— now shuddering so that I could hardly move at all, I had to force every motion— I reached out and took hold of the thing— it felt like moist leather— and dropped it into the jar. Then I carried the carboy of preserving alcohol over to the table and poured it in till the ghastly thing was entirely covered, the alcohol near the top of the jar. It writhed once, then rolled over on its 'back,' and lay still, the mouth now open. Do you believe me, Canevin?"

"I have always said that I would believe anything, on proper evidence," said I, slowly, "and I would be the last to question a statement of yours, Pelletier. However, although I have, as you say, looked into some of these things perhaps more than most, it seems, well "

Doctor Pelletier said nothing. Then he slowly got up out of his chair. He stepped over to a wall-cupboard and returned, a wide-mouthed specimen-jar in his hand. He laid the jar down before me, in silence.

I looked into it, through the slightly discolored alcohol with which the jar, tightly sealed with rubber-tape and sealing-wax, was filled nearly to the brim. There, on the jar's bottom, lay such a thing as Pelletier had described (a thing which, if it had been "seated," upright, would somewhat have resembled that representation of the happy little godling "Billiken" which was popular twenty years ago as a desk ornament), a thing suggesting the sinister, the unearthly, even in this dessicated form. I looked long at the thing.

"Excuse me for even seeming to hesitate, Pelletier," said I, reflectively.

"I can't say that I blame you," returned the genial doctor. "It is, by the way, the first and only time I have ever tried to tell the story to anybody."

"And Carswell?" I asked. "I've been intrigued with that good fellow and his difficulties. How did he come out of it all?"

"He made a magnificent recovery from the operation," said Pelletier, "and afterward, when he went back to Leogane, he told me that the negroes, while glad to see him quite as usual, had quite lost interest in him as the throne of a 'divinity'."

"H'm," I remarked, "it would seem, that, to bear out—"

'Yes," said Pelletier. "I have always regarded that fact as absolutely conclusive. Indeed, how otherwise could one possibly account for— this?" He indicated the contents of the laboratory jar.

I nodded my head, in agreement with him. "I can only say that— if you won't feel insulted, Pelletier— that you are singularly open-minded, for a man of science! What, by the way, became of Carswell?"

The houseboy came in with a tray, and Pelletier and I drank to each other's good health.

"He came in to Port au Prince," replied Pelletier after he had done the honors. "He did not want to go back to the States, he said. The lady to whom he had been engaged had died a couple of years before; he felt that he would be out of touch with American business. The fact is— he had stayed out here too long, too continuously. But, he remains an 'authority' on Haitian native affairs, and is consulted by the High Commissioner. He knows, literally, more about Haiti than the Haitians themselves. I wish you might meet him; you'd have a lot in common."

"I'll hope to do that," said I, and rose to leave. The houseboy appeared at the door, smiling in my direction.

"The table is set for two, sar," said he.

DOCTOR Pelletier led the way into the dining-room, taking it for granted that I would remain and dine with him. We are informal in St Thomas about such matters. I telephoned home and sat down with him.

Pelletier suddenly laughed — he was halfway through his soup at the moment. I looked up inquiringly. He put down his soup spoon and looked across the table at me.

"It's a bit odd," he remarked, "when you stop to think of it! There's one thing Carswell doesn't know about Haiti and what happens there!"

"What's that?" I inquired.

"That— thing— in there,' said Pelletier, indicating the office with his thumb in the way artists and surgeons do. "I thought he'd had troubles enough without that on his mind, too."

I nodded in agreement and resumed my soup. Pelletier has a cook in a thousand....

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23: The Shut Room

Henry S Whitehead

Weird Tales April 1930

IT WAS Sunday morning and I was coming out of All Saints' Church, Margaret Street, along with the other members of the hushed and reverent congregation, when, near the entrance doors, a hand fell lightly on my shoulder. Turning, I perceived that it was the Earl of Carruth. I nodded, without speaking, for there is that in the atmosphere of this great church, especially after one of its magnificent services and heart-searching sermons, which precludes anything like the hum of conversation which one meets with in many places of worship.

In these worldly and 'scientific' days it is unusual to meet with a person of Lord Carruth's intellectual and scientific attainments who troubles very much about religion. As for me, Gerald Canevin, I have always been a church-going fellow.

Carruth accompanied me in silence through the entrance doors and out into Margaret Street. Then, linking his arm in mine, he guided me, still in silence, to where his Rolls-Royce car stood at the curbstone.

'Have you any luncheon engagement, Mr Canevin?' he inquired, when we were just beside the car, the footman holding the door open.

'None whatever,' I replied.

'Then do me the pleasure of lunching with me,' invited Carruth.

'I was planning on driving from church to your rooms,' he explained, as soon as we were seated and the car whirling us noiselessly toward his town house in Mayfair. 'A rather extraordinary matter has come up, and Sir John has asked me to look into it. Should you care to hear about it?'

'Delighted,' I acquiesced, and settled myself to listen.

To my surprise, Lord Carruth began reciting a portion of the Nicene Creed, to which, sung very beautifully by All Saints' choir, we had recently been listening.

'Maker of Heaven and earth,' quoted Carruth, musingly, 'and of all things— visible and invisible.' I started forward in my seat. He had given a peculiar emphasis to the last word, 'invisible'.

'A fact,' I ejaculated, 'constantly forgotten by the critics of religion! The Church has always recognized the existence of the invisible creation.'

'Right, Mr Canevin. And— this invisible creation; it doesn't mean merely angels!'

'No one who has lived in the West Indies can doubt that,' I replied.

'Nor in India,' countered Carruth. 'The fact— that the Creed attributes to God the authorship of an invisible creation— is an interesting commentary on the much-quoted remark of Hamlet to Horatio: "There are more things in Heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy." Apparently, Horatio's philosophy, like that of the present day, took little account of the spiritual side of affairs; left out God and what He had made. Perhaps Horatio had recited the creed a thousand times, and never realized what that clause implies!'

'I have thought of it often, myself,' said I. 'And now— I am all curiosity— what, please, is the application?'

'It is an occurrence in one of the old coaching inns,' began Carruth, 'on the Brighton Road; a very curious matter. It appears that the proprietor— a gentleman, by the way, Mr William Snow, purchased the inn for an investment just after the Armistice— has been having a rather unpleasant time of it. It has to do with shoes!'

'Shoes?' I inquired; 'shoes!' It seemed an abrupt transition from the Nicene Creed to shoes!

'Yes,' replied Carruth, 'and not only shoes but all sorts of leather affairs. In fact, the last and chief difficulty was about the disappearance of a commercial traveler's leather sample-case. But I perceive we are arriving home. We can continue the account at luncheon.'

During lunch he gave me a rather full account, with details, of what had happened at 'The Coach and Horses' Inn on the Brighton Road, an account which I will briefly summarize as follows.

Snow, the proprietor, had bought the old inn partly for business reasons, partly for sentimental. It had been a portion, up to about a century before, of his family's landed property. He had repaired and enlarged it, modernized it in some ways, and in general restored a much rundown institution, making 'The Coach and Horses' into a paying investment. He had retained, so far as possible, the antique architectural features of the old coaching inn, and before very long had built up a motor clientèle of large proportions by sound and careful management.

Everything, in fact, had prospered with the gentleman-innkeeper's affairs until there began, some four months back, a series of unaccountable disappearances. The objects which had, as it were, vanished into thin air, were all— and this seemed to me the most curious and bizarre feature of Carruth's recital— leather articles. Pair after pair of shoes or boots, left outside bedroom doors at night, would be gone the next morning. Naturally the 'boots' was suspected of theft. But the 'boots' had been able to prove his innocence easily enough. He was, it seemed, a rather intelligent broken-down jockey, of a keen wit. He had assured Mr Snow of his surprise as well as of his innocence, and suggested that he take a week's holiday to visit his aged mother in Kent and that a substitute 'boots', chosen by the proprietor, should take his place. Snow had acquiesced, and the disappearance of guests' footwear had continued, to the consternation of the substitute, a total stranger, obtained from a London agency.

That exonerated Billings, the jockey, who came back to his duties at the end of his holiday with his character as an honest servant intact. Moreover, the disappearances had not been confined to boots and shoes. Pocketbooks, leather luggage, bags, cigarette cases— all sorts of leather articles went the way of the earlier boots and shoes, and besides the expense and annoyance of replacing these, Mr Snow began to be seriously concerned about the reputation of his house. An inn in which one's leather belongings are known to be unsafe would not be a very strong financial asset. The matter had come to a head through the disappearance of the commercial traveler's sample-case, as noted by Carruth in his first brief account of this mystery. The main difficulty in this affair was that the traveler had been a salesman of jewelry, and Snow had been confronted with a bill for several hundred pounds, which he had felt constrained to pay. After that he had laid the mysterious matter before Sir John Scott, head of Scotland Yard, and Scott had called in Carruth because he recognized in Snow's story certain elements which caused him to believe this was no case for mere criminal investigation.

After lunch Carruth ordered the car again, and, after stopping at my rooms for some additional clothing and the other necessities for an over-night visit, we started along the Brighton Road for the scene of the difficulty.

We arrived about four that Sunday afternoon, and immediately went into conference with the proprietor.

Mr William Snow was a youngish middle-aged gentleman, very well dressed, and obviously a person of intelligence and natural attainments. He gave us all the information possible, repeating, with many details, the matters which I have already summarized, while we listened in silence. When he had finished: 'I should like to ask some questions,' said Carruth.

'I am prepared to answer anything you wish to enquire about,' Mr Snow assured us.

'Well, then, about the sentimental element in your purchase of the inn, Mr Snow— tell us, if you please, what you may know of the more ancient history of this old hostelry. I have no doubt there is history connected with it, situated where it is. Undoubtedly, in the coaching days of the Four Georges, it must have been the scene of many notable gatherings.'

'You are right, Lord Carruth. As you know, it was a portion of the property of my family. All the old registers are intact, and are at your disposal. It is an inn of very ancient foundation. It was, indeed, old in those days of the Four Georges, to whom you refer. The records go back well into the Sixteenth Century, in fact; and there was an inn here even before registers were kept. They are of comparatively modern origin, you know. Your ancient landlord kept, I imagine, only his "reckoning"; he was not concerned with records; even licenses are comparatively modern, you know.'

The registers were produced, a set of bulky, dry-smelling, calf-bound volumes. There were eight of them. Carruth and I looked at each other with a mutual shrug.

'I suggest,' said I, after a slight pause, 'that perhaps you, Mr Snow, may already be familiar with the contents of these. I should imagine it might require a week or two of pretty steady application even to go through them cursorily.'

Mr William Snow smiled. 'I was about to offer to mention the high points,' said he. 'I have made a careful study of these old volumes, and I can undoubtedly save you both a great deal of reading. The difficulty is— what shall I tell you? If only I knew what to put my finger upon— but I do not, you see!'

'Perhaps we can manage that,' threw in Carruth, 'but first, may we not have Billings in and question him?'

