Past Masters Eighty
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: The short stories in the "Past Masters" series of original anthologies are all in the Life+70 years public domain. A few stories in this long series of anthologies are entirely anonymous, and a few by authors who cannot be traced beyond their name. In this issue, the stories are from assorted magazines such as "20 Stories Magazine", "The Black Cat", "Blue Book", and the like, and from newspapers such as "Western Star and Roma Advertiser", "Kangaroo Island Courier," "The Central Queensland Herald", and the Sydney "World's News". 1: While on Remand / Valentine Gregory 2: The Great Star Ruby / Ba

PAST MASTERS

EIGHTY

1 June 2022

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: While on Remand / Valentine Gregory

2: The Great Star Ruby / Barnes MacGreggor

3: The Murder Master / Roy L. Hinds

4: Blackmail Broadcast, Unlimited / Ellis Parker Butler

5: The Prima Donna's Diamonds / Thomas Byrne

6: A Detective Adventure / Anonymous

7: Detective Tempest Faces the Music / Ward Muir

8: The Corner of John Street / Percy James Brebner

9: Her Ransom / Percy James Brebner

10: The Ghost of the Cabinet / Percy James Brebner

11: Lady Langton's Jewels / Percy James Brebner

12: In the Powder-Box / Scott Campbell

13: What He Taught Best / Roy W. Hinds

14: The Fixing of Mrs. Farwell / W. Pett Ridge

15: The Howling Of Dogs / Reginald Campbell

16: On the 6.15 / K. R. G. Browne

17: The Opium Smugglers / Carl N. Taylor

18: Chinese Murder / Anonymous

19: Jimmy Cassidy's Picture / George A. Birmingham

20: Two Women in the Case / K. R. G. Browne

Cumulative Index # 61-80

_________________

The short stories in the "Past Masters" series of original anthologies are all in the Life+70 years public domain. A few stories in this long series of anthologies are entirely anonymous, and a few by authors who cannot be traced beyond their name.  In this issue, the stories are from assorted magazines such as "20 Stories Magazine", "The Black Cat",  "Blue Book", and the like, and from newspapers such as "Western Star and Roma Advertiser", "Kangaroo Island Courier," "The Central Queensland Herald",  and the Sydney "World's News".

_____________

1: While on Remand

Valentine Gregory

20 Stories Magazine, Feb 1935

Probably a pseudonym. Stories by this author were published almost entirely in the 1930s. Nothing else is known.

"SO, knowing my sister to be absolutely incapable of the crime with which she's charged, I've come to you, Professor, in the hope that you'll help me to clear her."

The speaker, a refined and intellectual- looking man of between thirty-five and forty, bent forward in his chair and regarded the scientist with anxious, earnest eyes.

Professor Harkness leaned back and puffed furiously at his pipe.

"At the risk of hurting your feelings, Mr. Chatteris," he said, gravely, "I must say that the evidence, so far as it's been disclosed, weighs heavily against your unfortunate sister.

"I say unfortunate," he went on, "because your belief in her innocence— based, as you say, on your knowledge of her character— inclines me to the same opinion.

"Otherwise, I tell you candidly, I would not stir a finger to save her from what, on the face of it, would appear to be well-deserved punishment.

"The evidence— circumstantial, I grant you— points to her as having been a callous and calculating murderess."

The professor's caller moved impatiently.

"That's exactly the point," he said. "She's either entirely innocent, or else, as you say, she's a callous, calculating murderess.

"Well, I've known Myra since the day when she was born, and would stake my existence that she's no more capable of murder than— than your pipe is."

Immediately Rawlings had left the study, the professor turned again to his visitor.

"Suppose we go over the ground again— briefly," he said. "I want to make sure I've got the salient facts clear in my mind. Correct me if I go wrong, won't you?"

Chatteris nodded eagerly.

"Ten years ago," began Harkness, "your sister Myra married Jasper Stone, an outside broker with an office in Eagle Court, off Moorgate Street, in the City.

"Although there were no children of the marriage, they appeared to you to live reasonably happily together at their home in Golders Green, until about two years ago, when you noticed that your sister showed signs of nervous strain."

"I think it was nearer eighteen months than two years," interposed Chatteris.

"Very well," said the professor. "Exercising your right as her only brother and, I believe you said, her sole surviving near relation, you asked her whether anything was wrong. "After some hesitation, she admitted that she was concerned about her husband. Their relations, it appeared, were not what they formerly had been.

"They had had no quarrel, and he kept her well provided with money; but his manner had changed. He had become cold and indifferent, and spent less time at home than he had been used to do."

"My sister did not complain of her treatment until the Sunday following," interposed Chatteris, "when she merely said she wondered what sort of work it could be that kept an outside broker at his office night after night until the small hours.

"Jasper instantly flew into a violent rage. He stormed, and asked her what it was she dared to insinuate. He said that he expected the next thing she would do would be to spy upon him; but that, if she did. it would be the worse for her.

"As a matter of fact, he displayed so much passion that it strengthened her half-formed suspicions, and she flatly taxed him with being interested in another woman."

"That, I believe," interposed Harkness, "he as flatly denied."

"Not only that," confirmed Chatteris, "but his whole manner changed. He apologised for having lost his temper put it down to frayed nerves due to overwork.

"In short, there was a sort of reconciliation; and during the following week he showed my sister more attention than he had given her for months past.

"Twice he took her to the theatre, and passed the other evenings at home. He invited me round on the Friday evening, and I was relieved to find my sister looking more herself, and to notice that their relations appeared to be perfectly friendly if not exactly affectionate."

"And that was the last time you saw your sister prior to the commission of the crime?"

"Yes. The next time I saw poor Myra she was in custody, charged with the murder of her husband's typist at his office in the City."

"A little more whisky?" suggested Harkness, in an attempt to check his visitor's emotion, which threatened to escape control.

Chatteris waved the offer aside and furtively dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief.

"Anyhow," said the professor briskly,"what you've told me very usefully supplements the bald reports in the newspapers, and enables one to approach the crime with a clearer understanding of the circumstances that may have led up to it.

"Now, suppose you give me, once more, your account of what you assume to have happened on the Monday evening."

"I can only repeat what was told me by my sister, whom, you understand, I believe implicitly."

Harkness nodded. "Go on," he said.

"At about six o'clock that evening — the night of the crime— my sister received a telegram. It was signed 'Jasper,' and was to the effect that she was to call for him at his office at seven-thirty sharp, as he had tickets for a show.

"She was pleasantly surprised. The wire was a striking contrast to those she had been more accustomed to receive from her husband.

"Allowing herself ample time, so as to assure punctuality, she travelled by tube to the Bank, and walked from there to Eagle Court.

"She knew the way quite well having visited the office on two or three previous occasions— and turned out of Moorgate Street into Eagle Court just as the City clocks were beginning to chime the half-hour.

"Stone's offices occupy the whole of the first floor of a small, old-ashioned, three-story building that stands about midway up the narrow court.

"It was dark by this time, of course; and in the court especially so. A single street lamp shone dimly at the far end, where she could just discern a shadowy archway that leads. I believe, to a series of similar courts and alleys, with which the hinterland of Moorgate Street appears to be honeycombed.

"A police constable passed her as she approached No. 7, and as she entered the open door of the building she chanced to glance back, and noticed the policeman's form silhouetted against the brightness of Moorgate Street.

"She had an impression that he had been looking back at her; but as she paused for an instant on the step she saw him turn away and merge in the traffic of the busier thoroughfare.

"The offices on the ground floor occupied by some financial firm— were closed and in darkness; but a single electric lamp burning at the top of the staircase afforded a dim but sufficient light.

"She ran up, crossed the landing, and approached the glass-panelled outer door of her husband's suite of offices. As she drew near, she heard the rattle of a typewriter within.

"When she entered the lobby, which is partitioned to the ceiling on all four sides, and shut the door behind her, the sounds of typing ceased suddenly, and she heard light footsteps approaching.

"The next moment, a hatch in the partition was opened, and, framed in it, appeared the face of a girl.

"Myra told me she was struck equally by the girl's unusual beauty and the startled expression in her eyes, which deepened into a look of positive terror when my sister announced herself as Mrs. Stone and asked that her husband might be informed of her arrival.

"The girl replied nervously that Mr. Stone had left some time ago; but my sister said she would wait, since he was sure to be back, having wired her to meet him there.

"On hearing this, the girl opened the door alongside the hatch, came out into the lobby, and conducted Myra through another door into the waiting room, switching the light on as she did so.

"My sister was then left alone, while the girl, judging by the sounds that followed, resumed her typewriting.

"Presently the tapping ceased, and was followed by muffled sounds of movement in the room or rooms beyond, which were succeeded by a thud.

"After that there was complete silence, save for the loud ticking of the wall clock in the waiting-room.

"Glancing upwards, to find it was by now ten minutes to eight, Myra began to feel not only impatient, but a little nervous.

"She was certain her husband had not returned, else she would have heard him and he would have come to her.

"His inexplicable delay, combined with the surprise and dismay depicted on the pretty typist's face, began to make my sister imagine all sorts of possible and impossible things.

"In short, she soon worked herself up into a highly nervous state; and when the clock started to strike eight she believes she screamed involuntarily and sprang up out of her chair.

"Once on her feet, she could not compose herself sufficiently to sit down again, and for a while she paced up and down the little room, wondering what was best for her to do.

"Finally, she began to shed tears tears of vexation and disappointment— perhaps of alarm as well. To add to her discomfort, if not to her distress, she found she had lost her pocket handkerchief.

"At last indignation mastering her other emotions, she determined to go home, and there have it out with Jasper, if— and when— he should return.

"Too angry to stop and leave a message, she hurried into the lobby, opened the outer door on to the landing, and slammed it behind her— thinking that would be sufficient notice of her departure for such of the staff as might still be on the premises.

"When, tired and with her nerves on edge, she reached home, Jasper Stone was there, awaiting her. He had got back, he said, at six forty-five, expecting dinner as usual. And he emphatically denied all knowledge of the telegram that had purported to come from him.

"A violent quarrel followed. He insinuated that she had herself arranged for the wire to be sent, to provide her with an excuse to pry about his office; she retorted that he had purposely sent her on a wild goose chase, so as to get her out of the flat for some reason best known to himself.

"The following morning he left home for the City as usual, omitting, however, to say good-bye. And at four o'clock in the afternoon detectives from Scotland Yard arrived and arrested my sister on suspicion of having wilfully murdered Sandra Wade between seven-thirty and eight o'clock the previous evening at the Eagle Court office.

"That's my sister's story, Professor; and, for my part, I believe every word of it. You will take up the case?"

"Yes," replied Harkness. "It presents features which arouse my interest. Moreover, I shall be only too happy to do all I can for your most unfortunate sister."

"Your sister has been remanded twice, so far, at the request of the police, no evidence having as yet been produced in court.

"At present she stands remanded until this day week, when it is reasonable to suppose the police will produce sufficient evidence to justify the magistrate committing her for trial."

Chatteris shuddered, and covered his eyes with his hand for a moment.

"That means we've got just a week in which to find the criminal, and thereby assure your sister's discharge instead of her threatened trial."

Five minutes later the professor was alone.

For a while he stood with his back to the fire. Then he rang for Rawlings.

"Have you any friends in the City, Rawlings?" he asked.

"No, sir," replied the man with indignant surprise. "I should rather think not, sir!"

"Then you'll make some to-morrow," Harkness informed him. "Immediately after breakfast you'll wend your way to Eagle Court, Moorgate Street, and learn all you possibly can about the tenants of No. 7, more especially the names and addresses of all the employees, male and female, of an outside broker named Jasper Stone, who has an office on the first floor. Is that quite clear?

"Now leave me. I shall be busy on the phone for a while. Don't disturb me for half an hour on any account."

The professor's first call was to Detective-Inspector Garton, at Scotland Yard.

"Is that you, Garton? Harkness speaking."

"Ha! Professor! What's this— just a friendly ring, or a cry for help?"

"A little of each, perhaps. This Eagle Court crime— what do you know about the victim?"

"You're not butting-in on that case, surely, Professor? It's cast iron, cut and dried; and no outside assistance, scientific or otherwise, is required, thank you."

"That's no reason why you shouldn't gratify my morbid curiosity, is it?" growled Harkness.

"If that's all it is— why, certainly not. Sandra Wade, age twenty-two, a good-looker, only daughter of respectable people living in North London. Was filling her second post since leaving training college.

"She'd been a bit irregular in her habits recently— getting home late at night, and spending more money on dress and beauty preparations than her salary appeared to warrant.

"In fact, she was causing her parents a bit of worry. Otherwise, she's reported to have been a sweet-natured kid, generous to a fault."

"Dear me," murmured Harkness. "A shocking fate for a young girl. And you've no doubt as to the identity of her assailant?"

"You've said it. On his own admission, her employer had been paying the girl a good deal of attention— taking her out to dinner and shows— you know the game.

"The wife gets to hear of it; probably spots them together, and then waits for an opportunity to do the kid in. Jealousy. You don't want a stronger motive than that, do you?"