The former jockey, now the boots at 'The Coach and Horses,' was summoned and proved to be a wizened, copper-faced individual, with a keen eye and a deferential manner. Carruth invited him to a seat and he sat, gingerly, on the very edge of a chair while we talked with him. I will make so attempt to reproduce his accent, which is quite beyond me. His account was somewhat as follows, omitting the questions asked him both by Carruth and myself.

'At first it was only boots and shoes. Then other things began to go. The things always disappeared at night. Nothing ever disappeared before midnight, because I've sat up and watched many's the time. Yes, we tried everything: watching, even tying up leather things, traps! Yes, sir— steel traps, baited with a boot! Twice we did that. Both times the boot was gone in the morning, the trap not even sprung. No, sir— no one possibly among the servants. Yet, an "inside" job; it couldn't have been otherwise. From all over the house, yes. My old riding-boots— two pairs— gone completely; not a trace; right out of my room. That was when I was down in Kent as Mr Snow's told you, gentlemen. The man who took my place slept in my room, left the door open one night— boots gone in the morning, right under his nose.

'Seen anything? Well, sir, in a manner, yes— in a manner, no! To be precise, no. I can't say that I ever saw anything, that is, anybody; no, nor any apparatus as you might say, in a manner of speaking— no hooks no strings, nothing used to take hold of the things— but— ' Here Billings hesitated, glanced at his employer, looked down at his feet, and his coppery face turned a shade redder.

'Gentlemen,' said he, as though coming to a resolution, 'I can only tell you the God's truth about it. You may think me barmy— shouldn't blame you if you did! But— I'm as much interested in this 'ere thing as Mr Snow 'imself, barrin' that I 'aven't had to pay the score— make up the value of the things, I mean, as 'e 'as. I'll tell you— so 'elp me Gawd, gentlemen, it's a fact— I 'ave seen something, absurd as it'll seem to you. I've seen— '

Billings hesitated once more, dropped his eyes, looked distressed, glanced at all of us in the most shamefaced, deprecating manner imaginable, twiddled his hands together, looked, in short, as though he were about to own up to it that he was, after all, responsible for the mysterious disappearances; then finally said: 'I've seen things disappear— through the air! Now— it's hout! But it's a fact, gentlemen all— so 'elp me, it's the truth. Through the air, just as if someone were carrying them away— someone invisible I mean, in a manner of speaking— bloomin' pair of boots, swingin' along through the bloomin' air— enough to make a man say 'is prayers, for a fact!'

It took considerable assuring on the part of Carruth and myself to convince the man Billings that neither of us regarded him as demented, or, as he pithily expressed it, 'barmy'. We assured him, while our host sat looking at his servant with a slightly puzzled frown, that, on the contrary, we believed him implicitly, and furthermore that we regarded his statement as distinctly helpful. Mr Snow, obviously convinced that something in his diminutive servitor's mental works was unhinged, almost demurred to our request that we go, forthwith, and examine the place in the hotel where Billings alleged his marvel to have occurred.

We were conducted up two flights of winding steps to the story which had, in the inn's older days, plainly been an attic. There, Billings indicated, was the scene of the disappearance of the 'bloomin' boot, swingin' along— unaccompanied— through the bloomin' air'.

It was a sunny corridor, lighted by the spring sunlight through several quaint, old-fashioned, mullioned windows. Billings showed us where he had sat, on a stool in the corridor, watching; indicated the location of the boots, outside a doorway of one of the less expensive guest-rooms; traced for us the route taken by the disappearing boots.

This route led us around a corner of the corridor, a corner which, the honest 'boots' assured us, he had been 'too frightened' to negotiate on the dark night of the alleged marvel.

But we went around it, and there, in a small, right-angled hallway, it became at once apparent to us that the boots on that occasion must have gone through one of two doorways, opposite each other at either side, or else vanished into thin air.

Mr Snow, in answer to our remarks on this subject, threw open the door at the right. It led into a small, but sunny and very comfortable-looking bed-chamber, shining with honest cleanliness and decorated tastefully with chintz curtains with valances, and containing several articles of pleasant, antique furniture. This room, as the repository of air-traveling boots, seemed unpromising. We looked in in silence.

'And what is on the other side of this short corridor?' I enquired.

'The "shut room", ' replied Mr William Snow.

Carruth and I looked at each other.

'Explain, please,' said Carruth.

'It is merely a room which has been kept shut, except for an occasional cleaning,' replied our host, readily, 'for more than a century. There was, as a matter of fact, a murder committed in it in the year 1818, and it was, thereafter, disused. When I purchased the inn, I kept it shut, partly, I dare say, for sentimental reasons; partly, perhaps, because it seemed to me a kind of asset for an ancient hostelry. It has been known as "the shut room" for more than a hundred years. There was, otherwise, no reason why I should not have put the room in use. I am not in the least superstitious.'

'When was the room last opened?' I enquired.

'It was cleaned about ten days ago, I believe,' answered Mr Snow.

'May we examine it?' asked Carruth.

'Certainly,' agreed Snow, and forthwith sent Billings after the key.

'And may we hear the story— if you know the details— of the murder to which you referred?' Carruth asked.

'Certainly,' said Snow, again. 'But it is a long and rather complicated story. Perhaps it would do better during dinner.'

In this decision we acquiesced, and, Billings returning with the key, Snow unlocked the door and we looked into 'the shut room'. It was quite empty, and the blinds were drawn down over the two windows. Carruth raised these, letting in a flood of sunlight. The room was utterly characterless to all appearance, but— I confess to a certain 'sensitivity' in such matters— I 'felt' something like a faint, ominous chill. It was not, as the word I have used suggests, anything like physical cold. It was, so to express it, mentally cold. I despair of expressing what I mean more clearly. We looked over the entire room, an easy task as there was absolutely nothing to attract the eye. Both windows were in the wall at our right hand as we entered, and, save for the entrance door through which we had just come, the other three walls were quite blank.

Carruth stepped half-way out through the doorway and looked at the width of the wall in which the door was set. It was, perhaps, ten inches thick. He came back into the room, measured with his glance the distance from window-wall to the blank wall opposite the windows, again stepped outside, into the passageway this time, and along it until he came to the place where the short passage turned into the longer corridor from which we had entered it. He turned to his right this time, I following him curiously, that is, in the direction opposite that from which we had walked along the corridor, and tapped lightly on the wall there.

'About the same thickness, what?' he enquired of Snow.

'I believe so,' came the answer. 'We can easily measure it.'

'No, it will not be necessary, I think. We know that it is approximately the same.' Carruth ceased speaking and we followed him back into the room once more. He walked straight across it, rapped on the wall opposite the doorway.

'And how thick is this wall?' he enquired.

'It is impossible to say,' replied Snow, looking slightly mystified. 'You see, there are no rooms on that side, only the outer wall, and no window through which we could easily estimate the thickness. I suppose it is the same as the others, about ten inches I'd imagine.'

Carruth nodded, and led the way out into the hallway once more. Snow looked enquiringly at Carruth, then at me.

'It may as well be locked again,' offered Carruth, 'but— I'd be grateful if you'd allow me to keep the key until tomorrow.'

Snow handed him the key without comment, but a slight look of puzzlement was on his face as he did so. Carruth offered no comment, and I thought it wise to defer the question which was on my lips until later when we were alone. We started down the long corridor toward the staircase, Billings touching his forehead and stepping on ahead of us and disappearing rapidly down the stairs, doubtless to his interrupted duties in the scullery.

'It is time to think of which rooms you would prefer,' suggested our pleasant-voiced host as we neared the stairs. 'Suppose I show you some which are not occupied, and you may, of course, choose what suit you best.'

'On this floor, if you please,' said Carruth, positively.

'As you wish, of course,' agreed Snow, 'but, the better rooms are on the floor below. Would you not, perhaps, prefer— '

'Thank you no,' answered Carruth. 'We shall prefer to be up here if we may, and— if convenient— a large room with two beds.'

'That can be managed very easily,' agreed Snow. He stepped back a few paces along the corridor, and opened a door. A handsome, large room, very comfortably and well furnished, came to our view. Its excellence spoke well for the management of The Coach and Horses. The 'better' rooms must indeed be palatial if this were a fair sample of those somewhat less desirable.

'This will answer admirably,' said Carruth, directing an eyebrow at me. I nodded hastily. I was eager to acquiesce in anything he might have in mind.

'Then we shall call it settled,' remarked Snow. 'I shall have your things brought up at once. Perhaps you would like to remain here now?'

'Thank you,' said Carruth. 'What time do we dine?'

'At seven, if you please, or later if you prefer. I am having a private room for the three of us.'

'That will answer splendidly,' agreed Carruth, and I added a word of agreement. Mr Snow hurried off to attend to the sending up of our small luggage, and Carruth drew me at once into the room.

'I am a little more than anxious,' he began, 'to hear that tale of the murder. It is an extraordinary step forward— do you not agree with me?— that Billings's account of the disappearing boots— "through the air"— should fit so neatly and unexpectedly into their going around that corner of the corridor where "the shut room" is. It sets us forward, I imagine. What is your impression, Mr Canevin?'

'I agree with you heartily,' said I. 'The only point on which I am not clear is the matter of the thickness of the walls. Is there anything in that?'

'If you will allow me, I'll defer that explanation until we have had the account of the murder at dinner,' said Carruth, and, our things arriving at that moment, we set about preparing for dinner.

Dinner, in a small and beautifully furnished private room, did more, if anything more were needed, to convince me that Mr William Snow's reputation as a successful modern innkeeper had been well earned. It was a thoroughly delightful meal in all respects, but that, in a general way, is really all that I remember about it because my attention was wholly occupied in taking in every detail of the strange story which our host unfolded to us beginning with the fish course— I think it was a fried sole— and which ended only when we were sipping the best coffee I had tasted since my arrival in England from our United States.

'In the year 1818,' said Mr Snow, 'near the end of the long reign of King George III— the king, you will remember, Mr Canevin, who gave you Americans your Fourth of July— this house was kept by one James Titmarsh. Titmarsh was a very old man. It was his boast that he had taken over the landlordship in the year that His Most Gracious Majesty, George III, had come to the throne, and that he would last as long as the king reigned! That was in the year 1760, and George III had been reigning for fifty-eight years. Old Titmarsh, you see, must have been somewhere in the neighborhood of eighty, himself.

'Titmarsh was something of a "character". For some years the actual management of the inn had devolved upon his nephew, Oliver Titmarsh, who was middle-aged, and none too respectable, though, apparently, an able taverner. Old Titmarsh if tradition is to be believed, had many a row with his deputy, but, being himself childless, he was more or less dependent upon Oliver, who consorted with low company for choice, and did not bear the best of reputations in the community. Old Titmarsh's chief bugbear, in connection with Oliver, was the latter's friendship with Simon Forrester. Forrester lacked only a bard to be immortal. But— there was no Cowper to his John Gilpin, so to speak. No writer of the period, nor indeed since, has chosen to set forth Forrester's exploits. Nevertheless, these were highly notable. Forrester was the very king-pin of the highwaymen, operating with extraordinary success and daring along the much-traveled Brighton Road.

'Probably Old Titmarsh was philosopher enough to ignore his nephew's associations and acts so long as he attended to the business of the inn. The difficulty, in connection with Forrester, was that Forrester, an extraordinarily bold fellow, whose long immunity from the gallows had caused him to believe himself possessed of a kind of charmed life, constantly resorted to The Coach and Horses, which, partly because of its convenient location, and partly because of its good cheer, he made his house-of-call.

'During the evening of the first of June, in the year 1818, a Royal Courier paused at The Coach and Horses for some refreshment and a fresh mount. This gentleman carried one of the old king's peremptory messages to the Prince of Wales, then sojourning at Brighton, and who, under his sobriquet of "First Gentleman of Europe", was addicted to a life which sadly irked his royal parent at Whitehall. It was an open secret that only Prince George's importance to the realm as heir apparent to the throne prevented some very drastic action being taken against him for his innumerable follies and extravagances, on the part of king and parliament. This you will recall, was two years before the old king died and "The First Gentleman" came to the throne as George IV.

'The Royal Messenger, Sir William Greaves, arriving about nine in the evening after a hard ride, went into the coffee-room, to save the time which the engagement and preparation of a private room would involve, and when he paid his score, he showed a purse full of broad gold pieces. He did not know that Simon Forrester, sitting behind him over a great mug of mulled port, took careful note of this unconscious display of wealth in ready money. Sir William delayed no longer than necessary to eat a chop and drink a pot of "Six Ale". Then, his spurs clanking, he took his departure.

'He was barely out of the room before Forrester, his wits, perhaps, affected by the potations which he had been imbibing, called for his own mount, Black Bess, and rose, slightly stumbling to his feet, to speed the pot-boy on his way to the stables.

' "Ye'll not be harrying a Royal Messenger a-gad's sake, Simon," protested his companion, who was no less a person than Oliver Titmarsh, seizing his crony by his ruffled sleeve of laced satin.

' "Unhand me!" thundered Forrester; then, boastfully, "There's no power in England'll stay Sim Forrester when he chooses to take the road!"

'Somewhat unsteadily he strode to the door, and roared his commands to the stable-boy, who was not leading Black Bess rapidly enough to suit his drunken humor. Once in the saddle, the fumes of the wine he had drunk seemed to evaporate. Without a word Simon Forrester set out, sitting his good mare like a statue, in the wake of Sir William Greaves toward Brighton.

'The coffee-room— as Oliver Titmarsh turned back into it from the doorway whither he had accompanied Forrester— seethed into an uproar. Freed from the dominating presence of the truculent ruffian who would as soon slit a man's throat as look him in the eye along the sights of his horse-pistol from behind the black mask, the numerous guests, silent before, had found their tongues. Oliver Titmarsh sought to drown out their clamor of protest, but before he could succeed, Old Titmarsh, attracted by the unwonted noise, had hobbled down the short flight of steps from his private cubbyhole and entered the room.

'It required only a moment despite Oliver's now frantic efforts to stem the tide of comment, before the old man had grasped the purport of what was toward. Oliver secured comparative silence, then urged his aged uncle to retire. The old man did so, muttering helplessly, internally cursing his age and feebleness which made it out of the question for him to regulate this scandal which had originated in his inn. A King's Messenger, then as now, was sacred in the eyes of all decent citizens. A King's Messenger— to be called on to "stand and deliver" by the villainous Forrester! It was too much. Muttering and grumbling, the old man left the room, but, instead of going back to his easy-chair and his pipe and glass, he stepped out through the kitchens, and, without so much as a lantern to light his path, groped his way to the stables.

'A few minutes later the sound of horse's hoofs in the cobbled stable-yard brought a pause in the clamor which had once more broken out and now raged in the coffee-room. Listening, those in the coffee-room heard the animal trot out through the gate, and the diminishing sound of its galloping as it took the road toward Brighton. Oliver Titmarsh rushed to the door, but the horse and its rider were already out of sight. Then he ran up to his ancient uncle's room, only to find the crafty old man apparently dozing in his chair. He hastened to the stables. One of the grooms was gone, and the best saddle-horse. From the others, duly warned by Old Titmarsh, he could elicit nothing. He returned to the coffee-room in a towering rage and forthwith cleared it, driving his guests out before him in a protesting herd.

'Then he sat down, alone, a fresh bottle before him, to await developments.

'It was more than an hour later when he heard the distant beat of a galloping horse's hoofs through the quiet June night, and a few minutes later Simon Forrester rode into the stable-yard and cried out for an hostler for his Bess.

'He strode into the coffee-room a minute later, a smirk of satisfaction on his ugly, scarred face. Seeing his crony, Oliver, alone, he drew up a chair opposite him, removed his coat, hung it over the back of his chair, and placed over its back where the coat hung, the elaborate leather harness consisting of crossed straps and holsters which he always wore. From the holsters protruded the grips of "Jem and Jack", as Forrester had humorously named his twin horse pistols, huge weapons, splendidly kept, each of which threw an ounce ball. Then, drawing back the chair, he sprawled in it at his ease, fixing on Oliver Titmarsh an evil grin and bellowing loudly for wine.

' "For," he protested, "my throat is full of the dust of the road, Oliver, and, lad, there's enough to settle the score, never doubt me!" and out upon the table he cast the bulging purse which Sir William Greaves had momentarily displayed when he paid his score an hour and half back.

'Oliver Titmarsh, horrified at this evidence that his crony had actually dared to molest a King's Messenger, glanced hastily and fearfully about him, but the room, empty and silent save for their own presence, held no prying inimical informer. He began to urge upon Forrester the desirability of retiring. It was approaching eleven o'clock, and while the coffee-room was, fortunately, empty, no one knew who might enter from the road or come down from one of the guest-rooms at any moment. He shoved the bulging purse, heavy with its broad gold-pieces, across the table to his crony, beseeching him to pocket it, but Forrester, drunk with the pride of his exploit, which was unique among the depredations of the road's gentry, boasted loudly and tossed off glass after glass of the heavy port wine a trembling pot-boy had fetched him.

'Then Oliver's entreaties were supplemented from an unexpected source. Old Titmarsh, entering through a door in the rear wall of the coffee-room, came silently and leaned over the back of the ruffian's chair, and added a persuasive voice to his nephew's entreaties.

' "Best go up to bed, now, Simon, my lad," croaked the old man, wheedlingly, patting the bulky shoulders of the hulking ruffian with his palsied old hands.

'Forrester, surprised, turned his head and goggled at the graybeard. Then, with a great laugh, and tossing off a final bumper, he rose unsteadily to his feet, and thrust his arms into the sleeves of the fine coat which old Titmarsh, having detached from the back of the chair, held out to him.

' "I'll go, I'll go, old Gaffer," he kept repeating as he struggled into his coat, with mock jocularity, "seeing you're so careful of me! Gad's hooks! I might as well! There be no more purses to rook this night, it seems!"

'And with this, pocketing the purse and taking over his arm the pistol-harness which the old man thrust at him, the villain lumbered up the stairs to his accustomed room.

' "Do thou go after him, Oliver," urged the old man. "I'll bide here and lock the doors. There'll likely be no further custom this night."

'Oliver Titmarsh, sobered, perhaps, by his fears, followed Forrester up the stairs, and the old man, crouched in one of the chairs, waited and listened, his ancient ears cocked against a certain sound he was expecting to hear.

'It came within a quarter of an hour— the distant beat of the hoofs of horses, many horses. It was, indeed, as though a considerable company approached The Coach and Horses along the Brighton Road. Old Titmarsh smiled to himself and crept toward the inn doorway. He laboriously opened the great oaken door and peered into the night. The sound of many hoofbeats was now clearer, plainer.

'Then, abruptly, the hoofbeats died on the calm June air. Old Titmarsh, somewhat puzzled, listened, tremblingly. Then he smiled in his beard once more. Strategy, this! Someone with a head on his shoulders was in command of that troop! They had stopped, at some distance, lest the hoofbeats should alarm their quarry.

'A few minutes later the old man heard the muffled sound of careful footfalls, and, within another minute, a King's Officer in his red coat had crept up beside him.

' "He's within," whispered Old Titmarsh, "and well gone by now in his damned drunkard's slumber. Summon the troopers, sir. I'll lead ye to where the villain sleeps. He hath the purse of His Majesty's Messenger upon him. What need ye of better evidence?"

' "Nay," replied the train-band captain in a similar whisper, "that evidence, even, is not required. We have but now taken up the dead body of Sir William Greaves beside the highroad, an ounce ball through his honest heart. 'Tis a case, this, of drawing and quartering, Titmarsh; thanks to your good offices in sending your boy for me."

'The troopers gradually assembled. When eight had arrived, the captain, preceded by Old Titmarsh and followed in turn by his trusty eight, mounted the steps to where Forrester slept. It was, as you have guessed, the empty room you examined this afternoon, "the shut room" of this house.

'At the foot of the upper stairs the captain addressed his men in a whisper: "A desperate man, this, lads. 'Ware bullets! Yet— he must needs be taken alive, for the assizes, and much credit to them that take him. He hath been a pest of the road as well ye know these many years agone. Upon him, then, ere he rises from his drunken sleep! He hath partaken heavily. Pounce upon him ere he rises."

'A mutter of acquiescence came from the troopers. They tightened their belts, and stepped alertly, silently, after their leader, preceded by their ancient guide carrying a pair of candles.

'Arrived at the door of the room the captain disposed his men and crying out "in the King's name!" four of these stout fellows threw themselves against the door. It gave at once under that massed impact, and the men rushed into the room, dimly lighted by Old Titmarsh's candles.

'Forrester, his eyes blinking evilly in the candle-light, was half-way out of bed when they got into the room. He slept, he was accustomed to boast, "with one eye open, drunk or sober!" Throwing off the coverlid, the highwayman leaped for the chair over the back of which hung his fine laced coat, the holsters uppermost. He plunged his hands into the holsters, and stood, for an instant, the very picture of baffled amazement.

'The holsters were empty!

'Then, as four stalwart troopers flung themselves upon him to bear him to the floor, there was heard Old Titmarsh's harsh, senile cackle.

' " 'Twas I that robbed ye, ye villain— took your pretty boys, your 'Jem' and your 'Jack' out the holsters whiles ye were strugglin' into your fine coat! Ye'll not abide in a decent house beyond this night, I'm thinking; and 'twas the old man who did for ye, murdering wretch that ye are!"