"I suppose not," replied the professor. "How was she found?"

"By the first clerk to arrive in the morning. He was surprised to find the light still burning in the waiting-room, but when he opened the door of his boss' private office he had a bigger shock.

"The girl was stretched on the floor— dead. She'd been stabbed between the neck and shoulder. The weapon, by some unlucky chance, had just missed the collar bone, passed between the top ribs, and pierced the heart. It must have been a hefty blow; but a woman mad with jealousy can sometimes exert unnatural strength."

"What was the weapon?" asked Harkness.

"A long, narrow, steel-bladed paper knife that usually lay on the boss' desk. It was still sticking in the wound."

"That doesn't suggest premeditation, at any rate," interjected Harkness.

"It doesn't disprove it, either," retorted Garton. "The murderess might have thought it an improvement on the weapon she was no doubt carrying."

"Finger-prints on the handle?" questioned the professor.

"No; not a trace. But a gloved hand would account for that. And the gloved hand must have been that of the woman whose handkerchief was found between the dead girl's fingers."

"Doesn't it seem to you queer that the murderer should have left such a damning piece of evidence behind?"

"Not a bit. They always overlook something, whether it's detected or not. That's our experience at the Yard."

"And the handkerchief belonged to Mrs. Stone, eh?"

"Yes; she's admitted it, telling some cock-and-bull story about having lost it between the Bank Station, where she remembers having made use of it, and Eagle Court."

"Have you traced the sender of the telegram?" asked Harkness quietly.

"So you know something about that do you? Well, I'm afraid I can give you no further information, Professor. You must wait until the accused is brought up again, next week."

"All right," chuckled Harkness. "I won't press you. But don't be too sure that you've got hold of the right end of the stick. Remember my warning, won't you? Good night."

Harkness cut short Garton's indignant, spluttered reply by hanging up the receiver.

Then he rang up the police court where the preliminary proceedings were being conducted, and held a short but apparently satisfactory conversation with the person who replied.

NEXT MORNING, immediately after Rawlings had started off on his errand to the City, Professor Harkness made his way by taxi to the prison where Myra Stone was confined while on remand.

When the wardress had withdrawn out of earshot, Harkness spoke.

"Mrs. Stone?" he said, with a smile. "My name is Harkness— Professor Eldon Harkness. You may or may not have heard of me, but I have some sort of reputation as an amateur detective."

"I— I don't think I've heard of you, Professor Harkness," replied Mrs. Stone nervously, looking a little doubtfully at the tall, gaunt figure before her.

"I don't want to seem an alarmist, Mrs. Stone," returned Harkness gravely, "but your situation, I fear, is a little more serious then you appear to imagine."

"But," exclaimed the woman, "you can't possibly think that they might... that I'm in any danger of... Oh!" She shuddered. "How horrible!"

Harkness waited a moment, until she had recovered her composure. Then he spoke, quietly but impressively.

"Be perfectly candid with me," he said. "Had you ever seen the dead girl before the night of the murder?"

"No," was the firm reply—"not if the pretty typist I saw was the girl who was murdered. Otherwise, how should I know who it was? There may have been other girls in the office while I sat in the waiting-room, expecting my husband to appear at any moment."

"Quite so," agreed Harkness. "She did not tell you she was alone, then?"

"Certainly not. But she seemed thoroughly startled by my appearance. Why, I don't know."

"You didn't know her by name?"

"No. I was not acquainted with the names of any of my husband's staff."

"How often had you previously visited your husband's office?"

"Three times. I think."

"Had you seen the poor girl there on either of those occasions? Did you recognise her?"

"No."

"How long was it since you last were there?"

"About a month."

"And whom did you see on that occasion?"

"A youth, who showed me into the waiting-room, and a tall girl clerk, who looked in while I was sitting there, but went out again almost at once, without speaking."

"Your husband came to you that time, I suppose?"

"Yes; and we went off to dinner together."

"Were your relations with your husband at that time quite— shall I say friendly?"

Mrs. Stone looked down at her hands, as they lay in her lap, and the color slowly mounted in her cheeks.

"They were, and they were not," she answered, after an appreciable pause. "Shortly before, we had had a rather violent quarrel. He had been neglecting me, and I had accused him of running after other women."

"Had you any foundation for your charge?"

"Well— yes; a friend of mine had seen him at a restaurant one night with a young woman— one of the nights when I had been led to believe he was working late at the office."

"Did you ever identify his companion?"

"No; I made no attempt. Anyhow, we had some sort of a reconciliation which lasted until the night of the murder. When I returned home that evening and found him there, after waiting vainly for him in the office, I lost my temper, I'm afraid. So did he. We did not speak again after that.

"He left home in the morning without saying good-bye. In the afternoon, detectives came and arrested me."

"Have you seen your husband since then?"

"No. He has not taken the trouble to visit me. But he instructed solicitors to arrange for my defence, and I have had several interviews with lawyers."

"Can you imagine what has prevented his coming to see you?"

"I think so. He either believes, or is pretending to believe, me guilty." An expression of hot indignation burned in the wife's eyes as she spoke.

Harkness glanced at her sympathetically. Then he stood up.

"Well, Mrs. Stone," he said warmly, "it may be some comfort for you to know that I am absolutely convinced of your innocence, and that I shall do all that lies in my power not only to clear you but also to find the criminal."

Tears sprang to the woman's eyes as she rose and took the professor's out- stretched hand.

"Thank you, Professor Harkness. You've already made me feel very much less wretched..."

IT WAS on the stroke of four o'clock when Rawlings made his appearance in the study, after knocking timorously at the door.

"I've been to the City, sir," he began.

"I arrived in the vicinity of Eagle Court about half an hour before the houses opened, sir, so decided first of all to reconnoitre No. 7.

"On the off-chance of there being one, I inquired at the office on the ground floor for the housekeeper, and was informed that I should probably find him at the top of the house.

"I accordingly went up, noting Jasper Stone's office on my way, and found
the party I was in search of reading the newspaper in a cosy little sitting room under the roof.

"Did he know, I asked, of any house-keepers' jobs going in the neighborhood, as I wanted light occupation, with a small honorarium attached, to eke out my pension?"

Harkness smiled.

"A very neat way of introducing yourself," he said approvingly.

"Quite so, sir," acknowledged the butler, with a sly, answering smile.

"I soon established friendly relations with the party— a Mr. Wright by name— and in due course invited him out to join me in a glass, it being by that time close on half-past eleven.

"From that it was easy to lead him on to a discussion of the tenants of No. 7; and when I mentioned that I'd noticed a name on the first floor that gave me the shivers, namely, Jasper Stone— a cold and cruel-sounding name, sir— he lowered his voice and become more confidential than I had hoped to find him, judging by his face.

"Jasper Stone, he said, was in his opinion no blooming good. How could you respect a bloke, he asked, who allowed murders to be committed in rooms that he occupied on a tenancy agreement?

"In fact, sir, he couldn't have been more indignant about the crime if the girl had been his own daughter.

"There'd been carryings on in that office for some time past, he said, but it hadn't been none of his business. But when it came to murdering young girl typists like pretty little Sandra Wade, he thought it was high time something was done about it.

"The other girl wasn't a patch on her for looks, he said, or anything like so pleasant spoken. He never had thought much of Miss Ritchie, he said. She'd got a bit above herself, he thought, for some reason that wasn't nothing to do with him.

"Ritchie? I says, Ritchie? I wonder if she's the Miss Ritchie what lives at... Let me see now, what is the address?

"He fell into the trap, sir, and mentioned the address as glib as you please. Here it is, sir, on this slip of paper. I wrote it down when I managed to leave him for a minute."

The professor took the paper, glanced at it and placed it on his desk.

"Good man!" he said. "Did he mention any other members of the staff?"

"Yes, sir. He mentioned the two men clerks and the office boy."

"Names and addresses?"

"Names, sir. I've got them on this other slip. But I wasn't able to get their addresses nohow, sir— not even when I'd got him off the beer and on to whisky."

"Oh, well, perhaps we can manage without," said Harkness cheerfully. "Did he give you any details about the carryings on you mentioned just now?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes, sir. He hinted that for months before little Miss Wade joined the staff— which was only a few weeks ago— Mr. Stone used to keep Miss Ritchie late at the office several nights a week, and that he'd seen them leave together as late as nine or ten o'clock. Then they'd get into a taxi in Moorgate Street and drive off together, heading westward.

"However, after Miss Wade came, all that stopped, but in a week or so he began to keep her late, instead of the other.

"And I think that's about all, sir," concluded Rawlings, rising rather reluctantly to his feet.

"You've done very well— very well indeed," approved his employer. "I dare say you've guessed why I wanted the information?"

"Well, sir, I did venture to presume you was interesting yourself in the murder, sir. It seems quite in your line, if I may say so, sir."

Harkness laughed, and Rawlings left the room.

In less than five minutes he was back again.

"Detective-Inspector Garton has called, sir," he announced.

Harkness chuckled. "Show him in," he ordered.

"Look here, Professor," cried the detective, pushing past the servant, "I've just heard about your visit to Mrs. Stone this morning. I suppose you pulled some strings. But what's the idea?"

"Sit down, Garton. You're a little over-excited, I'm afraid. That's bad, for a man of your age and habit."

"Never mind my age, and my habits. I'm not excited— I'm a bit sore. You're butting in on this case, and I want to know why."

"In the interests of justice," retorted Harkness. "I'm very much afraid you've got the wrong person under suspicion."

"Fiddlesticks!" exploded Garton. "The woman Stone done it, and we've got her where we want her."

"If you're so sure, why have you come to me?" demanded Harkness sharply.

The detective glared back at his questioner in silence for a moment. Then he shifted his eyes unsteadily.

"We've got a cast-iron case," he said, a little less confidently. "But you mentioned something over the phone yesterday about the telegram, and— and— well. I'd like to know what you know about it?"

"Your case is that Mrs. Stone despatched it herself— isn't that so?"

"Exactly."

"Can you prove it?''

"Only by inference, perhaps— as you may say."

"In other words, it's the weak link Ii your chain of evidence," suggested Harkness.

"Well, perhaps it ls." agreed the detective reluctantly "But it's a link all the same."

"We'll see." retorted the professor. "I'm not so sure that it is— so far as Mrs. Stone is concerned. At what time was the wire handed in?"

"At five minutes past five."

"Where does Mrs. Stone say she was at that time?"

"At home— in her flat. But she can prove it."

"How's that?' tasked Harkness, looking a little disquieted for the first time.

"Well, you see, she'd given the maid the afternoon and evening off. And although she swears she was alone in the flat from three oclock until she left to go down to the City to meet her husband— which was about six-thirty— we've only got her word for it."

"Could she have handed in the wire at five past five and got home in time to receive it herself?"

"Sure! We've worked it out. And what's more, Professor," cried Garton triumphantly, "the messenger who delivered it says she'd got her outdoor things on when she opened the door to him!"

'That proves nothing," snapped Harkness. "She might have been on the point of going out."

"Oh, yes?" sneered the detective "That's just how she explained it. But If you ask me, she'd just got back from the City, and hadn't had time to take her hat and coat off."

"But does all this matter, if you've identified her handwriting on the telegram form?"

Garton looked nonplussed for an instant. Then he resumed his blustering air.

"Ah," he said; "she was too artful to write in her ordinary hand. She used printed characters."

Harkness laughed.

"It's perfectly clear," he said, "that you haven't the foggiest notion who sent that telegram; so, to fit in with your theory, you're trying your damnedest to fix it on to Mrs. Stone. How do you know that Stone himself didn't send it?"

Garton stiffened in his chair, and looked at the professor with distended eyes

"But— but the post office clerk says it was handed in by a woman." he protested.

"Pshaw!" ejaculated Harkness. "How could she be sure? In the rush hour, mind you when the counter was probably crowded.

"A form, with a shilling lying on it, or, perhaps, with the stamps already affixed, is pushed under the grille". Who is to say with absolute certainty whether a man or a woman pushed it under?"

"Yes," broke in Garton excitedly: "but if Stone himself sent it, it might suggest that he did so to throw suspicion on his wife meaning to commit the murder himself! By gosh!"

"As their maid was out— and he probably knew it— it was a simple matter for him to get into the flat unnoticed."

"But," the detective objected weakly "would he have had time to get back home first?"

"Why not?" retorted Harkness. "If as you assert, Mrs. Stone was able to send a wire to herself from Moorgate Street, and then get home in time to receive it, why shouldn't Stone have had time to kill the girl and get back to the flat before his wife, who probably remained in the office ten or fifteen minutes after the crime had been committed?"

Garton brought his hand down heavily on his knee.

"Bosh!" he shouted. "You're right Professor! There's as much evidence against him as there is against her, when you come to look at it. And," he added more quietly, "perhaps there's as strong a motive."

"What do you know about that?" questioned Harkness quickly.

"Well, you see, there was an autopsy on the poor kid, of course, and— well— you know. Things were like that."