'A terrific struggle ensued. With or without his "Pretty Boys" Simon Forrester was a thoroughly tough customer, versed in every sleight of hand-to-hand fighting. He bit and kicked; he elbowed and gouged. He succeeded in hurling one of the troopers bodily against the blank wall, and the man sank there and lay still, a motionless heap. After a terrific struggle with the other three who had cast themselves upon him, the remaining troopers and their captain standing aside because there was not room to get at him in the mêlée, he succeeded in getting the forefinger of one of the troopers, who had reached for a face-hold upon him, between his teeth, and bit through it at the joint.

'Frantic with rage and pain this trooper, disengaging himself, and before he could be stopped, seized a heavy oaken bench and, swinging it through the air, brought it down on Simon Forrester's skull. No human bones, even Forrester's, could sustain that murderous assault. The tough wood crunched through his skull, and thereafter he lay quiet. Simon Forrester would never be drawn and quartered, nor even hanged. Simon Forrester, ignobly, as he had lived, was dead; and it remained for the troopers only to carry out the body and for their captain to indite his report.

'Thereafter, the room was stripped and closed by Old Titmarsh himself, who lived on for two more years, making good his frequent boast that his reign over The Coach and Horses would equal that of King George III over his realm. The old king died in 1820, and Old Titmarsh did not long survive him. Oliver, now a changed man, because of this occurrence, succeeded to the lease of the inn, and during his landlordship the room remained closed. It has been closed, out of use, ever since.'

Mr Snow brought his story, and his truly excellent dinner, to a close simultaneously. It was I who broke the little silence which followed his concluding words.

'I congratulate you, sir, upon the excellence of your narrative-gift. I hope that if I come to record this affair, as I have already done with respect to certain odd happenings which have come under my view, I shall be able, as nearly as possible, to reproduce your words.' I bowed to our host over my coffee cup.

'Excellent, excellent, indeed!' added Carruth, nodding and smiling pleasantly in Mr Snow's direction. 'And now— for the questions, if you don't mind. There are several which have occurred to me; doubtless also to Mr Canevin.'

Snow acquiesced affably. 'Anything you care to ask, of course.'

'Well, then,' it was Carruth, to whom I had indicated precedence in the questioning, 'tell us, if you please, Mr Snow— you seem to have every particular at your very fingers' ends— the purse with the gold? That, I suppose, was confiscated by the train-band captain and eventually found its way back to Sir William Greaves's heirs. That is the high probability, but— do you happen to know as a matter of fact?'

'The purse went back to Lady Greaves.'

'Ah! and Forrester's effects— I understand he used the room from time to time. Did he have anything, any personal property in it? If so, what became of it?'

'It was destroyed, burned. No one claimed his effects. Perhaps he had no relatives. Possibly no one dared to come forward. Everything in his possession was stolen, or, what is the same, the fruit of his thefts.'

'And— the pistols, "Jem and Jack?" Those names rather intrigued me! What disposition was made of them, if you happen to know? Old Titmarsh had them, of course, concealed somewhere; probably in that "cubby-hole" of his which you mentioned.'

'Ah,' said Mr Snow, rising, 'there I can really give you some evidence. The pistols are in my office— in the Chubbs' safe, along with the holster-apparatus, the harness which Forrester wore under his laced coat. I will bring them in.'

'Have you the connection, Mr Canevin?' Lord Carruth enquired of me as soon as Snow had left the dining-room.

'Yes,' said I, 'the connection is clear enough; clear as a pikestaff, to use one of your time-honored British expressions, although I confess never to have seen a pikestaff in my life! But— apart from the fact that the holsters are made of leather; the well-known background of the unfulfilled desire persisting after death; and the obvious connection between the point of disappearance of those "walking-boots" of Billings, with "the shut room", I must confess myself at a loss. The veriest tyro at this sort of thing would connect those points, I imagine. There it is, laid out for us, directly before our mental eyes, so to speak. But— what I fail to understand is not so much who takes them— that by a long stretch of the imagination might very well be the persistent "shade", "Ka", "projected embodiment" of Simon Forrester. No— what gets me is— where does the carrier of boots and satchels and jewelers' sample-cases put them? That room is utterly, absolutely, physically empty, and boots and shoes are material affairs, Lord Carruth.'

Carruth nodded gravely. 'You have put your finger on the main difficulty, Mr Canevin. I am not at all sure that I can explain it, or even that we shall be able to solve the mystery after all. My experience in India does not help. But— there is one very vague case, right here in England, which may be a parallel one. I suspect, not to put too fine a point upon the matter, that the abstracted things may very well be behind that rear-most wall, the wall opposite the doorway in "the shut room".'

'But,' I interjected, 'that is impossible, is it not? The wall is material— brick and stone and plaster. It is not subject to the strange laws of personality. How— ?'

The return of the gentleman-landlord of The Coach and Horses at this moment put an end to our conversation, but not to my wonder. I imagined that the 'case' alluded to by my companion would be that of the tortured 'ghost' of the jester which, with a revenge-motive, haunted a room in an ancient house and even managed to equip the room itself with some of its revengeful properties or motives. The case had been recorded by Mr Hodgson, and later Carruth told me that this was the one he had in mind. This, it seemed to me, was a very different matter. However—

Mr Snow laid the elaborate and beautifully made 'harness' of leather straps out on the table beside the after-dinner coffee service. The grips of 'Jem and Jack' peeped out of their holsters. The device was not unlike those used by our own American desperadoes, men like the famous Earp brothers and 'Doc' Holliday whose 'six-guns' were carried handily in slung holsters in front of the body. We examined these antique weapons, murderous-looking pistols of the 'bulldog' type, built for business, and Carruth ascertained that neither 'Jem' nor 'Jack' was loaded.

'Is there anyone on that top floor?' enquired Carruth.

'No one save yourselves, excepting some of the servants, who are in the other end of the house,' returned Snow.

'I am going to request you to let us take these pistols and the "harness" with us upstairs when we retire,' said Carruth, and again the obliging Snow agreed. 'Everything I have is at your disposal, gentlemen,' said he, 'in the hope that you will be able to end this annoyance for me. It is too early in the season at present for the inn to have many guests. Do precisely as you wish, in all ways.'

Shortly after nine o'clock, we took leave of our pleasant host, and, carrying the 'harness' and pistols divided between us, we mounted to our commodious bedchamber. A second bed had been moved into it, and the fire in the grate took off the slight chill of the spring evening. We began our preparations by carrying the high-powered electric torches we had obtained from Snow along the corridor and around the corner to 'the shut room'. We unlocked the door and ascertained that the two torches would be quite sufficient to work by. Then we closed but did not lock the door, and returned to our room.

Between us, we moved a solidly built oak table to a point diagonally across the corridor from our open bedroom door, and on this we placed the 'harness' and pistols. Then, well provided with smoke-materials, we sat down to wait, seated in such positions that both of us could command the view of our trap. It was during the conversation which followed that Carruth informed me that the case to which he had alluded was the one recorded by the occult writer, Hodgson. It was familiar to both of us. I will not cite it. It may be read by anybody who has the curiosity to examine it in the collection entitled Carnacki the Ghost-Finder by William Hope Hodgson. In that account it is the floor of the 'haunted' room which became adapted to the revenge-motive of the persistent 'shade' of the malignant court jester, tortured to death many years before his 'manifestation' by his fiendish lord and master.

We realized that, according to the man Billings's testimony, we need not be on the alert before midnight. Carruth therefore read from a small book which he had brought with him, and I busied myself in making the careful notes which I have consulted in recording Mr Snow's narrative of Simon Forrester, while that narrative was fresh in my memory. It was a quarter before midnight when I had finished. I took a turn about the room to refresh my somewhat cramped muscles, and returned to my comfortable chair.

Midnight struck from the French clock on our mantelpiece, and Carruth and I both, at that signal, began to give our entire attention to the articles on the table in the hallway out there.

It occurred to me that this joint watching, as intently as the circumstances seemed to warrant to both of us, might prove very wearing, and I suggested that we watch alternately, for about fifteen minutes each. We did so, I taking the first turn. Nothing occurred— not a sound, not the smallest indication that there might be anything untoward going on out there in the corridor.

At twelve-fifteen, Carruth began to watch the table, and it was, I should imagine, about five minutes later that his hand fell lightly on my arm, pressing it and arousing me to the keenest attention. I looked intently at the things on the table. The 'harness' was moving toward the left-hand edge of the table. We could both hear, now, the slight scraping sound made by the leather weighted by the twin pistols, and, even as we looked, the whole apparatus lifted itself— or so it appeared to us— from the supporting table, and began, as it were, to float through the air a distance of about four feet from the ground toward the turn which led to 'the shut room'.

We rose, simultaneously, for we had planned carefully on what we were to do, and followed. We were in time to see the articles 'float' around the corner, and, increasing our pace— for we had been puzzled about how anything material, like the boots, could get through the locked door— watched, in the rather dim light of that short hallway, what would happen.

What happened was that the 'harness' and pistols reached the door, and then the door opened. They went through, and the door shut behind them precisely as though someone, invisible to us, were carrying them. We heard distinctly the slight sound which a gently closed door makes as it came to, and there we were, standing outside in the hallway looking at each other. It is one thing to figure out, beforehand, the science of occult occurrences, even upon the basis of such experience as Carruth and I both possessed. It is, distinctly, another, to face the direct operation of something motivated by the Powers beyond the ordinary ken of humanity. I confess to certain 'cold chills', and Carruth's face was very pale.

We switched on our electric torches as we had arranged to do, and Carruth, with a firm hand which I admired if I did not, precisely, envy, reached out and turned the knob of the door. We walked into 'the shut room' . . .

Not all our joint experience had prepared us for what we saw. I could not forbear clutching Carruth's free arm, the one not engaged with the torch, as he stood beside me. And I testify that his arm was as still and firm as a rock. It steadied me to realize such fortitude, for the sight which was before us was enough to unnerve the most hardened investigator of the unearthly.

Directly in front of us, but facing the blank wall at the far end of the room, stood a half-materialized man. The gleam of my torch threw a faint shadow on the wall in front of him, the rays passing through him as though he were not there, and yet with a certain dimming. The shadow visibly increased in the few brief instants of our utter silence, and then we observed that the figure was struggling with something. Mechanically we concentrated both electric rays on the figure and then we saw clearly. A bulky man, with a bull-neck and close-cropped, iron-gray hair, wearing a fine satin coat and what were called, in their day, 'small cloths', or tight-fitting knee-trousers with silk stockings and heavy, buckled shoes, was raising and fitting about his waist, over the coat, the 'harness' with the pistols.

Abruptly, the materialization appearing to be now complete, he turned upon us, with an audible snarl and baleful, glaring little eyes like a pig's, deep set in a hideous, scarred face, and then he spoke— he spoke, and he had been dead for more than a century!

'Ah-h-h-h!' he snarled, evilly, 'ye would come in upon me, eh, my fine gents— into this my chamber, eh! I'll teach ye manners...' and he ended this diatribe with a flood of the foulest language imaginable, stepping, with little, almost mincing, down-toed steps toward us all the time he poured out his filthy curses and revilings. I was completely at a loss what to do. I realized— these ideas went through my mind with the rapidity of thought— that the pistols were unloaded! I told myself that this was some weird hallucination— that the shade of no dead-and-gone desperado could harm us. Yet— it was a truly terrifying experience, be the man shade or true flesh and blood.

Then Carruth spoke to him, in quiet, persuasive tones.

'But— you have your pistols now, Simon Forrester. It was we who put them where you could find them, your pretty boys, "Jem and Jack". That was what you were trying to find, was it not? And now— you have them. There is nothing further for you to do— you have them, they are just under your hands where you can get at them whenever you wish.'

At this the spectre, or materialization of Simon Forrester, blinked at us, a cunning light in his evil little eyes, and dropped his hands with which he had but now been gesticulating violently on the grips of the pistols. He grinned, evilly, and spat in a strange fashion, over his shoulder.

'Ay,' said he, more moderately now, 'ay— I have 'em— Jemmy and Jack, my trusties, my pretty boys.' He fondled the butts with his huge hands, hands that could have strangled an ox, and spat over his shoulder.

'There is no necessity for you to remain, then, is there?' said Carruth softly, persuasively.

The simulacrum of Simon Forrester frowned, looked a bit puzzled, then nodded its head several times.

'You can rest now— now that you have Jem and Jack,' suggested Carruth, almost in a whisper, and as he spoke, Forrester turned away and stepped over to the blank wall at the far side of the room, opposite the doorway, and I could hear Carruth draw in his breath softly and feel the iron grip of his fingers on my arm. 'Watch!' he whispered in my ear; 'watch now.'

The solid wall seemed to wave and buckle before Forrester, almost as though it were not a wall but a sheet of white cloth, held and waved by hands as cloth is waved in a theater to simulate waves. More and more cloth-like the wall became, and, as we gazed at this strange sight, the simulacrum of Simon Forrester seemed to become less opaque, to melt and blend in with the wavering wall, which gradually ceased to move, and then he was gone and the wall was as it had been before...

On Monday morning, at Carruth's urgent solicitation, Snow assembled a force of laborers, and we watched while they broke down the wall of 'the shut room' opposite the doorway. At last, as Carruth had expected, a pick went through, and, the interested workmen, laboring with a will, broke through into a small, narrow, cell-like room the plaster of which indicated that it had been walled up perhaps two centuries before, or even earlier— a 'priest's hole' in all probability, of the early post-reformation period near the end of the Sixteenth Century.

Carruth stopped the work as soon as it was plain what was here, and turned out the workmen, who went protestingly. Then, with only our host working beside us, and the door of the room locked on the inside, we continued the job. At last the aperture was large enough, and Carruth went through. We heard an exclamation from him, and then he began to hand out articles through the rough hole in the masonry— leather articles— boots innumerable, ladies' reticules, hand-luggage, the missing jeweler's sample case with its contents intact— innumerable other articles, and, last of all, the 'harness' with the pistols in the holsters.

Carruth explained the 'jester case' to Snow, who shook his head over it. 'It's quite beyond me, Lord Carruth,' said he, 'but, as you say this annoyance is at an end, I am quite satisfied; and— I'll take your advice and make sure by pulling down the whole room, breaking out the corridor walls, and joining it to the room across the way. I confess I can not make head or tail of your explanation— the unfulfilled wish, the "sympathetic pervasion" of the room as you call it, the "materialization", and the strange fact that this business began only a short time ago. But— I'll do exactly what you have recommended, about the room, that is. The restoration of the jeweler's case will undoubtedly make it possible for me to get back the sum I paid Messrs Hopkins and Barth of Liverpool when it disappeared in my house. Can you give any explanation of why the "shade" of Forrester remained quiet for a century and more and only started up the other day, so to speak?'

'It is because the power to materialize came very slowly,' answered Carruth, 'coupled as it undoubtedly was with the gradual breaking down of the room's material resistance. It is very difficult to realize the extraordinary force of an unfulfilled wish, on the part of a forceful, brutal, wholly selfish personality like Forrester's. It is, really, what we must call spiritual power, even though the "spirituality" was the reverse of what we commonly understand by that term. The wish and the force of Forrester's persistent desire, through the century, have been working steadily, and, as you have told us, the room has been out of use for more than a century. There were no common, everyday affairs to counteract that malign influence— no "interruptions", if I make myself clear.'

'Thank you,' said Mr Snow. 'I do not clearly understand. These matters are outside my province. But— I am exceedingly grateful— to you both.' Our host bowed courteously. 'Anything that I can possibly do, in return— '

'There is nothing— nothing whatever,' said Carruth quietly; 'but, Mr Snow, there is another problem on your hands which perhaps you will have some difficulty in solving, and concerning which, to our regret'— he looked gravely at me— 'I fear neither Mr Canevin with his experience, nor I with mine, will be able to assist you.'

'And what, pray, is that?' asked Mr Snow, turning slightly pale. He would, I perceive, be very well satisfied to have his problems behind him.

'The problem is,' said Carruth, even more gravely I imagined, 'it is— what disposal are you to make of fifty-eight pairs of assorted boots and shoes!'

And Snow's relieved laughter was the last of the impressions which I took with me as we rode back to London in Carruth's car, of The Coach and Horses inn on the Brighton Road.

_____________________

24: The Chadbourne Episode

Henry S Whitehead

Weird Tales Feb 1933

PERHAPS the most fortunate circumstance of the well-nigh incredible Chadbourne affair is that little Abby Chandler was not yet quite seven years of age on the evening when she came back home and told her mother her story about the old sow and the little pigs. It was July, and Abby with her big tin pail had been up on the high ridge near the Old Churchyard after low-bush blueberries. She had not even been especially frightened, her mother had said. That is what I mean by the fortunate aspect of it. Little Abby was altogether too young to be devastated, her sweet little soul permanently blasted, her mentality wrenched and twisted away from normality even by seeing with her round, China-blue eyes what she said she had seen up there on the steep hillside.

Little Abby had not noticed particularly the row of eight or nine pushing, squeaking, grunting little pigs at their early evening meal because her attention had been entirely concentrated on the curious appearance, as it seemed to her, of the source of that meal. That old sow, little Abby had told her mother, had had 'a lady's head... '

There was, of course, a raison d'être— a solution— back of this reported marvel. That solution occurred to Mrs Chandler almost at once. Abby must have heard something, in the course of her six and three-quarter years of life here in Chadbourne among the little town's permanent inhabitants, some old-wives' gossip for choice, about 'marked' people; whispered 'cases' of people born with some strange anatomical characteristics of a domestic animal— freaks— or even farm animals 'marked' with some human streak— a calf with a finger growing out of its left hind fetlock— things like that; animals quickly destroyed and buried out of sight. Such statements can be heard in many old New England rural settlements which have never wholly let go the oddments in tradition brought over from Cornwall and the West Country of Old England. Everybody has heard them.

Chadbourne would be no exception to anything like this. The old town lies nestling among the granite-bouldered ridges and dimpling hills of deep, rural, eastern Connecticut. In any such old New England town the older people talk much about all such affairs as Black Sabbaths, and Charmed Cattle, and Marked People.

All of that Mrs Chandler knew and sensed in her blood and bones. She had been a Grantham before she had married Silas Chandler, and the Grantham family had been quietly shrinking and deteriorating for nine generations in Chadbourne along with the process of the old town's gradual dry-rotting, despite the efforts of such of the old-time gentry as may have survived in such places.

For gentry there are, deeply imbedded in New England, people who have never forgotten the meaning of the old noblesse oblige, people who have never allowed their fine sense of duty and obligation to lapse. In Chadbourne we had such a family, the Merritts; Mayflower passengers to Plymouth in the Massachusetts Colony in 1620; officers and trustees for generations of Dartmouth College in New Hampshire and of Trinity College, Hartford, Connecticut. We Canevins, Virginians, were not, of course, of this stock. My father, Alexander Canevin, had bought up an abandoned farm on a Chadbourne ridge-top about the time of the Spanish War. In that high air, among those rugged hills and to the intoxicating summer scents of bayberry-blossoms and sweet-fern— which the Connecticut farmers name appropriately, 'hardhack'— I had sojourned summers since my early boyhood.

Tom Merritt and I had grown up together, and he, following the family tradition, had gone to Dartmouth, thence to the Harvard Medical School. At the time of little Abby's adventure he was serving his community well as the Chadbourne general practitioner. But for the four years previous to his coming back and settling down to this useful if humdrum professional career, Thomas Bradford Merritt, M.D., had been in the diplomatic service as a career consul, chiefly in Persia where, before his attachment as a step up to our legation in Teheran, he had held consular posts at Jask, a town in the far south on the Gulf of Oman; at Kut-el-Amara in the west, just south of Baghdad; and finally at Shiraz, where he had collected some magnificent rugs.

The autumn before little Abby Chandler's blueberrying expedition Tom, who acted as my agent, had rented my Chadbourne farmhouse just as I was leaving New York for my customary winter's sojourn in the West Indies. That my tenants were Persians had, it appeared, no connection at all with Tom's long residence in that land. They had been surprised, Tom told me, when they found out that the New England gentleman whose advertisement of my place they had answered from New York City was familiar with their country, had resided there, and even spoke its language passably.

In spite of this inducement to some sort of sociability, the Persian family, according to Tom, had comported themselves, toward him and everybody else in Chadbourne, with a high degree of reticence and reserve. The womenfolk had kept themselves altogether secluded, rarely leaving the house that winter. When they did venture forth they were always heavily muffled up— actually veiled, Tom thought— and only the edges, so to speak, of the mother and two daughters were ever to be observed by any inhabitant of Chadbourne curious to know how Persian ladies might look through the windows of Mr Rustum Dadh's big limousine.

Besides the stout mother and the two stout, 'yellowish-complected', sloe-eyed daughters, there was Mr Rustum Dadh himself, and two servants. These were the chauffeur, a square-built, tight-lipped, rather grim-looking fellow, who made all his own repairs to the big car and drove wrapped up in a fur-lined livery overcoat; and a woman, presumably the wife of the chauffeur, who never appeared outside at all, even on Friday nights when there was movies in Chadbourne's Palace Opera House.

All that I knew about my tenants Tom Merritt told me. I never saw any of the Rustum Dadh family from first to last. I had, in fact, completely forgotten all about them until I arrived in Chadbourne the following June some time after their departure and learned from Tom the bare facts I have set out here.

On a certain night in July that summer the Rustum Dadhs were farthest from my thoughts. It was nine o'clock, and I was sitting in the living-room reading. My telephone rang insistently. I laid down my book with a sigh at being interrupted. I found Thomas Bradford Merritt, M.D., on the other end of the wire.

'Come on down here as soon as you can, Gerald,' said Tom without any preliminaries, and there was a certain unusual urgency in his voice.

'What's happened?' I inquired.

'It may be— ah— something in your line, so to speak,' said Doctor Merritt; 'something— well— out of the ordinary. Bring that Männlicher rifle of yours!'