The professor's face worked painfully for a moment.

"In that case," he said presently, "I could almost wish he were the guilty party."

"What do you mean?" demanded Garton. "Don't you think he did it, then, after all? Why, I thought you were proving it against him."

"Not at all. I was merely suggesting that, up to a point, there's as much evidence against him as against his wife— and you've shown that he might have had an even stronger motive than the woman's."

"Well, something's got to be done about it," said the detective uneasily. "As you say, it might very well have been him. I don't mind admitting it. As a matter of fact, it's more likely to have been him, when you come to look at it.

"He'd got himself in a mess with the typist, and he'd quarrelled with his wife. He wanted to get rid of both; so he worked out a way of killing two birds, as you may say, with one stone.

"Now I tumble why he hasn't been to see his wife while she's been on remand. He hasn't got the face! What a rotter!"

"D'ont go so fast, Garton," advised Harkness. "And, for your reputation's sake, don't think of releasing the wife and arresting the husband in her place; for, in my opinion, neither of them is guilty."

"What's that?" shouted Garton, starting up out of his chair "Neither of them? I don't want to be rude, Professor, but you are quite sure you know what you're talking about?"

Harkness looked sternly at the detective.

"I'll overlook your rudeness— on this occasion," he said, "because I can imagine the state of your mind. Now you'd better go. I dare say you've got some hard thinking to do."

Garton rose, and stood in obvious unease before the professor.

"I'm sorry," he said hoarsely. Then he turned to go. When he reached the study door, he paused and looked back. Harkness, who was seated calmly at his desk, glanced up.

"If you care to be here at three sharp to-morrow afternoon," he said, "I shall have no objection to your making one of an interesting little party."

Garton's face brightened and he grinned broadly.

"Three o'clock will be O.K. by me, Professor," he said emphatically. The next moment Harkness was alone.

AT FIVE O'CLOCK the professor left his flat, taxied to the City, and made his way to No. 7. Eagle Court.

Climbing the stairs to the first floor, he stood for a moment or two, surveying the plan of the landing.

Facing him was an opaque glass panelled door inscribed with the name of Jasper Stone, under which appeared the word "Inquiries."

A short passage led off to the left, ending in a similar door, on which the name was repeated, with the addition of the word "Private."

The professor strode forward, opened the door facing him, and stepped inside. He at once recognised the lobby described by Chatteris.

Facing him was the closed hatch, and beside it the door through which the murdered girl had passed to conduct Mrs. Stone into the waiting room, the door of which appeared on Harkness' right.

Immediately facing this, on his left, was a third door, which, he imagined, led to the private room at the end of the passage.

The professor tapped on the partition, and without delay the hatch was
opened, disclosing the face of a youth, who looked inquiringly at the caller.

"Is Mr. Stone in?" asked the professor.

"I'll see, sir. What name, sir?"

"Here is my card."

"Will you take a seat in the waiting room, sir? Through that door, if you please, sir."

Harkness nodded, and stepped into the room indicated. A swift glance showed him that it was provided with only the one door. Its solitary window looked out on to a narrow, grimy courtyard

He had barely seated himself when the youth reappeared.

"This way, if you please, sir."

Harkness followed his guide across the lobby and through the door he had surmised might lead to the private room; and a moment later was ushered into the presence of Mr. Jasper Stone.

The professor was not too favorably impressed by the man who rose from his desk to wave his visitor to a chair, neither was he definitely repelled.

He saw before him a dark, clean shaven, middle-aged man of stout build, carefully dressed, who looked at him from under strongly-marked eyebrows with unsmiling eyes that held an expression of anxiety, if not fear.

"Will you be seated?" he said in a deep, musical voice. "To what do I owe this pleasure. Professor Harkness? Your name seems dimly familiar to me; but at the moment I cannot—"

"You may have heard of me as a scientist interested in the unravelling of crime mysteries, Mr. Stone," broke in Harkness, closely watching the effect of his words.

Jasper Stone dropped into his chair again, a faint flush suffusing his pale face.

"Oh, yes," he said. "Of course."

Then an angry light began to burn in his sombre eyes.

"Are you here on behalf of the police?" he demanded.

"No," replied Harkness; "on behalf of Mrs. Stone, your wife."

"This is very painful, very painful indeed," said Stone, fidgeting in his chair.

"Not so painful for you as it is for your wife, Mr. Stone," said Harkness bluntly. "Do you realise the peril she is in?"

"I'm not a complete fool, I hope, Professor Harkness," returned the other angrily.

"I should imagine not," came the retort. "Neither, I fancy, are you completely callous. Will you co-operate with me to clear your wife of this baseless charge of murder?"

"Baseless? Baseless?" repeated Stone. Then he laughed bitterly. "I would that it were."

Harkness waved that aside.

"I ask you again," he said. "Will you co-operate with me?"

"I will do nothing to impede the course of justice," replied the husband savagely. 'That poor, murdered girl was only twenty-two, and one of the sweetest, most loving and trusting creatures on God's earth.

"Whoever killed her," he went on, his voice quivering—"I say, whoever killed her— deserves worse punishment than the law provides. If my own flesh and blood had done it, I would say the same."

The professor's keen eyes had watched the man narrowly as he made his declaration.

"Mr. Stone," he said suddenly, "are you aware that there's no more evidence against your wife than there is against yourself?"

Stone sprang to his feet, glaring savagely at Harkness.

"How— how dare you!" he stammered. "What right have you to suggest such— such an absurdity?"

"I'm suggesting nothing," replied Harkness. "I'm stating a fact.

"Can you prove you did not send the telegram to your wife? Can you prove you were not lurking in this office when she arrived, and that you did not kill Sandra Wade while your wife was in the waiting-room, expecting your return; and that you did not slip out of that door"— here Harkness pointed—"to get home to your flat before her?"

Stone sank back in the chair and stared at Harkness stupidly, saying nothing.

"Can you prove," went on the scientist, "that you had not planned to throw suspicion on your wife— who, perhaps, had become inconvenient to you?

"Can you prove these things, I say? Can you account for your whereabouts in every detail during those critical hours and moments any better than your wife can?"

Stone moistened his lips, and made an effort to speak.

"It— it's unthinkable," he stammered. "I— I loved that girl. Don't you understand? How could I kill her? My wife had a motive. She must have got to know— somehow. She was jealous."

"Some people might say that you had an even stronger motive," retorted Harkness sternly. "An autopsy was performed on the body. Do you know what it revealed? Can you imagine?"

"Oh, my God!" gasped Stone, gripping the arms of his chair until his knuckles were bloodless. "Not that! Don't tell me that!"

Harkness watched the agony depicted on the man's face with something akin to pity in his own.

"It's neither my business nor my purpose to increase your distress," he said, after a moment.

"I simply want to show you how easily suspicion might have fallen on you instead of on your wife."

Stone nodded vacantly. Then his expression changed.

"But her handkerchief was found in Sandra's hand!" he exclaimed. "That's a damning fact. That alone turns the scale against her, even though in other respects the evidence is equally strong against us both."

Harkness smiled grimly.

"Don't deceive yourself." he said. "I believe your wife's story that she lost her handkerchief.

"My theory is that she dropped it in the lobby, or on the landing, and that the murderer found it, and saw in it a means of increasing suspicion against your wife by placing it between the dead girl's fingers.

"I should have concluded that you had done so, if I'd believed you to be the criminal,'' added the scientist.

"Then you don't suspect me?" asked Stone, looking Harkness full in the face.

"No. I consider you culpable, and the indirect cause of the tragedy. But that's a matter for your conscience.

"What I'm here for is to shake your belief in your wife's guilt, and to persuade you to help me to unmask the actual murderer."

Stone was silent for a moment, apparently deep in thought. Then he gave Harkness a candid look.

"You've convinced me," he said. "After all, although my wife and I have not hit it off too well together for some time it does seem madness on my part to imagine her capable of murder. But what's to be done? I'm told she's certain to be sent for trial at the next hearing."

"Only the discovery of the real criminal will save her. Will you help?"

"Yes," replied Stone, without further hesitation. "Tell me what to do."

"Nothing to-night. But call at my flat at two-fifteen to-morrow afternoon. Then we'll have a further talk."

"I'll do that, certainly," promised Stone.

Punctually at two-fifteen the following day Rawlings announced the arrival of Mr. Jasper Stone, whom Harkness directed should be shown at once into the study.

The meeting between the two men was cool, though friendly.

When they were seated, Harkness pushed the telephone towards his visitor.

"Could you send for one of your clerical staff on some excuse?" he asked.

Stone looked surprised.

"I suppose I could," he replied. "Why?"

"Do you mind if I keep my reason to myself for the moment?" asked the professor. "It will be quite clear, later. You can trust me, you know."

"I suppose I can," replied Stone, with a smile. "But it sounds a bit mysterious."

"Amateur detectives have to be mysterious," laughed Harkness. "Otherwise, what would become of the thriller writers? Whom will you send for?"

Stone considered for a moment.

"I can't let the junior leave the office," he said at length. "Clark and Harris are very busy, too. I'm afraid it will have to be Miss Ritchie. I suppose a girl will suit your purpose just as well?"

"Oh, quite— quite. Let it be Miss Ritchie, by all means. Ask her to reach here by 3 o'clock, if you don't mind."

"Certainly," agreed Stone, dialling his number.

It seemed no time before Rawlings entered to announce the arrival of Miss Ritchie.

"Mr. Garton is here also," he added in an undertone to the professor.

"Show Miss Ritchie in, and, when I ring, Mr. Garton."

Tall, graceful, and intensely dark, Miss Ritchie entered the study with perfect self-possession.

"Ah!" said the professor, looking at the girl keenly, "so this is Miss Ritchie. Won't you please sit down?"

Frowning a little, the girl accepted a chair and cast an inquiring look at her employer.

Meanwhile, Harkness had pressed the bell, and, before any more words could be exchanged, Detective-Inspector Garton entered the study.

The professor beckoned him forward and turned to Jasper Stone.

"Let me introduce Detective-Inspector Garton, of the C.I.D.," he said. "This is Mr. Jasper Stone, Inspector. I thought you two ought to meet."

While speaking, the professor kept his eyes fixed on the girl, and saw her suddenly turn deathly pale.

"Aren't you feeling well, Miss Ritchie?" he asked, in a voice of concern.

"Yes— no. I shall be all right in a minute," murmured the girl in nervous distress.

Both Stone and Garton were looking at her in some surprise. Their regard seemed to increase her agitation.

"Don't show her too much sympathy," said Harkness suddenly, in a rasping voice.

The two men turned and gazed at him in mute astonishment.

"Shall I tell you why I wanted her here, Mr. Stone?" he went on.

"I think perhaps you'd better," replied her employer, in whose widely staring eyes comprehension was slowly beginning to dawn.

"It was so that she might tell you where she found your wife's handkerchief, which she placed between the fingers of the girl she murdered in your office— Sandra Wade."

A piercing shriek followed the professor's words, and the next instant the girl was stretched unconscious on the floor.

Stone was the first to reach the prostrate form.

Dropping to his knees, he raised her head and looked up at Harkness with something between appeal and anguish in his eyes.

"My God!" he gasped, "you don't mean to say that—"

Garton pushed him aside.

"I fancy I come in here," growled the detective, taking the girl by the shoulders and shaking her.

"There's no need for that, Garton," said Harkness sternly. "There's enough coming to her without any stupid brutality. Let Rawlings get by. He has some water."

Muttering under his breath. Garton moved aside and allowed Rawlings to administer the restorative.

Presently the girl's eyelids flickered. "She's coming to, sir," said Rawlings, in a hushed voice.

"Then get her away— at once, Garton," ordered Harkness, "before she realises she's admitted her guilt."

"YES," said Harkness, about half an hour later, when Miss Ritchie had been taken away under arrest in charge of Detective-Inspector Garton; "Jealousy was the motive— jealousy of your wife, as well as of her younger rival.

"Unfortunately, her cunning was as deep as her passion. Else she could not have conceived such a devilish plot to dispose of both her rivals at once.

"I don't affect to pose as a moralist or a puritan," he went on, "but it really would give me immense satisfaction if I had your assurance that this ghastly tragedy will have the result of bringing you and your wife together again, instead of widening the breach between you."

Jasper Stone looked up at the professor and held out his hand, which was accepted and shaken warmly.

"I'm satisfied," said the scientist.

"Only my wife can thank you sufficiently for what you've done," said Jasper Stone brokenly. "I can find no words. The horror of the whole affair, and my sense of responsibility for it, chokes me."

"Come, come!" cried Harkness, cheerfully. "Don't give way. Be thankful that your wife has been saved from a orrible and ignominious death — that her innocence has been established— while on remand."

_________________

2: The Great Star Ruby

Barnes MacGreggor

(H. D. Umbstaetter, 1851-1913)

The Black Cat, Dec 1895

H D Umbstaetter was an American author and editor, and founding editor of "The Black Cat" magazine.