'I'll be right down,' said I, snapped up the receiver, got the Männlicher out of my case in the hall where it is in with my shotguns, and raced out to the garage. Here, of a certainty, was something quite strange and new for Chadbourne, where the nearest thing to anything like excitement from year's end to year's end would be an altercation between a couple of robins over a simultaneously discovered worm! 'Bring your rifle!' On the way down to the village I did not try to imagine what could possibly lie behind such a summons— from conservative Tom Merritt. I concentrated upon my driving, down the winding country road from my rugged hilltop into town, speeding on the short stretches, easing around treacherous turns at great speed...

I dashed into Tom's house eight minutes after hanging up the receiver. There was a light I had observed, in the library as well as in the office, and I went straight in there and found Tom sitting on the edge of a stiff chair, plainly waiting for my arrival.

'Here I am,' said I, and laid my rifle on the library table. Tom plunged into his story...

'I'm tied up— a confinement case. They'll be calling me now any minute. Listen to this, Gerald— this is probably a new one on you— what I've got to tell you— even in the face of all the queer things you know— your West Indian experiences; vodu; all the rest of it; something I know, and— have always kept my mouth shut about! That is— if this is what I'm afraid it is. You'll have to take my word for it. I haven't lost my mind or anything of the sort— you'll probably think that if it turns out to be what I think it is— get this, now.

'Dan Curtiss's little boy, Truman, disappeared, late this afternoon, about sundown. Truman is five years old, a little fellow. He was last seen by some older kids coming back to town with berries from the Ridge, about suppertime. Little Truman, they said, was "with a lady", just outside the Old Cemetery.

'Two lambs and a calf have disappeared within the last week. Traced up there. A bone or two and a wisp of wool or so— the calf's ears, in different places, but both up there, and part of its tail; found 'em scattered around when they got up there to look.

'Some are saying "a cattymaount". Most of 'em say dogs.

'But— it isn't dogs, Gerald. "Sheep-killers" tear up their victims on the spot. They don't drag 'em three miles up a steep hill before they eat 'em. They run in a pack, too. Everybody knows that. Nothing like that has been seen— no pack, no evidences of a pack. Those lost animals have all disappeared singly— more evidence that it isn't "dogs". They've been taken up and, presumably, eaten, up on top of the Cemetery Ridge. Sheep-killing dogs don't take calves, either, and there's that calf to be accounted for. You see— I've been thinking it all out, pretty carefully. As for the catamount, well, catamounts don't, commonly, live— and eat— out in the open. A catamount would drag off a stolen animal far into the deep woods.'

I nodded.

'I've heard something about animals disappearing; only the way I heard it was that it's been going on for quite a long time, and somewhat more intensively during the past month or so.'

Tom Merritt nodded at that. 'Right,' said he. 'It's been going on ever since those Persians left, Gerald. All the time they were here— six months it was— they always bought their house supply of meat and poultry alive, "on the hoof". Presumably they preferred to kill and dress their meat themselves. I don't know, for a fact, of course. Anyhow, that was one of the peculiarities of the "foreigners up at the Canevin Place", and it got plenty of comment in the town, as you may well imagine. And— since they left— it hasn't been only lambs and calves. I know of at least four dogs. Cats, maybe, too! Nobody would keep much account of lost cats in Chadbourne.'

This, somehow, surprised me. I had failed to hear about the dogs and possible cats.

'Dogs, too, eh?' I remarked.

Then Tom Merritt got up abruptly, off his stiff chair, and came over and stood close behind me and spoke low and intensively, and very convincingly, directly into my ear.

'And now— it's a child, Gerald. That's too much— for this, or any other decent town. You've never lived in Persia. I have. I'm going to tell you in plain words what I think is going on. Try to believe me, Gerald. Literally, I mean. You've got to believe me— trust me— to do what you've got to do tonight because I can't come right now. It's going to be an ordeal for you. It would be for anybody. Listen to this, now.

'This situation only came to me, clearly, just before I called you up, Gerald. I'd been sitting here, after supper, tied up on this Grantham case— waiting for them to call me. It was little Truman Curtiss's disappearance that brought the thing to a head, of course. The whole town's buzzing with it, naturally. No such thing has ever happened here before. A child has always been perfectly safe in Chadbourne since they killed off the last Indian a hundred and fifty years ago. I hadn't seen the connection before. I've been worked to death for one thing. I naturally hadn't been very much steamed up about a few lambs and dogs dropping out of sight.

'That might mean a camp of tramps somewhere. But— tramps don't steal five-year-old kids. It isn't tramps that do kidnapping for ransom.

'It all fitted together as soon as I really put my mind on it. Those Rustum Dadhs and their unaccountable reticence— the live animals that went up to that house of yours all winter— what I'd heard, and even seen a glimpse of— out there in Kut and Shiraz— that grim-jawed, tight-lipped chauffeur of theirs, with the wife that nobody ever got a glimpse of— finally that story of little Abby Chandler—'

And the incredible remainder of what Doctor Thomas Merritt had to tell me was said literally in my ear, in a tense whisper, as though the teller were actually reluctant that the walls and chairs and books of that mellow old New England library should overhear the utterly monstrous thing he had to tell...

I was shaken when he had finished. I looked long into my lifelong friend Tom Merritt's honest eyes as he stood before me when he had finished, his two firm, capable hands resting on my two shoulders. There was conviction, certainty, in his look. There was no slightest doubt in my mind but that he believed what he had been telling me. But— could he, or anyone, by any possible chance, be right on the facts? Here, in Chadbourne, of all places on top of the globe!

'I've read about— them— in the Arabian Nights,' I managed to murmur.

Tom Merritt nodded decisively. 'I've seen— two,' he said, quietly. 'Get going, Gerald,' he added; 'it's action from now on.'

I stepped over to the table and picked up my rifle.

'And remember,' he added, as we walked across the room to the door, 'what I've told you about them. Shoot them down. Shoot to kill— if you see them. Don't hesitate. Don't wait. Don't— er— talk! No hesitation. That's the rule— in Persia. And remember how to prove it— remember the marks! You may have to prove it— to anybody who may be up there still, hunting for poor little Truman Curtiss.'

The office telephone rang.

Doctor Merritt opened the library door and looked out into the wide hallway. Then he shouted in the direction of the kitchen.

'Answer it, Mehitabel. Tell 'em I've left. It'll be Seymour Grantham, for his wife.' Then, to me: 'There are two search-parties up there, Gerald.'

And as we ran down the path from the front door to where our two cars were standing in the road I heard Doctor Merritt's elderly housekeeper at the telephone explaining in her high, nasal twang of the born Yankee, imparting the information that the doctor was on his way to the agitated Grantham family.

I drove up to the old cemetery on the Ridge even faster than I had come down from my own hill fifteen minutes earlier that evening.

The late July moon, one night away from full, bathed the fragrant hills in her clear, serene light. Half-way up the hill road to the Ridge I passed one search-party returning. I encountered the other coming out of the cemetery gate as I stopped my steaming engine and set my brakes in front of the entrance. The three men of this party, armed with a lantern, a rifle, and two sizable clubs, gathered around me. The youngest, Jed Peters, was the first to speak. It was precisely in the spirit of Chadbourne that this first remark should have no direct reference to the pressing affair motivating all of us. Jed had pointed to my rifle, interest registered plainly in his heavy, honest countenance.

'Some weepon— thet-thar, I'd reckon, Mr Canevin.'

I have had a long experience with my Chadbourne neighbors.

'It's a Männlicher,' said I, 'what is called "a weapon of precision". It is accurate to the point of nicking the head off a pin up to about fourteen hundred yards.'

These three fellows, one of them the uncle of the missing child, had discovered nothing. They turned back with me, however, without being asked. I could have excused them very gladly. After what Tom Merritt had told me, I should have preferred being left alone to deal with the situation unaided. There was no avoiding it, however. I suggested splitting up the party and had the satisfaction of seeing this suggestion put into effect. The three of them walked off slowly to the left while I waited, standing inside the cemetery gate, until I could just hear their voices.

Then I took up my stand with my back against the inside of the cemetery wall, directly opposite the big Merritt family mausoleum.

The strong moonlight made it stand out clearly. I leaned against the stone wall, my rifle cuddled in my arms, and waited. I made no attempt to watch the mausoleum continuously, but ranged with my eyes over the major portion of the cemetery, an area which, being only slightly shrubbed, and sloping upward gently from the entrance, was plainly visible. From time to time as I stood there, ready, I would catch a faint snatch of the continuous conversation going on among the three searchers, as they walked along on a long course which I had suggested to them, all the way around the cemetery, designed to cover territory which, in the local phraseology, ran 'down through', 'up across', and 'over around'. I had been waiting, and the three searchers had been meandering, for perhaps twenty minutes— the ancient town clock in the Congregational church tower had boomed ten about five minutes before— when I heard a soft, grating sound in the direction of the Merritt mausoleum. My eyes came back to it sharply.

There, directly before the now half-open bronze door, stood a strange, even a grotesque, figure. It was short, squat, thick-set. Upon it, I might say accurately, hung— as though pulled on in the most hurried and slack fashion imaginable— a coat and trousers. The moonlight showed it up clearly and it was plain, even in such a light, that these two were the only garments in use. The trousers hung slackly, bagging thickly over a pair of large bare feet. The coat, unbuttoned, sagged and slithered lopsidedly. The coat and trousers were the standardized, unmistakable, diagonal gray material of a chauffeur's livery. The head was bare and on it a heavy, bristle-like crop of unkempt hair stood out absurdly. The face was covered with an equally bristle-like growth, unshaven for a month by the appearance. About the tight-shut, menacing mouth which divided a pair of square, iron-like broad jaws, the facial hairs were merged or blended in what seemed from my viewpoint a kind of vague smear, as though the hair were there heavily matted.

From this sinister figure there then emerged a thick, guttural, repressed voice, as though the speaker were trying to express himself in words without opening his lips.

'Come— come he-ar. Come— I will show you what you look for.'

Through my head went everything that Tom Merritt had whispered in my ear. This was my test— my test, with a very great deal at stake— of my trust in what he had said— in him— in the rightness of his information; and it had been information, based on his deduction, such as few men have had to decide upon. I said a brief prayer in that space of a few instants. I observed that the figure was slowly approaching me.

'Come,' it repeated— 'come now— I show you— what you, a-seek— here.'

I pulled myself together. I placed my confidence, and my future, in Tom Merritt's hands.

I raised my Männlicher, took careful aim, pulled the trigger. I repeated the shot. Two sharp cracks rang out on that still summer air, and then I lowered the deadly little weapon and watched while the figure crumpled and sagged down, two little holes one beside the other in its forehead, from which a dark stain was spreading over the bristly face, matting it all together the way the region of the mouth had looked even before it lay quiet and crumpled up on the ground half-way between the mausoleum and where I stood.