IT was late in the evening of Melbourne Cup Day. In one of the dining-rooms of the Victoria Club three men sat smoking and talking earnestly together. Certainly the events of the last sixteen hours furnished ample subject for conversation. Melbourne Cup Day means to the Australian all that Derby Day does to the Englishman. It means, also, many things that even the greatest sporting event of the English year cannot mean to the inhabitants of the compact little island, provided with so many other facilities for amusement and intercourse. In this land of tremendous distances— where four million people occupy an area equal to that of the United States,— in this island continent of opposites— where Christmas comes in midsummer and Fourth of July in midwinter, where swans are black and birds are songless,— this is the one day when all classes and conditions assemble at one place and take their pleasures as a unit.

From Victoria and New South Wales, from North, South, and West Australia, from Queensland, even from Tasmania and the sister colony of New Zealand, separated from the continent by miles of water, visitors of all kind and degree had flocked by the thousands. When the starting flag fell that morning there were assembled about the track picturesque miners and rugged bushmen, self-made capitalists, book-makers, and millionaire wool growers, charming women and well-groomed men, to the number of almost a quarter of a million. To all of these the occasion was one anticipated and planned for during twelve months past. It was the occasion when their long pent Anglo-Saxon sporting taste— for nine out of every ten Australians are of English ancestry— intensified by the free, out-of-door life, and by the absence of the outlets furnished in a more concentrated state of civilization, found exuberant expression. To each it carried, besides, some special significance, according to his rank and occupation. To the betting man it meant that a single firm of book-makers had on deposit in the banks of Melbourne and Sydney wagers to the amount of over one hundred thousand pounds sterling; for, like the English Derby, this is a "classical" event, upon which bets are often made for the coming year the very day after the preceding race has been run. Among the women it meant triumphs of millinery, gowns that had been ordered from London and Paris many months or even a year in advance, the fashionable display of Goodwood, the Derby, and the Ascot all compressed into a single day.

Among the mine owners and wool growers it meant journeys by rail, boat, or private coach, extending over hundreds, sometimes thousands of miles, and lasting for days and weeks, even months. Australia has well been called "The Land of the Golden Fleece." Its flocks of sheep are the largest, its gold mines and coal mines the richest in the world. Its flocks are counted not merely by hundreds or thousands, but by hundreds of thousands; and a single sheep station often extends over a hundred thousand acres. But with this immensity of interests there is linked the familiar loneliness of grandeur. The greater a country gentleman's possessions, the farther he is removed from society, until the largest proprietors are often separated by forty or fifty miles from their nearest neighbors. For this solitude the one outlet is the journey to Melbourne for the annual cup races.

Upon this particular day the fashionable parade had eclipsed in size and splendor that of any previous year. In addition to the races, there had been the notable first night of the Grand Opera House, opened now for the first time to the public; and the day had culminated in an evening of such brilliancy and distinction that the three men who sat talking at the Victoria Club found superlatives too weak to express their enthusiasm.

"Rather than miss this day, I would have lost five years of my life," said one of the group. Then, turning to beckon the waiter, in order that he might emphasize his words by some refreshment, he observed a guest of the club— evidently a stranger— sitting alone at an adjoining table. With the exuberant new-world hospitality of a man who had evidently not been a loser in the day's exchange of wealth, he stretched out a welcoming hand, with, "Stranger, won't you join us?"

Without waiting for further formality, the solitary man strode up to the group and seated himself at their table.

"Gentlemen," he began, "I couldn't help overhearing what you said. I, too, would have given a good deal to have been a spectator. In fact, I had been looking forward to this event for a whole year, and, as luck would have it, missed it by the delay of an hour. If the steamer from Calcutta had reached Sydney half an hour before sundown yesterday, instead of half an hour after, I should have been in Melbourne early this morning, instead of late to-night. As it is, I arrived only ten minutes ago, and, having a card to your club from the Wanderer's in London, I came here to take the edge off my disappointment. The next best thing to being on the scene of action is to hear about it from an eye-witness. So I depend upon you to give me an account of the affair. At any rate, I only hope the races aren't finished."

"Oh, of course there will be more races," said the spokesman of the party; "but such a sight as the opening of the Opera House Melbourne isn't likely to see again. There were stars, of course, but no one noticed what was going on on the stage, you understand; the real show was in the house, which was simply packed. Such women! Such stunning gowns! And the jewels— why, it looked as though half the kingdoms of Europe had lent their crown jewels for the occasion.

"In all that gorgeousness it was mighty hard to pick out the handsomest face or the finest ornaments. But of course there was one woman here, just as there is everywhere, who carried off the palm. It wasn't only that she was beautiful, though in her dark, stately fashion she was far and away the handsomest woman present; and it wasn't only that she sat where she did in the front of the stage box, with her solitary escort in the background, when every other box in the theater was crammed; but upon the bodice of her gown— it was a gorgeous gold and white brocaded and lace-trimmed affair, so I heard it whispered among the women— she wore the most striking and gorgeous ornament in the entire audience. This was a jockey-cap made entirely of precious stones; the peak was a solid mass of diamonds, the band a row of sapphires, while the crown consisted of an enormous ruby. 'Twas rather showy, of course, but so appropriate for this particular race night that no woman could have resisted wearing it. Of course it stood out wonderfully— it was as big as a half-crown piece, you understand,— and it wasn't long before every glass in the house was fixed upon that pin and the beautiful woman that wore it.

"I turned my glass on it with the rest," he added, laughing, "and that's how I got such a good photograph of it."

"Speaking of precious stones," said the stranger, who so far had listened without comment, "reminds me of a fifty-thousand-pound ruby that once involved a daring young Englishman in a series of strange adventures."

"Give us the adventures," said the spokesman of the party, scenting at once a stirring tale that would make a fitting wind-up to the day's varied excitements. "A jewel always serves as a magnet for romance, especially if the jewel is a fifty-thousand-pound ruby."

"To begin with," said the strange man, apparently unmoved by his host's last remarks, "you must understand that, while there are millions of rubies mined every year, a really first-class stone is one of the rarest as well as the most valuable gems in the world. In Ceylon, where some of the largest ruby mines in the world are located, the Moormen, who have a monopoly of the gem trade, often bring down from the north country bullock cartloads of uncut rubies, but probably in handling ten million gems not one will be found of the desired fineness and of flawless purity and luster. These Moormen are the shrewdest, with a few exceptions the most unscrupulous, and always the most wonderful judges of gems in the world, and they are without exception rich. They have parceled out the gem-fields in the Tamil districts, and the natives whom they hire to hunt gems along the river bottoms, where the finest are found, are subjected to the most rigid scrutiny and daily search; for, though the diggers are always naked, they often attempt to conceal gems in their ears, nostrils, armpits, or elsewhere, with the end in view of disposing of them to rival Moormen. For, though these Moormen are openly fair dealers among themselves, they cannot resist buying gems smuggled from their neighbors' fields. Consequently, a complete detective service is attached to each one of these diggings, and woe to the Tamil who is caught attempting to smuggle gems across the lines! He simply disappears, that's all. No one is ever called to account, and the awful secrecy of his captors and the mystery surrounding his end appal his fellows, keeping them in a subjection that is all but slavery, and in some respects infinitely worse.

"But these Tamil diggers are very wise, and they know when they happen upon a grand uncut gem. Perhaps they will bury it again and spend a whole year maneuvering to get the jewel over the lines to the rival buyers, finally giving it up, and turning it over to the owners of the fields. As the really fine ones are rarely larger than a hazelnut, and each is worth from twenty to one hundred times as much as a diamond of the same size, it is worth the digger's while to make a lifelong study of the relative values, and then profit thereby.

"Now, this young Englishman had a curious hobby. For years he had desired to possess one of these almost priceless rubies, and it was partly with the hope of obtaining one that he visited Ceylon, where he had left orders with the Moormen gem dealers to reserve for him the finest and largest stone that could be found.

"Meantime he headed an exploring party, whose way lay through the jungles about a hundred miles north of Kandy, toward the ancient Buddhist city Anarajapoora, the throne of the famous King Tissa, the shrine of the oldest tree in the world,— the sacred Bo. It was a long and tedious march. The travelers usually halted at mid-morning, slept till the shadows cooled the [Pg 6]air a little, then resumed the journey as far into the night as possible, sometimes continuing till the next mid-morning, when the sun's heat again brought them to a standstill. On this particular daybreak they had halted beside a swift stream, doubtful at which point to attempt to ford it. The leader had sent men both up and down the stream to search for a suitable spot, and wandered along its banks, more occupied with the glories of the tropic sunrise, the sparkle of the dew on the giant spider-threads stretched from limb to limb, the stir of rare birds and animals with which the jungle was more than alive, than with the problem of fording the stream. Upon reaching an inviting nook, he sat down to roll a cigarette, first taking care to search for any jungle enemies in ambush which might make him legitimate prey. Suddenly he heard a great crashing of branches in the thicket on the opposite side of the river. Then, like a flash of lightning, a naked Tamil, red with blood, a look of desperation and hopeless despair on his face, plunged out of the avalanche of green beyond, and, leaping headlong into the water, struck out across the stream. The traveler had risen to his feet, and stood watching amazedly the course of the swimmer, which was aimless, like that of a desperate man wandering through a totally unfamiliar country. His head was shaven closely, though the natives usually wear their hair long. He swam with great effort. Indeed, the watcher on the bank saw that it was ten to one against the swimmer's success, and instinctively his heart went out in pity. The unfortunate wretch was now being carried rapidly down stream and toward the man on the bank, who could see the straining of every fiber in the Tamil's body, even the look of despair in his bloodshot eyes. Suddenly, just as success seemed assured, the swimmer threw up his hands, uttered a strange moan, and went down. The man on the bank rushed down the stream, stopped at a point where a huge banyan tree spread its branches far over the swollen waters, and climbed out on a thick limb. A moment later he saw the body of the Tamil rise almost directly beneath him. Clinging with one hand to the tree, he lowered himself over the treacherous torrent, and with a mighty effort seized the drowning man by the ankle and so dragged him to the shore.

"Back into ambush he half carried the poor wreck, and, laying him on the sod, began the task of reviving him. In less than ten minutes the Tamil opened his eyes, discharged a gallon of water, then gasped, struggled up into a half-sitting posture, and looked about him. When he saw the Englishman bending over him, and comprehended, he uttered the most pitiful wails of gratitude imaginable, groveling in the dust, kissing his preserver's feet. The water had washed the blood from him, but he was a mass of wounds, scars, bruises, lash marks, and bullet cuts. How he ever managed to go as far as he must have gone, leaving a trail of blood behind him, was a mystery. But what specially attracted the Englishman's attention was a blood-stained bandage around the fugitive's leg, midway between the knee and thigh, which was the only rag on the poor fellow's body. He was about to question him, by signs and syllables, for his knowledge of the Tamil patois was very limited, when he heard another great crashing of the thicket across the stream, accompanied by the sound of voices. Instantly, there flashed across the poor creature's face a look of unspeakable terror, as he panted out in hoarse gutturals, 'Sa-ya-ta! Sa-ya-ta!' an appeal for salvation which would have moved a heart of stone. Motioning to him to remain quiet— an unnecessary precaution, since he was scarcely able to lift his head from the marshy ground— his preserver gave him brandy; then, by a circuitous route, ran up stream, coming out directly opposite four mounted Moormen who were ranting up and down the shore.

"Upon his appearance, the horsemen approached, and asked if he had seen any one go by. They were on the track, they explained, of a Tamil gem-digger, who was smuggling a ruby worth fifty thousand pounds over the lines of the Bakook-Khan gem-fields, and with the owner of the fields had chased him sixty miles. The man could be recognized, they said, because his head was shaven, and he was quite naked, except for a bandage tied around one leg, in which he had cut a hole and buried the ruby.

"To all of this the Englishman answered that he had seen such a man leap from the jungle and plunge into the river only a few moments ago, adding that they would better wait until the flood went down before searching the river bottom, as it would be impossible to find even an elephant in that muddy water. At this the Moormen set up a howl of rage, and, after an angry consultation, passed on down the stream, scanning the river bank. The traveler was about to return to the Tamil, realizing the man's immediate danger, when another crowd burst through the jungle opposite, and at the sight of the Englishman approached him with much the same story as had the first, except that, according to their tale, the gem-digger had been smuggling from the Sabat-Keel fields. To them he made the same reply, adding that another party had just been there from the Bakook-Khan fields, making a similar claim. At this the spokesman set up a terrific wail, denouncing them as rogues, thieves, impostors, and heaven knows what not. But just in the midst of his tirade he was cut short by the approach of still another band of claimants, and immediately the three groups of angry Moormen were in the midst of a wrangle over the ownership of the disputed gem.

"In their absorption the Englishman saw his chance to escape. With an occasional glance backward to make sure that he was not observed, he made his way stealthily to that spot in the ambush where he had left the wounded Tamil.

"The man was gone!

"For a moment his rescuer stood nonplussed. Then, as he looked first one way and then the other, his eye caught the gleam, a few yards away, of the silver top of the brandy flask that he had left with his patient by way of a comforter. As he stooped to recover it, he detected a fresh blood stain on the grass, and farther on still another. Evidently the Tamil, overcome by his fear of capture, had attempted flight,— an undertaking that in his enfeebled state meant certain and early death. Without stopping to consider the danger of following his ill-fated protégé alone into the unknown depths of the jungle, the Englishman started in pursuit. Before he had gone five steps, however, he realized his peril. Beyond him, creeping along on all fours, he saw the blood-stained fugitive, moving, unconscious of his peril, into the very jaws of a huge tiger, crouched ready to spring upon his prey."

"And the Tamil was killed?" cried the party.

"No," said the stranger; "the Tamil was saved from this horrible death, though only after his rescuer had passed through a hand-to-hand struggle with the tiger, in which he was almost killed. As it was, he lost the use of his right arm for the rest of his life. But, in spite of all that he could do, the fugitive died a few hours later, overcome by fright and fatigue."

"And the ruby?"

"The ruby, of course, fell into the hands of the Englishman, who, convinced that, owing to the multiplicity of claimants, it would be impossible ever to ascertain the stone's rightful owner, concealed it in his tobacco pouch before he was joined by his party. These, he learned when he was brought to his senses, had returned several hours ago from the other side of the river, to which they had retired, frightened by the many outcries of the mounted Moormen, and had found their leader only after a long search, which would have been hopeless except for the blood trail left by the wounded Tamil.

"For a few days after his return to their camp, wounded as he was, and weakened by his encounter with the tiger, he gave little thought to the stone that had fallen into his hands, as if from the sky. But with his earliest convalescence, his jewel mania returned, intensified by the actual possession of a ruby that it afterwards proved was, no doubt, the finest in the world. By the time that he reached Amsterdam, to which he had taken passage at his earliest opportunity, with the idea of having his treasure cut by an expert, this mania had reached such a pitch that it was only with the greatest effort that he could finally make up his mind to leave it in the hands of a jewel cutter; and from the moment that it was out of his possession he began to suspect every person that he met, the jewel cutter included, of a desire to rob him of his treasure. What gave color to his suspicions was the fact that at the shop where he left the ruby delay followed delay, and postponement succeeded postponement, the dealer putting him off each time with vague excuses and never-fulfilled promises. At length, after five weeks of these mysterious delays and excuses, almost crazed by wearing anxiety, he confided his secret to one of a firm of private detectives, a man whom he employed to watch and investigate the movements of the jewel cutter.

"On the very night of the day in which he had taken this step, the jewel was returned to him; it had proved to be a stone not only magnificent in size and color, but curiously ribbed with white rays,— that is, a star ruby, pronounced to be the finest in existence. But the reaction from his fright and anxiety, joined with the effect of his recent adventure, from which he had not yet fully recovered, cut short his joy. He was seized with brain fever, and for days lay unconscious in the room of his lodging-house, unattended except by his doctor and landlady. When he finally returned to his senses he found that the jewel was gone. At a time when his life was despaired of, the detective employed to protect his interests called at his lodging, and, thinking the man as good as dead, stole the gem, and—"

Suddenly the eyes of the listeners turned to the door behind the speaker. There was a rustle of skirts and the whispered exclamation: "There she is now."

The story teller started, flushing at the interruption, but only for an instant. Then he faced about, leaped to his feet, and, rushing forward like a maniac, tore from the breast of the mysterious beauty of the opera the glittering ornament upon which, an hour before, had been focused the attention of an entire audience.

"Here," he cried, brandishing a handful of lace and satin from which gleamed the jeweled jockey-cap, "is the stolen star ruby!— and there," pointing to a man's figure that appeared in the doorway, "is the cowardly wretch that stole it!"

It was not until then that his companions observed that the stranger's right arm hung useless at his side.

___________________

3: The Murder Master

Roy L. Hinds

The Blue Book Magazine March 1933

This is the only known story by this author; nothing else is known of him

FOR a few moments silence hung like a black, dead weight between the two men. They were separated merely by the width of an ordinary library table; and it would seem that the thin little man sitting in a chair should have been afraid of the face that bent toward him. It was filled with fierce rage, and belonged to a young, powerful man.

But the little man smiled, in the dark, crooked way he had of showing his unconcern and his complete hold on the situation. It was not a pleasant smile. It lacked the wholesome element of mirth, and the visage that formed its background was much too dusky and evil. It was a curiously bizarre face, exotic, swarthy, lighted by black eyes that glowed with a cruel, sinister quality. This man was young also, but his strength was mental. His hair was straight and sleekly black, and though he was garbed with careful and fastidious concession to the styles of American civilization, it was easy to see that his origins and his system of thought were indissolubly linked with strange, faraway lands of mystery and intrigue. A dangerous man, if his purposes were dangerous, for he had the will and the intelligence to carry them out.

The table was strewn with newspaper clippings. Some were large, and topped by lurid headlines. Others were smaller, some even tiny, of a paragraph or two. All were upon the same subject, differing considerably in detail, as though the subject had taken many turns and twistings, and the range of them covered approximately a year. It was easy to see that these clippings had been the object of examination.

Arthur Seagrove stood on the other side of the table. There was a chair behind him, from which he had just risen. His hands gripped the ends of the table. He bent forward. In those few moments laden with ominous silence, sheer rage flamed on his face. Then this became mingled with a flicker of impotence, and some of the threat passed away. He relaxed his grip on the table, and a slight droop crept into his shoulders.

"I'm wondering," he said in a slow, husky voice, "whether to throw you out or call the police."

The man in the chair shrugged.

"As you wish," he said, and again smiled with unconcern. He added, speaking very careful and exact English, as a tongue acquired through diligent study by a man seeking perfection in it: "But do not forget, sir, what these newspaper articles say. I have tempted many men to call the police. Some have yielded to the temptation. One died while he was at the telephone, as you have just read. The others— well, one day, two days, three days they lived. But they died. The police could not save them. Now you, sir, are very young and very rich. I cannot believe that you want to die."

"I— I'm not going to die. I'm going to get you— you and your mob. You've got to come to the end of your rope sometime. You can't keep this thing up successfully. You've got hold of the wrong man this time!"

It was plain to see that Arthur Seagrove did not believe his own brave words. That fact would not be lost upon even a stupid man, and his visitor was far from stupid.

"I shall not interfere if you wish to go to the telephone, Mr. Seagrove. I shall sit exactly where I am."

Seagrove stared at him. He sat down and began to finger the clippings again, scowling at them. He ran the fingers of one hand through his thick brown hair. It was a very strong-looking hand. Only two years had elapsed since Arthur Seagrove's name appeared frequently in the newspapers as that of a star college athlete. But he was up against a game now in which all his college training, in classroom and on the field, seemed weak and futile.

"I don't understand how you get by with it," he said presently, impressed, bewildered. "It certainly beats me! Right here in New York! I've been reading these things in the papers from time to time for a year. I couldn't believe it, and still I did believe it. It's absurd!"

His words only emphasized his bewilderment.

"And you never thought that some day you would receive a call from us. Very strange, Mr. Seagrove—is it not?"

Seagrove looked up. The sharp, grim look had come again.

"Which one of these are you?" he demanded. "In these murder stories there are several names mentioned. Which one of the mob are you?"

"I am Heri-Moo," the visitor replied placidly, somewhat proudly, adding with a slight bow of the head: "Heri-Moo, at your service, sir."

Seagrove ignored the mocking irony of the offer. He scanned the clippings for the name of Heri-Moo, and found it in several places, prominently— even in some of the headlines.

"Heri-Moo, eh?" he remarked. "Well, you've been a pretty busy individual in the last year, Heri-Moo, with all the stealing and murdering you've been up to. Now supposing I grab you by the throat right now, and twist your neck till your tongue hangs out— slam you on the floor maybe, and call the police. Where do you suppose you might finish, eh— Heri-Moo ?"

Heri-Moo made no audible rejoinder. He merely shrugged, but the shrug was rejoinder enough. It told of his indifference to threats.

"I guess maybe you'd finish in the electric chair— eh, Heri-Moo?"

The little man shook his head.

"Possibly," he rejoined, "if you were able to perform the various feats you suggest. I do not mean, sir, to reflect upon your physical strength, nor to boast of my own. I would be helpless in your hands. I am a very small man, and I learned early in life that one so lacking in bodily strength should train his intellect, if he is to meet strong men upon equal terms. I acknowledge your superiority in one way, but must remind you of my superiority in another. I refer you to the clipping— I think you have it in your hand— about the man who died at the telephone."

THE bewildered look returned to Seagrove's face. He looked down at the clipping, and began to rumple his hair again.

"Well, you got the best of him some way," he admitted. "At the telephone— they found him on the floor."

"With no marks of violence upon him," Heri-Moo suggested.

"Yes, that's right. No marks of violence."

"And no poison was found in his body."

"Yes, that's right. That's still a mystery. How did you kill that fellow, Heri-Moo?"

"I did not have to wait until he got to the telephone," the visitor said. "I could have accomplished my purpose any moment before, just as I could with you at this moment. But I gave him a chance. I thought he might change his mind, even after he took the receiver from its hook. I gave him all the chance I could. It was only when he asked the operator to send the police that I acted."

"How?"

"Pardon me for not being more explicit."

"Do you mean to say that you can kill me as we sit here?"

"I can."

"Without shooting me, or throwing a knife at me— or something like that?"

"Very early in our conversation," Heri-Moo suggested, "I placed you more at ease by assuring you that I have no such weapon on my person. I exhibited my pockets to you."

Seagrove nodded. He remembered also that this singular individual had not once permitted him to get within arm's-reach. When the conversation opened, they were standing. If Seagrove moved closer, Heri-Moo moved away. He had been careful to keep the table between them.

The newspaper clippings, which refreshed Arthur Seagrove's mind upon the sinister plot involving fortunes in money and human life, chronicled in the papers for a year, were weighty evidence. A man alone in an apartment, even his own apartment, with Heri-Moo, would be a fool to fly into the face of that evidence. Not one of the "corsair murders," as they were called, had been solved. Not a man implicated in one of them had ever been found. Nothing had been found except the bodies of the victims—and a few days after each tragedy, a letter to the police confessing the crime, and signed: "Jitli, the Corsair of Manhattan."

THERE had been four of these murders within a year. There had been nineteen cases in which the victims paid the ransom demanded by Jitli, and thereby escaped with their lives. Nothing ever appeared in the newspapers about these latter cases until the ransom had been paid and Jitli and his crew vanished into safety.

The record was impressive. Arthur Seagrove hardly ventured to follow his impulses.

"Now I'll tell you what I'll do," Seagrove suggested. "I shall keep quiet about your visit to me— absolutely, as you warned me— if you will send this fellow Jitli here to see me."

"Jitli never makes calls," said Heri-Moo.

"You're afraid I'll get him here, and have police planted in the apartment, eh?"

"You could not do that, sir. Jitli would not enter the apartment unless you were alone in it. And you would never get out of it alive if you had arranged for help to arrive after he came."

Seagrove shook his head, and set his lips grimly. When he opened them it was to say:

"You fellows have certainly got murder down to a fine art. I believe what you say. I can't help believing it. What do you do— get on a fellow's trail and never leave it until he pays or dies?"

"We take numerous precautions, sir."

"Are all these fellows of the same tribe?"

"Tribe!" Heri-Moo rejoined, indignantly. "Ours is not a tribe, sir. We come from a very ancient civilization, and were practicing the sciences and the arts while your respected forefathers were savages. You are in error, sir."

"Well, I mean, are you all of the same race?"

"We are descendants of ancient kings, sir— as Jitli has confessed in his letters to the police, which you may read in the clippings."

"And you have mysterious ways of killing men— without violence, without leaving a trace of poison in their systems?"

"Again I refer you to the clippings, sir."

Seagrove meditated. He was quite cool. It would pay him to be so. If the astounding proposals and threats of Heri-Moo had not been backed up by the record provided in the clippings, it is likely that he would have gone to his death in his own apartment. But the modern piratical plots of Jitli had had the city talking for a year. This threat was deadly serious. Seagrove dropped the clippings he had been fussing with, and leaned forward, his elbows on the table.

"And you say that Jitli never makes calls?"

"Never. He leads a very indolent life, sir. His humble servants, of whom I am one, attend to his affairs."

"How long am I to have for a decision upon your demands?"

"Until sunset, sir."

"It is now twenty minutes past two."

"Yes sir— twenty minutes past two. The sun will set on this summer's evening at exactly thirteen minutes past seven. You have until that time."

"Supposing I'm a few minutes late?" Seagrove inquired, very much intrigued, despite the precariousness of his position, by the exact, precise plans and operations of the sinister Jitli.

"At fourteen minutes past seven," said Heri-Moo, "your life would be declared forfeit by my master— and nothing could save it. At any moment thereafter his wrath might descend."

"You don't mean to say that he'd have a fellow killed if he was a minute late in giving his decision— if he agreed to pay, and did pay!"

"He would have no other choice, sir. If he defied the fates by extending your time limit, they would take their revenge upon him."