I had done it. I had done what Tom Merritt had told me to do, ruthlessly, without any hesitation, the way Tom had said they did it in Persia around Teheran, the capital, and Shiraz, and in Kut-el-Amara, and down south in Jask.

And then, having burned my bridges, and, for all I knew positively, made myself eligible for a noose at Wethersfield, I walked across to the mausoleum, and straight up to the opened bronze door, and looked inside.

A frightful smell— a smell like all the decayed meat in the world all together in one place— took me by the throat. A wave of quick nausea invaded me. But I stood my ground, and forced myself to envisage what was inside; and when I had seen, despite my short retchings and coughings I resolutely raised my Männlicher and shot and shot and shot at moving, scampering targets; shot again and again and again, until nothing moved inside there. I had seen, besides those moving targets, something else; some things that I will not attempt to describe beyond using the word 'fragments'. Poor little five-year-old Truman Curtiss who had last been seen just outside the cemetery gate 'with a lady' would never climb that hill again, never pick any more blueberries in Chadbourn or any other place...

I looked without regret on the shambles I had wrought within the old Merritt tomb. The Männlicher is a weapon of precision...

I was brought to a sense of things going on outside the tomb by the sound of running feet, the insistent, clipping drawl of three excited voices asking questions. The three searchers, snapped out of their leisurely walk around the cemetery, and quite near by at the time my shooting had begun, had arrived on the scene of action.

'What's it all about, Mr Canevin?'

'We heard ye a-shootin' away.'

'Good Cripes! Gerald's shot a man!'

I blew the smoke out of the barrel of my Männlicher, withdrew the clip. I walked toward the group bending now over the crumpled figure on the ground halfway to the cemetery gate.

'Who's this man you shot, Gerald? Good Cripes! It's the fella that druv the car for them-there Persians. Good Cripes, Gerald— are ye crazy? You can't shoot down a man like that!'

'It's not a man,' said I, coming up to them and looking down on the figure.

There was a joint explosion at that. I waited, standing quietly by, until they had exhausted themselves. They were, plainly, more concerned with what consequences I should have to suffer than with the fate of the chauffeur.

'You say it ain't no man! Are ye crazy, Gerald?'

'It's not a man,' I repeated. 'Reach down and press his jaws together so that he opens his mouth, and you'll see what I mean.'

Then, as they naturally enough I suppose hesitated to fill this order, I stooped down, pressed together the buccinator muscles in the middle of the broad Mongol-like cheeks. The mouth came open, and thereat there was another chorus from the three. It was just as Tom Merritt had described it! The teeth were the teeth of one of the great carnivores, only flat, fang-like, like a shark's teeth. No mortal man ever wore such a set within his mouth, or ever needed such a set, the fangs of a tearer of flesh...

'Roll him over,' said I, 'and loosen that coat so you can see his back.'

To this task young Jed addressed himself.

'Good Cripes!' This from the Curtiss fellow, the lost child's uncle. Along the back, sewn thickly in the dark brown skin, ran a band of three-inch, coal-black bristles, longer and stiffer than those of any prize hog. We gazed down in silence for a long moment. Then: 'Come,' said I, 'and look inside the Merritt tomb— but— brace yourselves! It won't be any pleasant sight.'

I turned, led the way, the others falling in behind me. Then, from young Jed Peters: 'You say this-here ain't no man— an'— I believe ye, Mr Canevin! But— Cripes Almighty!— ef this'n hain't no man, what, a-God's Name, is it?'

'It is a ghoul,' said I over my shoulder, 'and inside the tomb there are ten more of them— the dam and nine whelps. And what is left of the poor little Curtiss child...'

Looking into the mausoleum that second time, in cold blood, so to speak, was a tough experience even for me who had wrought that havoc in there. As for the others— Eli Curtiss, the oldest of the three, was very sick. Bert Blatchford buried his face in his arms against the door's lintel, and when I shook him by the shoulder in fear lest he collapse, the face he turned to me was blank and ghastly, and his ruddy cheeks had gone the color of lead.

Only young Jed Peters really stood up to it. He simply swore roundly, repeating his 'Good Cripes!' over and over again— an articulate youth.

The whelps, with their flattish, human-like faces and heads, equipped with those same punishing, overmuscled jaws like their sire's— like the jaws of a fighting bulldog— their short, thick legs and arms, and their narrow, bristly backs, resembled young pigs more nearly than human infants. All, being of one litter, were of about the same size; all were sickeningly bloody-mouthed from their recent feast. These things lay scattered about the large, circular, marble-walled chamber where they had dropped under the merciless impacts of my bullets.

Near the entrance lay sprawled the repulsive, heavy carcass of the dam, her dreadful, fanged mouth open, her sow-like double row of dugs uppermost, these dragged flaccid and purplish and horrible from the recent nursing of that lately-weaned litter. All these unearthly-looking carcasses were naked. The frightful stench still prevailed, still poured out through the open doorway. Heaps and mounds of nauseous offal cluttered the place.

It was young Jed who grasped first and most firmly my suggestion that these horrors be buried out of sight, that a curtain of silence should be drawn down tight by the four of us, fastened permanently against any utterance of the dreadful things we had seen that night. It was young Jed who organized the three into a digging party, who fetched the grave tools from the unfastened cemetery shed.

We worked in a complete silence, as fast as we could. It was not until we were hastily throwing back the loose earth over what we had placed in the sizable pit we had made that the sound of a car's engine, coming up the hill, caused our first pause. We listened.

'It's Doctor Merritt's car,' I said, somewhat relieved. I looked at my wrist-watch. It was a quarter past midnight.

To the four of us, leaning there on our spades, Doctor Merritt repeated something of the history of the Persian tombs, a little of what he had come to know of those mysterious, semi-mythical dwellers among the half-forgotten crypts of ancient burial-grounds, eaters of the dead, which yet preferred the bodies of the living, furtive shapes shot down when glimpsed— in ancient, mysterious Persia...

I left my own car for the three fellows to get home in, young Jed promising to have it back in my garage later in the morning, and drove home with Doctor Merritt.

'There was another thing which I didn't take the time to tell you,' said Tom, as we slipped down the winding hill road under the pouring moonlight. 'That was that the Rustum Dadh's servants were never seen to leave Chadbourne; although, of course, it was assumed that they had done so. The family went by train. I went down to the station to see them off and I found old Rustum Dadh even less communicative than usual.

' "I suppose your man is driving your car down to New York," I said. It had arrived, six months before, when they came to Chadbourne, with both the servants in it, and the inside all piled up with the family's belongings. The old boy merely grunted unintelligibly, in a way he had.

'That afternoon, when I went up to your place to see that everything was ship-shape, there stood the car in the garage, empty. And, while I was wondering what had become of the chauffeur and his wife, and why they hadn't been sent off in the car the way they came, up drives Bartholomew Wade from his garage, and he has the car-key and a letter from Rustum Dadh with directions, and a check for ten dollars and his carfare back from New York. His instructions were to drive the car to New York and leave it there. He did so that afternoon.'

'What was the New York address?' I inquired. 'That might take some looking into, if you think— '

'I don't know what to think— about Rustum Dadh's connection with it all, Gerald,' said Tom. 'The address was merely the Cunard Line Docks. Whether Rustum Dadh and his family were— the same— there's simply no telling. There's the evidence of the live animals sent up to the house. That live meat may have been for the chauffer and his wife— seems unlikely, somehow. There was a rumor around town about some dispute or argument between the old man and his chauffeur, over their leaving all together— just a rumor, something picked up or overheard by some busybody. You can take that for what it's worth, of course. The two of 'em, desirous to break away from civilization, revert, here in Chadbourne— that, I imagine, is the probability. There are many times the number of people below ground in the three old cemeteries than going about their affairs— and other people's!— here in Chadbourne. But, whatever Rustum Dadh's connection with— what we know— whatever share of guilt rests on him— he's gone, Gerald, and we can make any one of the three or four possible guesses; but it won't get us anywhere.' Then, a little weariness showing in his voice, for Tom Merritt, too, had had a pretty strenuous evening, he added: 'I hired young Jed Peters to spend tomorrow cleaning out the old tombhouse of the ancestors!'

I cleaned my rifle before turning in that night. When I had got this job done and had taken a boiling-hot shower-bath, it was close to two o'clock a.m. before I rolled in between the sheets. I had been dreading a sleepless night with the edge of my mind, after that experience up there on the Old Cemetery Ridge. I lay in bed for a while, wakeful, going over snatches of it in my mind. Young Jed! No deterioration there at any rate. There was a fellow who would stand by you in a pinch. The old yeoman stock had not run down appreciably in young Jed.

I fell asleep at last after assuring myself all over again that I had done a thorough job up there on the hill. Ghouls! Not merely Arabian Nights creatures, like the Afreets and the Djinn. No. Real— those jaws! They shot them down, on sight, over there in Persia when they were descried coming out of their holes among the old tomb-places...

Little, reddish, half-gnawed bones, scattered about that fetid shambles— little bones that had never been torn out of the bodies of calves or lambs— little bones that had been—

I wonder if I shall ever be able to forget those little bones, those little, pitiful bones...

I awoke to the purr of an automobile engine in second speed, coming up the steep hill to my farmhouse, and it was a glorious late-summer New England morning. Young Jed Peters was arriving with my returned car.

I jumped out of bed, pulled on a bathrobe, stepped into a pair of slippers. It was seven-thirty. I went out to the garage and brought young Jed back inside with me for a cup of coffee. It started that new day propitiously to see the boy eat three fried eggs and seven pieces of breakfast bacon...

___________________

Index to Past Masters Nos 61-75

The "Author Index" to Issues 1-60 has been uploaded separately.

Achmed Abdullah

The Mystery of the Talking Idols 63

"A. E. P."

The End of Sherlock Holmes  67

Achmed Abdullah

Framed at the Benefactors' Club 73

W. L. Alden

After the Comet 67

Foote's Catorium 70

How the Fat Woman Eloped 68

A Scientific Balloon 72

Silver Plated   67

The Wild Man of Borneo 67

Mark Allerton

A Christmas Mix-Up 70

The Stanhope Scandal 70

Anonymous

The Diamond Necklace 62

The Great Auk's Egg Affair 61

Fool Proof  75

The Hat Trick 71

Jacobs and Gale, Tobacconists 70

Local Color 75

A Railway Murder 70

Retribution 74

Revenge 74

The Ruins of the Abbey of Fitz-Martin 64

The Skipper's Scheme 73

The Stamp Thief 71

The Thriller 71

A Solicitor's Story 75 (as by "S.S.")