"Yes? Well, I don't pretend to understand—"

"I shall explain, sir. It is an ancient legend among our people that any affair that may be attended with the letting of blood or the release of a soul from its habitation of flesh must be concluded, or at least the bargain closed, before sunset of the day upon which it is begun."

SEAGROVE gazed attentively at this man who talked of murder as casually and nonchalantly as he might have discussed the sale of a painting.

Seagrove watched the man's hands. They were long-fingered, and seemed to crawl about the arms of the chair like insects. He must have something in one of his pockets that could be jerked out instantly and put into action— or up one of his sleeves. He thought of some device which might spray a deadly liquid into an assailant's face. But all this was conjecture. And Heri-Moo was watching him every moment. Despite a general air of security and relaxation, there was a subtle tenseness in the man.

Seagrove continued to toy with the clippings as he cudgeled his brain for some device by which he could match cunning with cunning. But he felt painfully helpless. He did, however, manage to work one of the clippings toward the edge of the table.

"It is not necessary for me to remind you," said Heri-Moo, "that it is now twenty-five minutes past two."

"Well, yes— what of it?"

"Your bank will close at three, sir."

"You demand payment today? I thought you said that if I gave you my decision by sunset that would be sufficient."

"If your decision is favorable, you should have the money on your person, sir: fifty thousand dollars. It is quite easy for you to telephone the bank to send that amount to your apartment and that you will give the messenger a check for it. I understand that you have often made large withdrawals in that manner, from your apartment here."

"How do you know that?"

"It is true. I know, sir. You will pardon me if I go to the telephone with you, to hear what you have to say. It is important that I take a precaution against marked bills. It is important also that the bills be delivered to you while I am here, no note to be larger than a hundred dollars."

"No, I shall not do it that way. Before sunset," Seagrove promised, "I shall give you a decision one way or the other. If I decide to pay, I can get the money tomorrow—"

Heri-Moo made a significant gesture toward the clippings.

"The men who opposed my suggestions," he said, "were unfortunate, as you may read. I have told you my wishes, sir."

Seagrove had never seen a more terrible face than that which now confronted him. He had to chose—obey or fight. Four men had chosen to fight. Four men had died.

"All right," he said, and got up.

They went into the foyer, Seagrove in the lead. Heri-Moo kept out of the big man's reach. He stood idly while Seagrove telephoned the bank.

"Be very careful of the inflections of your voice," said Heri-Moo. "There must not be the slightest trace of nervousness or alarm in it. You can manage that. I can see that you are a man of courage, and can control your nerves if you wish. I say this for your protection— for if the bank should become suspicious and send some one here to investigate, I should have no choice but to escape. I should have to remove you and whomever the bank might send. Careful now— just a straight business call."

Seagrove obeyed.

BACK in the sitting-room of his suite, he wrote a check for fifty thousand dollars.

"I'm not going to pay you when the money comes," he said. "I must have time for thought. You must return for a decision."

"Very well, sir."

Heri-Moo's acquiescence to this proposal was a relief. Seagrove suggested that he would have his answer at seven o'clock; and strangely, the guest agreed readily to return to the apartment at that time. It was bewildering— the calm assurance of the man against a possibility of Seagrove's getting in touch with a friend and warning him of his predicament!

Heri-Moo examined the check, however, to see that no note had been written on it. The signature was steadily accurate. Seagrove had been warned that the conspirators had a specimen of his signature, and that Heri-Moo had studied it carefully.

Heri-Moo did not come close to take the check from him. He ordered that it be laid upon the table and that Seagrove withdraw a little. Then he picked it up. And all the while Heri-Moo kept on top of the litter of clippings the one about the man who was stricken dead at his telephone. There was a picture of the victim in that clipping. It was a constant reminder for implicit obedience.

The bank called Seagrove back on the telephone, as is customary in transactions of that sort, to verify the fact that the call for the money had really come from him and not from some crook who schemed to waylay the messenger.... The messenger came with the money.

"Of course," Heri-Moo had said just before, "even if you should trap me, do you think that would save your life? No, no! It would only insure your death, sir. Jitli would not rest until he had taken his revenge."

The messenger had gone away without having seen Heri-Moo, who, during the brief transaction, observed things from the bedroom, the door of which he kept slightly open. Seagrove had been told where to stand, so that his face would be constantly visible to Heri-Moo, with the messenger's back to the bedroom.

Neither on the telephone or during his brief business with the messenger had Arthur Seagrove given the slightest hint that he had fallen into the hands of that master of murder who had been called the Corsair of Manhattan.

"You will gather up my clippings for me, please," said Heri-Moo.

Seagrove did so— put the clippings into their envelope, all except one, which he had managed to slide beneath the table scarf.

Heri-Moo thrust the envelope into his pocket. He lingered a few minutes, to reiterate many of his warnings, and to leave various instructions.

"Remember," was one thing he said, "that every gentleman who has been approached by Jitli has paid—or died. They were shrewd, intelligent men. They tried various tricks. None succeeded. They paid— or died."

Then he departed, smiling the crooked smile that had no more of laughter in it than might be found in the grimace of a hangman.

ii

ARTHUR SEAGROVE hastened back . from the door to the living-room. His simple ruse, whether anything came of it or not, had worked. He had the one clipping of all that bunch that he wanted—one no more than half a column in length, and with a one-column head on it.

Eagerly, Seagrove studied the slip of printed paper.

On the reverse side there was part of an advertisement, with white spaces in it. In a couple of these spaces some one had drawn designs with a pencil.

These designs resembled nothing so much as crude attempts to draw a wagon-wheel ; yet as the young man studied them closely, he realized that they did not represent attempts at all. They were the careless results of a man's meditations over an outspread paper, with a pencil in his hand.

The individual who held that pencil had only a subconscious idea of what he was doing with it. His mind was upon more weighty projects. He may have been talking with some one. He may have been sitting alone, thinking. The white spaces of the advertisement lay before him. His fingers held a lead pencil. Casually, he drew a circle. Then he drew lines from one edge of the circle to the other, with the result that spokes were formed in the wheel. Then, in the very center where the straight lines crossed, he had drawn a small circle and filled it in—the hub of the wheel. Before he had finished, he had drawn at least one more of these designs. A man preoccupied. It was a slim clue—yet the hand of the Murder Master himself, the ringleader of that redoubtable band, may have held the pencil.

A very slim clue— but a man fighting for his life clutches at straws.

And Seagrove was fighting for his life. He had made up his mind to fight. He would not pay the fifty-thousand-dollar ransom demanded by the Murder Master's agent, Heri-Moo.

Seagrove rumpled his hair, and gazed into the street, in an effort to spot some individual who might be watching the house and his windows. The apartment house was in East Sixty-fourth Street, close to Central Park. Across the street there was a row of private dwellings and other apartment houses. There was no one loitering in the street. What persons were visible were on the move, and seemed paying no attention whatever to Art Seagrove's windows.

It was now half-past three.

Seagrove came to a pause at the table, and he gazed at the open parcel of bank-notes, which he had checked over as soon as Heri-Moo departed. There were one thousand bank-notes in the package, but he had not counted them individually. They were assembled in small packets, and each packet bore a paper binder on which was printed the amount it contained. There were three one-hundred-dollar bills, two hundred of fifty dollars each, and twenty-dollar bills to the number of five hundred. Fifty thousand dollars!

Heri-Moo had seen the package of money, yet he had made only a rather indifferent suggestion that it be turned over to him at once! He had not demanded it. His only demands had been that Seagrove get the money from the bank and that he decide whether or not to pay before sundown!

IT was strange indeed. Seagrove had been left alone, with his money intact. He could easily telephone for the police or to friends. He could make any number of moves within the next two or three hours to circumvent the Murder Master.

But could he? That mental question was a stiff jolt to his nerves. The fact that he had been left alone, in his own apartment, unbound, with a telephone, and able to leave the house if he wished, hinted at precautions already taken to keep help from reaching him.

And yet— four men had attempted to outwit the Murder Master. And four men had died.

Many others had met his demands, and then complained to the police. It was difficult to say how many had paid their ransoms and kept quiet about it, still terrified. Of these there would be no mention in the newspapers.

"But I won't pay," Seagrove told himself, "and I won't die. There must be some way to beat that mob! If I pay and keep still about it, it's just one more incident in the life of the Corsair, as he calls himself. If I complain to the police, the newspapers will have me down as another victim who was unwilling to fight him— afraid. The only thing to do is not to pay— fight!"

In this resolve, he forgot nothing of what he had read— the newspaper description of this arch-criminal as the most ruthless and successful rogue who had operated in America since the pirates left the Spanish Main was not an overstatement. For a solid year the Murder Master had taken his toll in wealth and life.

His method of slaying was beyond the most active imagination. The most skillful surgeons and diagnosticians in the city had performed autopsies on the bodies of the four men who had paid with their lives. They had found the cause of death, each time, but the manner in which that cause was set into motion was a dark and terrible mystery.

An embolism. That had been the verdict in all four cases. A clot, a sudden solidification of a sufficient quantity of blood in a vein to obstruct the valvular action of the heart when the clot reached that organ. In all four cases this had wrought death.

IN the first instance, when the first victim of the Corsair died thus in a subway train, the casualty had been set down as a natural death— although he had uttered a terrified yell just preceding his collapse. This was unusual in a case of embolism, for the victim of it who is stricken naturally is dead without pain or warning that any thing is wrong with him. The cry had not been explained, though later, in the light of developments, it was assumed that before he was stricken he caught sight of one of his pursuers, in that crowded subway car, but had been unable to point to or indicate in any manner the man who had frightened him.

The autopsy revealed the clot, the embolism.

This man had informed the police of the demands that had been made upon him. The police had assumed that death by a gunshot or stabbing would be attempted, if any attempt were made; and there had been a police guard in the man's office and in his home. A policeman accompanied him, in plain clothes, in his business trips about the city.

But the Murder Master had got his man— got him apparently without a direct movement against him, and so stealthily that no one in the subway car noticed an untoward action on the part of any passenger. There was no mark found upon the man's body.

When the second victim of the Corsair was found dead at his telephone, it was from embolism again, with absolutely no sign of its having come about from any but natural causes.

The third man died in the crowded lobby of a theater. He, like the first, had cried out. Again it was assumed that his horror-stricken gaze had lighted upon the man he knew would attempt to kill him, but that the slayer performed his terrible deed instantly thereafter.

Embolism again.

The medical fraternity could not solve the mystery. They could name poisons which, taken internally or by injection, would cause solidifying of the blood, the production of innumerable clots, but they could not suggest a poison that would cause merely one tiny clot to form and thereafter leave no trace of its having been swallowed or injected.

"When it is my wish to strike," said Jitli in a letter, "no man may stay my hand. Death is a servant at my command. I summon him. I direct him. I bid him lay his cold finger upon my enemies. Unseen, unheard, unfelt, he strikes—a gentle touch. Perhaps only the pointing of a finger. Who shall say? A beckoning, perhaps, seen only by the man he calls. None may deny it. None may avoid it."

The mysterious and devastating embolism developed in the veins of the fourth victim in his own home, while he was alone with Heri-Moo, whose name was often mentioned in the letters of Jitli the Murder Master. The only evidence of a struggle was an overturned chair, but Heri-Moo may have upset that in his rush out of the room after the murder. From what had gone before in respect to the other victims, it was readily believed that Heri-Moo had been able to inflict death without a fight.

Arthur Seagrove was distressingly aware of all these facts when he made his decision not to pay but to fight. But— "If I don't pay," he reflected, "they will keep in touch with me. Yes, indeed— they'll keep in touch with me!

"If I pay them," he continued reasoning, "they will simply withdraw again, and I should never get a trace of them. I'll keep them after me— but I must see to it that they don't get too close."

Arthur Seagrove was wealthy, by inheritance. He was young, and unattached in a business way. He had just returned from a trip around the world of more than a year's duration, following his graduation from a university. There were several business prospects that he was considering, connections with financial concerns, but none pressing.

He set his lips tightly together. He walked to the windows and gazed down into the street. It was four-thirty now.

The sun would set at thirteen minutes past seven. Heri-Moo had evidently con consulted an almanac. It was a precise detail calculated to impress a prospective victim.

"Any affair that may be attended with the letting of blood or the release of a soul from its habitation of flesh must be concluded, or at least the bargain closed, before sunset of the day upon which it is begun" So Heri-Moo had said.

iii

GRADUALLY there came to Seagrove, as he wandered about the apartment trying to think out an effective plan, an enthusiasm for the adventure.

Hitherto Seagrove had lived a carefree existence. He had too much money for a man of his temperament. That was how Julia Moore expressed it.

Seagrove was sure that he loved Julia Moore. He had met her during his college days, and later they were thrown together for six months in Paris and Rome, where Julia had gone with her mother. The Moores had returned to America. Seagrove had gone east, on his trip around the world.

Julia had been rather indifferent toward him since his return to New York. She liked men who did things....

Apart from the death of his father and then the death of his mother, Arthur Seagrove had faced no really serious  fact in life until Heri-Moo walked into his apartment. Abroad, whenever the New York papers reached him, he had read of Jitli and Heri-Moo and their diabolical operations. He could hardly help reading it. The papers had been full of it.

And now that he found himself opposing the Murder Master and his crew, some grim, stubborn element in his make-up came to the surface for the first time.

"At least," he mused, as he dressed carefully for the expedition he contemplated, "I've got something to do now. I've got a real job on my hands."

He was surprised that the cashier at the bank, with whom he had talked when asking that the fifty thousand dollars be sent to his apartment, and who was something of a personal friend, had not remonstrated with him. He had made several similar withdrawals, since returning to New York, but none had been for more than five thousand dollars; the cashier must have thought that Seagrove planned a furious plunge into some gambling game. Yet he had not uttered his usual words of caution.

"I suppose he's disgusted with me," was Seagrove's thought—"as Julia is. Well, I've got to see Julia before I step into this thing."

He hesitated to telephone. Yet the idea that the Murder Master and his gang had any means of listening in on his private telephone was preposterous. He did not even have to call through the apartment-house switchboard.

He had decided, however, not to make a single move until he had a carefully laid plan in mind. He had it now.

He was dressed very plainly. Into his wall safe he put his watch and jewelry. In a small leather case he put the fifty thousand dollars.

"Maybe Heri-Moo is the Murder Master, and not just one of the gang," he reflected. "Nobody has ever seen the 'Corsair.' Perhaps he's a mythical figure shoved in by Heri-Moo for effect. There are other nutty names mentioned in the papers. There may be a gang— or there may be just one man who has created the illusion of a gang. Other names appear in Jitli's letters, but it's Heri-Moo who's the most prominent."

AT length he went to his telephone and l lifted the receiver. And his call went through without difficulty.

"Julia," he said, "I've got to see you this evening."

"But I have another appointment, Arthur."

"Yes, that's what you've told me every time I've called lately. But this is important, Julia. It's probably the most important thing that ever happened to me— and I've got to tell you about it."

"What is it, Arthur?"

"Can't talk about it on the phone, but if you can see me for half an hour this evening— say at eight-thirty— well, I won't bother you again, at least for a while."

"But that is an awkward time. I was going to the theater."

"Well, I don't like to ask you to break an engagement— and wouldn't if there was any other way out of it. Something big has happened to me, Julia. If you don't see me this evening, you may never see me again."

"Are you going away?"

"Don't know. Don't know what's going to happen to me from one minute to another, and—"

"Arthur, have you had too many cocktails?"

"I swear I'm sober, Julia! Not a single one today."

"You do sound awfully sane, and serious, but I can't imagine what's happened."

"That isn't all of it, Julia. You wouldn't be able to imagine in a thousand years. Now, I can't come to your house. You'll have to meet me out somewhere, not in any crowd, or where anyone else is around. Say, in the park somewhere— and it must be after dark. Between eight-thirty and nine. It's unusual, I know, Julia— but there's a good reason for it."

There was an earnestness in his tone not to be mistaken. She made the appointment— a quarter to nine, on the walk just east of Cleopatra's Needle, in Central Park.

"And you must come alone," he insisted before she hung up.

Presently Seagrove went to his telephone again. The man he meant to call lived with his family in the basement of the apartment-house— the superintendent. Seagrove looked up his number in the directory, and got him on the wire, preferring that method to using the house phone in the hall.

He asked the superintendent to come to his apartment as quickly as he could, but indirectly.

"I'll explain it all when you get up here," he said. "I'm on the fourth floor. Ride in the elevator up to about the sixth, and then walk down to the fourth. If anyone sees you—that is, anyone you don't know—in the halls, don't come to my door until you're sure you are not observed."

"Yes sir. All right, Mr. Seagrove.

In a few minutes the superintendent entered Seagrove's apartment. Yes, he was certain that no one had seen him on any of the floors. No, he had not seen at any time any strangers loitering about who might be watching the house.

"I have a strange request to make," said Seagrove. "Is there any way I can get out of this house without being seen?"

"Well, that depends on who's watching you, and where they might be— if there is anyone watching you."

He studied the young man curiously.

"You know me well enough," Seagrove suggested, "to feel quite sure that I'm not trying to dodge the police, and that you won't get into any trouble by helping me."

"Certainly, Mr. Seagrove. I am not worrying about that."

"All right. Now, this is a private affair that I shall have to be excused from explaining. But I need your help. I've got to get out of the house in a way that no one will see me leaving it— after dark preferably. And I've got to get out of this apartment now. Could I go down to your apartment and stay there until dark?"

"Why, certainly."

And so that end of it was arranged. Carrying the case containing the fifty thousand dollars, Seagrove rode down to the basement in an elevator operated by the superintendent himself, who sent the elevator-boy on an errand.

This circumstance was a deep mystery to the superintendent and his wife, yet they asked no questions. The young man spent the time agreeably enough— and he and the superintendent framed up what Seagrove was sure was a certain device of avoiding being seen upon his departure.

SEVEN o'clock arrived. Now Heri-Moo would be at his door to keep the appointment, to get Seagrove's answer. He would slip upstairs, as he had before, while the elevator-boy, who was also the hall attendant and operated the switchboard, was busy elsewhere. Heri-Moo would ring Seagrove's doorbell....

In any event, Arthur Seagrove would be chalked down as man Number Five to suffer that mysterious death.

Seagrove watched the clock on the mantel. His own watch was in his wall safe. He wanted no expensive jewelry on his person, and had dressed in the oldest and darkest suit he had.

The minutes crept by. Ten, eleven, twelve minutes past seven. Thirteen! Sundown!

He could not change his mind now. Even if he could find Heri-Moo and hand him the fifty thousand dollars, it was too late to save his life. That was now declared forfeit.

"Any affair that may be attended with the letting of blood—"

Well, it was past sundown.

Sitting down to have dinner as a guest of the household, Seagrove drew a sigh of relief. He was pitted against the Corsair of Manhattan now, and was glad that all the waverings and uncertainties of the afternoon had been resisted.

At twenty minutes past eight the superintendent left the apartment, and sent the elevator boy out. Operating the elevator himself, he took Seagrove to the top floor. No one was in sight there. He hid Seagrove and his small leather case in a closet, then he ran the elevator back down to the first floor, and left it there. Then he walked up the long distance to the top, slowly, but he was out of breath when he got there.

The coast was clear, and he led Seagrove to the roof. Over the tops of five apartment houses they went, until they came to the one they sought. The superintendent of this building was a friend of Seagrove's conductor, and he was waiting for them. He escorted Seagrove downstairs in order that the young man might not be mistaken for a prowler.

This house was on a corner, and from it Seagrove was enabled to get into the throngs of the avenue without having shown his face in the cross-street on which his own house fronted.

Speedily, he walked away. After a block or two he got a taxicab and rode to the park gate nearest Cleopatra's Needle.

He walked into the park. Julia Moore should appear on the walk near the Needle at a quarter of nine, but she was not in sight. Seagrove wandered up and down, waiting. There were very few pedestrians abroad, though a few people sat on benches around the famous Egyptian monument at the top of the knoll.

It had never occurred to him that Julia might fail to keep the appointment. But an hour went by, with no sign of her.

Brooding on his disappointment, nervous at the approach of every pedestrian, sizing every man up as a possible emissary of the Murder Master, it was almost ten o'clock when Seagrove snapped into action. It seemed a certainty now that Julia had broken the appointment, and he walked out of the park, carrying the fortune in the little leather case.

He got into a taxicab, and gave directions to Fourteenth Street and Third Avenue. So far as he could make out, he had not been shadowed at any time. Disconsolate, he looked back frequently, studying the occupants of vehicles behind. He watched faces in the street.

At the corner where he left the taxi he stepped into a phone-booth, and called the Moore house.

The word came that Julia was not there. He asked for her mother.

"Why," she exclaimed when he explained his call to her, "she went out to keep an appointment with you, Arthur. She should be home; I thought she was with you."

"What time did she leave, Mrs. Moore?"

"She was late leaving— afraid she might miss you; five or ten minutes late, she said. It's very strange!"

"Perhaps she went on to the theater," he suggested, trying to calm the mother.

"Oh, she wouldn't do that!" Mrs. Moore insisted. "She wasn't dressed for the theater."

"Listen, Mrs. Moore—I'm sure everything is all right. Please don't worry. I shall look for her." He tried to say this encouragingly, but hadn't the faintest idea of where to begin such a hunt, except to call a few mutual friends. "I'll call you back every few minutes, until we locate her."

"Yes, do, Arthur—please! "

A number of telephone-calls failed to bring a trace of Julia. Her mother was frantically calling friends also.

Julia had vanished!

iv

BY midnight the hope in Seagrove's heart had ebbed to a low point.

He knew that the police should be notified. At twelve o'clock Mrs. Moore knew it also, yet despite her fears she had the natural aversion of a wealthy and exclusive woman to calling in the police, horrified at the thought of lurid headlines in the papers.

Over the phone Seagrove told Mrs. Moore that he was leaving to continue the search, and advised her to ask advice better than his— named an elderly lawyer and his wife, close friends of the Moores, and urged her to ask them to come to her. She said she would.

Seagrove then set about executing the plans he had in mind before the astounding disappearance of Julia Moore. He went back to the vicinity of Third Avenue and Fourteenth Street. Near by was a small hotel he had noticed several times, a quiet family hotel wherein people of moderate means made their homes. He engaged a room, paying a week in advance, and registered under an assumed name. He went up to the room, which, he was glad to observe, was clean and comfortable. There he had meant to go into hiding, and to set himself to the task of unearthing the Corsair's lair.

But what he should do now depended altogether on developments concerning Julia Moore.

He put the money-case in the closet. There was no place in the room where the money could be easily hidden, and he had no time for elaborate preparations.

He locked his door, put the key in his pocket and went again into the streets. It was nearly one o'clock. Agonizing thoughts of what might have happened to Julia stirred an inward frenzy. Had he embroiled Julia in the terrible net being woven about him by the Corsair?

Had those fiends some way of listening in on his telephone calls, and had they heard his conversation with the girl? If so, they knew of the appointment, and probably had kidnaped her. Were they following him now?

In a small restaurant he stepped into another telephone-booth and called Mrs. Moore. The lawyer, Mr. Elzivir Curts, had arrived, and Seagrove asked to speak with him.

"See here, young man," the old attorney admonished, "it's time that you tell just what you know about this."

"What do you mean, Mr. Curts?"

"It was very unusual, most unusual, sir— you asking Julia to meet you in the park, after dark. And now Julia is missing. What does this mean, young man?"

Seagrove, who knew the lawyer— he and his father had been friends— meditated a moment. He had to reveal his own plight, so that her mother and friends could act speedily in Julia's case.

"Well, Mr. Curts," he said, "I'm in a jam. I can't talk about it on the telephone, and— and I can't go up there to see you. But I will give you a hint. I'll mention a name, and you can see what I mean. It's a name that's been in the papers a lot. Listen— I mean the Corsair."

There was a dead silence on the wire. Arthur could imagine the horrified look that must have crossed the old gentleman's face.

"Do— do you mean, Arthur, that— that he has a hand in this?"

"Yes, Mr. Curts— that's exactly what I mean."

"He has been after Julia?"

"No, I don't mean that. He has been after me, since shortly after noon. I meant to go into hiding, and I think I gave him the dodge from my apartment house. I wanted to talk to Julia. You can see why I asked her to meet me in the park. I thought we could meet and have a few minutes' talk without danger— and then, I was going to do something. But we didn't meet. I was there all right, but Julia didn't appear. I'm as worried as you are— more, I can tell you! Nobody could worry any more about Julia than I am doing. I think you'd better notify the police— tell them just what I've told you."

"I'm going to do just that, Arthur," responded the lawyer after a moment. "You are in a serious predicament, I am afraid. If you are sure that they do not know your whereabouts now, I advise you to go into hiding immediately. But keep in touch with me. I shall be here until Julia is found."

"Yes sir— I'll keep in touch with you as long as I can."

"I'll communicate at once with the police commissioner, Arthur. I advise you to get a gun as quickly as you can. Avoid crowds. Watch every man that approaches you. I wish— Listen, Arthur, I have an idea! Why don't you go immediately to the Tombs, and ask to be locked up until we can run these scoundrels to earth. I'll telephone the keeper at the Tombs—"

"No, Mr. Curts," Seagrove cut in. "That might save me, but not Julia— if she is in their hands. I shall be as busy as the police, only I'm going to keep away from the police. They'll be watching for me to show up perhaps, at the home of some friend, or at headquarters, or some police station. But I'm going to fool them. I'm going it alone!"

"Well, perhaps you're right," Mr. Curts agreed. "But don't fail to let me hear from you, as often as you can."

"I won't, sir."

In the street again, Seagrove's helplessness came in upon him in a melancholy rush. There had been in his mind a certain plan, but the mystery of Julia Moore's disappearance had scattered that. He should, however, follow that plan, as much for Julia's sake as his own. He wandered about a little, thinking.