F. Anstey

Taken By Surprise  66

Francis Henry Atkins

The Lay Figure  63

Edouard A. Aujard

The Flood 75

The Swing of Sentiment  75

Stacy Aumonier

A Source of Irritation 73

Irving Bacheller

Holy Poker 71

The Prodigal Village 71

Robert Barr

The Last Straw 72

J. M. Barrie

The Adventure of the Two Collaborators 75

My Brother Henry 72

John Arthur Barry

Baleston's Secret Reef 72

The Mystery of the "Mountain Maid"  64

Frederick R. Bechdolt

Before Michael Came  63

The Lie-Detector 73

L. Adams Beck

The Interpreter (novelette) 62

H. Bedford-Jones

The Artificial Honeymoon 66

Death Gave Him His Chance  63

J. J. Bell

The Lovely Little Dinner 70

The Price of a House  63

"Sir William"  61

E. F. Benson

Negotium Perambulans  64

The Terrace 69

J. D. Beresford

The Hidden Beast 75

Harold Bindloss

Trooper Jenkins 68

Ottwell Binns

The Britisher 73

Dixon's Romance 75

Christopher B. Booth

"Doc" Meets the Train (as by John Jay Chichester)  72

Mr Clackworthy Collects 63

Mr Clackworthy Gets His Tonic 64

Mr Clackworthy Sells Short  63

Mr Clackworthy Stakes a Friend 70

Solly's Last Forgery 64

When Mr. Clackworthy Needed a Bracer 64

Guy Boothby

By Right Of Conquest 72

B. M. Bower

The Ghost in the Red Shirt  63

Jack Boyle

The Beauty-Fountain 70

A Woman Without Fear 70

Mary Elizabeth Braddon

Good Lady Ducayne  71

Max Brand

Five Minutes to Twelve 61

Honor Bright 64

Lion Heart 61

Percy James Brebner

Cat or Devil 65

A Literary Secret  66

Scarsley Moor Mystery  66

Thomas Burke

The Bloomsbury Wonder 61

The Horrible God 62

Laughing Lillian 62

The Yellow Imps 62

Edgar Rice Burroughs

Who Murdered Mr. Thomas? 68

Ellis Parker Butler

Just Like a Cat 71

The Ninety And Nine  69

Sir Gilbert Campbell

The Mystery of the Essex Stairs 62

Scott Campbell

The Point of Contact 70

Under the Crown 70

Without Air 73

A Study in Green 73

Agnes and Egerton Castle

The Great Todescan's Secret Thrust 70

Mark Channing

Intrigue 74

Anna Alice Chapin

Through the Dragon's Valley  63

The Scales of Time 63

G.K. Chesterton

The Sword of Wood 65

Peter Cheyney

Christmas With a Punch 75

Cocktail For Cupid 65

Dance Without Music  64

Irvin S. Cobb

The Eminent Dr. Deeves 72

Faith, Hope And Charity 71

The Thirteenth Degree 72

Sylvanus Cobb, Jun.

The Bottomless Jug  64

J. J. Connington

After Death the Doctor 63

Dorothea Conyers

Meave's Ride  69

E. M. Delafield

The Luggage in the Hall  66

Charles Caldwell Dobie

The Open Window 71

Sir Geo. Douglas, Bart.

Unconscious Interloper 69

L C Douthwaite

The London Guillotine 66

Prospector 75

Richard Dowling

The Going Out of Alessandro Pozzone 62

Edward Dyson

A Golden Shanty 65

The Third Chair 65

Fred Engelhardt

Heritage of Osiris 75

George Allan England

Drops of Death  68

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Three Hours Between Planes 65

Francis Flagg

The Superman of Dr Jukes  72

Mrs. May Agnes Fleming

How The Lone Star Went Down  68

Ford Madox Ford

Riesenberg 61

Andrew Forrester Jr.

Arrested on Suspicion 61

Robert Edward Francillon

A Circumstantial Puzzle 62

R. Austin Freeman & Clifford Piers

By the Black Deep  64

Ltnt Edgar Gardiner

Up Irrawaddy Way 74

Arthur Gask

Rejuvenation 66

Strychnine for Village Dogs 62

Theophile Gautier

The Mummy's Foot 62

George Gilbert

In Maulmain Fever-Ward  63

Lady Gilbert

Aurora's Treasure  75

Charlotte Perkins Gilman

The Yellow Wallpaper  64

Why I wrote "The Yellow Wallpaper" 64

Guy Gilpatric

The Artful Mr. Glencannon 70

Crocodile Tears 68

The Glasgow Phantom 66

The Homestretch 61

The Masked Monster 72

Where Early Fa's the Dew 65

Susan Glaspell

A Jury of Her Peers 67

Frederick Graves

White Flame  62

Fred V Green

Markham's New Partner 65

A. S. Gregory

The Death Window 68

Valentine Gregory

Third Time Unlucky 71

While on Remand 71

James Norman Hall

Death on an Atoll 72

Fame For Mr. Beatty 75

Julian Hawthorne

Calbot's Rival 67

Nathaniel Hawthorne

The Great Stone Face 66

Miles Henslow

Mystery Flight 75

Kenneth Herford

An Echo of the Quarter 73

Smiley's Scoop 73

Beatrice Heron-Maxwell

The Act of God 74

The Outcast 65

Headon Hill

The "Artemis" Mystery 65

The Bank Clerk's Love Story 65

The Dining-Car Clue 65

Limping Justice 65

S. B. H. Hurst

The Ball of Fire  74

The Receipt 74

W. W. Jacobs

Captain Rogers 71

A Love Knot 70

Malcolm Jameson

The Anarch  69

Val Jameson

"Burglin' ain't the game it was" 61

Jerome K. Jerome

The Dancing Partner 74

Rudyard Kipling

The Phantom Rickshaw 73

Otis Adelbert Kline

The Dragoman's Secret 74

Stolen Centuries 65

Thomas H. Knight

The Man Who Was Dead 61

Edmund Leamy

My First Case 74

Henry Leverage

Black Light 66

The Crimp 66

Crooked Charity 67

R. C. Lehmann

The Umbrosa Burglary 67

Sinclair Lewis

The Cat of the Stars 68

Seven Million Dollars 68

The Willow Walk 61

H.P. Lovecraft

Obit: Henry St. Clair Whitehead 71

Marie Belloc Lowndes

An Unrecorded Instance 61

Richard Mace

The Emerald Beetle  62

Arthur Machen

The Shining Pyramid 71

William J. Makin

The Death Barge 73

The Planes that Never Returned 73

Julia Magruder

The Secret of the White Castle 65

Don Marquis

Accursed Hat! 70

Huan Mee

The Russian Cipher 65

J. J. Meehan

The Squirrel Motor 69

Abraham Merritt

The Woman of the Wood 72

William Henry Moberley

The Great Valdez Sapphire 63

C. S. Montanye

Old King's Coal   72

F. Frankfort Moore

Joan Dark 65

Ainsworth Morgan

Lady in Lower 11   72

Talbot Mundy

Bengal Rebellion 69

Edith M Nesbit

In the Dark 64

Man-Size in Marble  65

Number 17    61

Douglas Newton

Straight Enough 73

David Wright O'Brien

Hokum Hotel  68

Fitz-James O'Brien

The Wondersmith  64

Owen Oliver

The Awakening  74

Vincent O'Sullivan

The Business of Madame Jahn  64

Thomas Nelson Page

What was the Lady's Choice? 62

Miles  Overholt

Wrong Number 75

Sir Gilbert Parker

At the Sign of the Eagle  70

Max Pemberton

The Devil To Pay 63

The Dumb Avenger 75

G. G. Pendarves

The Black Camel  65

The Sin-Eater 74

The Withered Heart  74

Hugh Pendexter

Lyacus Whittle— Globetrotter 70

Ernest M Poate

A Person from the Police 63

To Professional Services— $100,000   70

Doctor Grimes Awaits Probate (as by Arthur Mallory)  73

Expert Testimony 74

William Le Queux

The Baron's Snapdragon 68

The Faith of Men 62

The Mystery Man 68

The Mystery of the Third Thumb 68

The Story of the Chief of Police 61

The Third Cracker 68

The Velvet Hand  68

The Woman Who Hated London 68

The Yellow Jasmine 68

Edith Rickert

The Chair That Smiled 74

Walter Ripperger

The Cardboard Clue 62

School For Murder 69

Morley Roberts

The Egregious Goat 73

Arthur Somers Roche (novelette)

In the Money 67

Anthony M Rud

The Invisible "Blinker" 73

J. Johnston Smith

Queen Of Diamonds  75

Thorne Smith

Birthday Present 66

Andrew Soutar

Bluebeard 63

D. H. Souter

Conroy 74

Charles B. Stilson

Dr. Martone's Microscope 72

The Sky Woman 67

The Soul Trap 72

Halliwell Sutcliffe

Handsome Jack  67

Miss Phyllis Brown 67

Murgatroyd's Wife  67

Emile C Tepperman

Coffin Cache 63

E. Temple Thurston

A Cameo 69

E Charles Vivian

How the Girl Came to Bentley's 62

R. A. J. Walling

A Chat With William Le Queux 68

Mrs. Rooth's "Murder" 61

The Spook of Cornelius 61

"Wanderer"

Waif of the Bush 74

Stanley G Weinbaum

The Red Peri  69

Albert Richard Wetjen

The Chief of the Loch McCree 61

Harvey Wickham

The Man With the Painted Nose 75

Fred Merrick White

Early Closing Day  64

Gentlemen of the Jury  65

The Missing Blade 75

The Purple Terror 66

Victor L. Whitechurch

The Convict's Revenge  61

How the Captain Tracked a German Spy 61

In a Tight Fix 61

Henry S. Whitehead

The Chadbourne Episode 75

The Door 71

Passing of a God 75

The Shut Room 75

The Wonderful Thing  70

Raoul Whitfield

The Great Black 65

H. C. Witwer

Money to Burns 71

Mary E Wilkins

The Shadows on the Wall  64

Edward Woodward

Clarence 75

Arthur Leo Zagat

Coward's Kill (novelette)  69

___________________

Table of Contents

1: The Man With the Painted Nose / Harvey Wickham

2: Mystery Flight / Miles Henslow

3: The Flood / Edouard A. Aujard

4: Fame For Mr. Beatty / James Norman Hall

5: The Swing of Sentiment / Edouard A. Aujard

6: Fool Proof / Anonymous

7: Prospector / L. C. Douthwaite

8: Christmas With a Punch / Peter Cheyney

9: The Missing Blade / Fred M. White

10: Local Color / Anonymous

11: The Adventure of the Two Collaborators / J. M. Barrie

12: Wrong Number / Miles  Overholt

13: A Solicitor's Story / By "S.S."

14: The Dumb Avenger / Max Pemberton

15: Queen Of Diamonds / J. Johnston Smith

16: Dixon's Romance / Ottwell Binns

17: The Hidden Beast / J. D. Beresford

18: Heritage of Osiris / Fred Engelhardt

19: The Whistling Thief

20: Clarence / Edward Woodward

21: Aurora's Treasure / Lady Gilbert

22: Passing of a God / Henry S. Whitehead

23: The Shut Room / Henry S Whitehead

24: The Chadbourne Episode / Henry S Whitehead

Cumulative Index # 61-75