It had seemed to him that the depredations committed by the Murder Master, who called himself Jitli, the Corsair of Manhattan, and his crew could be traced into whatever quarter of the city most frequented by the Eurasian population. There was hardly a race upon earth that was not represented in cosmopolitan New York.

But Seagrove thought that he might, through bribery— and that had been the reason he brought along the fifty thousand dollars— get hold of some compatriot of Heri-Moo who would work with him; who would consent to give him at least as much of an insight as he could into his people and their habits in the city. A shrewd man with fifty thousand dollars to spend might accomplish much. And yet— who were the villain's compatriots? A mongrel, the man was, evidently, with a mixture of Mongolian and Caucasian blood.

Seagrove's chances of success were slim, certainly, but his life was now at stake, and the girl he loved was probably in the hands of the killers.

He went back to his room in the little hotel. The night clerk took him up in a wabbly elevator.

Seagrove opened the closet door, to hang up his coat and cap. He glanced into a corner of the closet, thinking of the little leather case, containing fifty thousand dollars' worth of bank-notes.

The case was gone!

v

SEAGROVE'S hope of having thrown the Corsair's agents off his trail fled at that moment.

He turned quickly, bent and peered under the bed. There was no intruder in the room. He had locked the door with the key and also pushed in a strong bolt, when he first came inside.

Some one had entered that room without breaking the lock, for he was positive of having locked the door when he went out. It was a flimsy lock, he had noticed, and operated by a key that would be easy of duplication.

He lifted the window and looked out. There was no fire-escape anywhere near his window— nothing but the flat side of the hotel, three stories down to the street, and no ledge or cornice as a foothold for a prowler. The thief had come and gone through the door.

Seagrove paced the floor. There was a possibility, even a strong probability, that the money had been stolen by some one not connected with the Corsair. Hotel prowlers, snooping from room to room, were common enough.

But it was safer to proceed upon the assumption that one of the Murder Master's men had been on his trail. A man engineering such a wholesale plot in plunder and murder as the Corsair would have at his command any number of fellows skillful in the arts of shadowing.

Seagrove was roused from the uneasy sleep into which he had at length fallen by a knocking upon his door. He sat up in bed, mystified.

There was no good reason for that knock. None of his friends were aware of his whereabouts.

Yet the knock sounded again; and now that Seagrove was fully awake, he detected in it a slow, guarded furtiveness—as though the knocker wanted only the occupant of the room to hear. He got out of bed and stepped to the door.

"Who is it?"

"Buddy," said a cautious voice close to the crack of the door, "I aint got the heart to do it."

"Do what?"

"Well, you know. Open the door. I'll be a friend o' your'n from now on. I got the stuff right here— an' you can have it back."

There was an earnest quality in the voice, an indefinable note that reassured him. He decided to take a chance— but be ready with his fists.

He opened the door, guardedly, and peeped out. A strange-looking individual confronted him— a middle-aged man, with about as tough a face as he had ever seen. His nose had been broken and healed crookedly. One ear was about twice as thick as the other. He was not a man whom anyone would associate with such an enterprise as was being conducted by the Corsair. It might be easy enough to imagine this fellow as a burglar or as a stick-up man, but never as a participant in such subtle crime as Heri-Moo committed.

But— he carried Seagrove's little leather case.

The young man opened the door wider and stepped back. As the visitor hulked into the room, Seagrove said:

"Now, keep at arm's-length away from me, if you don't want trouble. Put the case on the floor. Shut the door and stand with your back against it. Don't— come— near— me! "

The newcomer stared in amazement. His heavy jaw dropped. The friendly grin disappeared.

"Say-y-y!" he began. "What's the idee, buddy? Think I come here to put on some rough stuff? Not me! I come 'cause I played a dirty stunt on you las' night. It aint in my line, see—friskin' an A-one guy— an' I lugged the kale back, Wha'd you think— I come fer more?"

"I'm not taking any chances," Seagrove responded. "I can't afford to."

"Oh, I know, buddy. Maybe you think I'm a dick, eh— an' lugged back an empty case— but you're wrong. Wrong! The hull works is there. If that dough is A-one— an' I can't believe it yet—well, you might slip me a few hundred fer bein' so honest. Outside o' that, I don't want nothin'— not nothin'."

Seagrove continued to size him up.

"I know you're an A-one guy," the caller went on, "an' when I seen you dashin' around town— in an' out o' taxicabs, in an' out o' telephone-booths— I got you right, see. I heeled you. I knowed you'd lifted some stuff, an' was makin' it away— so thinks I, here's me, just outa stir, with about six dollars to my name, an' nothin' in sight. There's an A-one guy that's hottin' it with the swag. He might need help, says I. I'll horn in, an' see if I can't do somethin' to earn a piece o' his change. When the clerk took you up in the elevator, I moseyed in an' got your room number off the register. Thinks I, I'll call on that lad— tell him the fix I'm in, an' maybe he'll le' me do somethin' to drag down some dough. Lotsa times when I was heavy with the sugar I sweetened fellas that was broke. So I sneaked up to this room an' knocked. No answer. I knocked again, an' spoke, sayin' I was a friend. But you didn't answer. Well, I out with my slip key an' opened the door. I was des'prate then. My six bucks was gone. Flat, I was! I couldn't think straight. I guess it's 'cause I been in stir twelve years. My head's twisted. Anyhow, in I come. I grabbed that case out o' the closet, an' away I went! Down in a lodgin'-house I pinned the lock of it open— an' it looked like I'd just robbed Henry Ford. I never seen that much dough in my life! It scairt me. I'm still scairt, I guess— or I wouldn't of come back. I aint slep' a wink. If the cops ever found that dough on me, up I'd go fer life! If they couldn't prove I stole it, they'd fix it somehow to git me put away. Well— what're you lookin' at me so funny fer— uh?"

There was a strange look on the face of young Arthur Seagrove. As this man talked the mystery of the stolen fifty thousand faded away into thin air. Once again reassurance came to him that he had probably succeeded in throwing the Murder Master's men off his trail. Furthermore, if this man was what he said— and there didn't seem the slightest doubt of it— he would be a valuable help.

"Well," Seagrove said, in reply to the question, "I look funny, I suppose, because it's a surprise to have a man return fifty thousand dollars that he's grabbed and made away with."

THE man removed his hat, scratched his bullet-shaped head.

"You aint no more surprised 'n I am," he rejoined. "I guess I'm nuts! I must of been nuts or I wouldn't of took it in the first place. I'm an A-one guy myself, fella. On the square, I am!"

"I believe you are."

"I was anyhow— but I guess twelve years in stir kinda makes me loony."

He looked at the case and back at Seagrove.

"Say," he demanded, "is that real kale?"

"Sure. It's real money."

"Well, it looked good, but I couldn't believe it. I didn't even dare to change one o' them bills. They're phony, thinks I, queer. If I git nailed shovin' a queer bill, it's life fer me. Once more, an' I'm a fourth offender. That's life, buddy. Thinks I, I'll see if that young fella's still in that room. If he is, I'll hand the stuff back, an' ast him fer—"

"You don't have to beg for a thing. You're welcome to what you want. What's your name?"

"Moxey— Alfred Moxey. But nobody ever calls me Alfred— just plain Moxey. Maybe you—"

"Listen!"

The roar of an elevated train had subsided, and through the open window came the strident cry of a newsboy.

"All about the Corsair pursuin' a millionaire an' kidnapin' a society girl! Poiper here— poiper! Corsair pursues millionaire—"

The cry became unintelligible.

"Listen, Moxey— go out and get the papers for me, will you?"

"Sure thing!"

There was a sharp look in Moxey's eyes. He too had heard that boy's cry.

It was in the papers, under big headlines. The flight of Arthur Seagrove, the young millionaire, and his announcement over the telephone to Elzivir Curts, the lawyer, that he was being pursued by emissaries of Jitli, the Corsair of Manhattan. The disappearance of Julia Moore the society girl— and there, on the first page of one paper, side by side, were their pictures. It was probable that Julia Moore had been kidnaped. The stricken mother, and the city as well, waited anxiously the expected demand for ransom— or worse news.

But there was an astounding piece of news in the papers for Seagrove, something beyond what he already knew.

The Corsair had written another of his letters, special delivery, to the police department. The post office had delivered it out of hours when a clerk came across it in the mails, noticing the bold scrawl, "From the Corsair," across the top of the envelope. It had reached the department about the time of Elzivir Curts' call.

There was the letter, reproduced in every morning paper, two of them exhibiting photostatic copies. It read:

Arthur Seagrove is doomed. It has been so decreed. Nothing can save him. Wall him about with policemen, encase him in armor— and still the deadly clot will find its way to his heart. He missed the life vouchsafed him by the golden sun. He allowed it to go down in darkness without his tribute, and down into darkness he too shall go. When he topples and falls, let it be a warning to all. The Corsair must have the gold he demands!

This was the most brazen declaration ever made by the Murder Master. He had never before publicly pronounced the doom of any man, but had slain his man and then sent his letter afterward.

MOXEY was reading one paper. He finished the Corsair's letter.

"Holy smokes, young fella! You gotta do somethin'!"

"That's what I have, Moxey. Now listen: you know now who I am. I'm going to make a proposition to you—"

"Don't waste no time with propositions, young fella!" Moxey cut in. He had snapped up out of his chair. One hand clutched the paper. The other big fist was clenched so fiercely that the knuckles gleamed white. "I'm your man!" he added.

They shook hands. Seagrove realized the vital value of this partnership.

"You know the East Side well, don't you, Moxey?"

"There's only one place I know better," was the reply, "and that's Sing Sing."

"We've got to have guns, Moxey."

"Well now, Mr. Seagrove— that's a job that aint so easy, buyin' a gun if you aint got a permit. If I try anything like that—well, like I told you, I'm a fourth offender the next time a jury says guilty."

"No jury is going to say guilty. Anything you do in this case, Moxey, is a piece of police work, and—"

"I— I don't wanta do no police work. Don't call it that, young fella. It don't set well. Me an' the police never did git along, an' what I'm doin' is fer a young fella that I kinda took a likin' to when I first seen him— an' like better now, because he had the nerve to tell them dagoes he wouldn't pay! I'm helpin' you, an' not the police."

"All right, Moxey. Your prejudices don't alter the main point. Let's get busy. First we've got to have breakfast—then guns. Now you understand all about the Corsair, don't you?"

"Sure! I been readin' all that stuff in the papers fer months and months. We guys in stir been talkin' a lot about the Corsair. He aint our kind, an'—"

"Have you any ideas about him, Moxey? Any of your friends ever said he might be some one they knew?"

"No— no. I aint got no idee who he is. No more'n you have. If I did, I'd say so— but I aint."

"He's a maniac," Seagrove suggested, "some foreigner who's gone crazy, and got a gang together, for stealing and murder. The first job he did turned out all right, and he's kept it up. He must be crazy, or he wouldn't write all those letters."

"That's part o' the game, young fella. Don't you see— the killin's an' them letters got the town scairt. That's the game. You git a town scairt once, an' you can do just about like you want. The fellas he goes after now just wilt right away, an' pay. I'll bet there's a bunch of 'em that're payin' an' never mentionin' it to the police."

"That's my idea, Moxey."

"An' somehow folks git the idee that a furriner's a lot worse'n a white man when he gits started on a killin' spree. See what I mean?"

"What do you mean, Moxey?"

"Well— this Corsair guy might not be a furriner a-tall. He might be a white man, an American— just like me an' you."

"But I saw one of them, Moxey," Seagrove explained. "He called on me. He was certainly a foreigner— a Moor, he called himself, just as Jitli describes himself as a Moor. But he's apparently of mixed race—"

"Well, I don't know nuthin' about them dagoes, but I'm just sayin' that some smart white man, an American maybe—what's to keep him from gittin' a few o' them dagoes around him, an' then startin' somethin' like this? Y'u can bet he's got an idee that folks'd be scairt if they thought they was up against furriners like that."

"You may be right."

"I knowed a crook one time that didn't have nobody but Chinamen in his gang. They pulled some funny stuff— myst'ry stuff— an' the police was runnin' around in circles. They couldn't figger the Chinks like they can white men. But it was a white man that cooked up all the games the Chinks played. There was a killin' or two, an' a whole lot o' stealin'— but the white man got too cocky. He tried bigger an' bigger stuff— till he crashed."

"Your idea sounds reasonable, Moxey."

It certainly was a stroke of rare fortune that brought Alfred Moxey, crook, to Arthur Seagrove. The invaluable aid that Moxey could render was indicated from the outset.

"Now you don't want even the cops to locate you," said he. "If they git a-hold o' you, you'll hafta take orders from 'em. All right. First thing, then, is not to look like Arthur Seagrove. That's easy. Yank that cap down on the side o' yer head—look tough. Kinda keep yer mouth screwed around, an' one eye squinted. That's it. You don't look much like that picture in the paper now. Kinda drop yer shoulders when you walk, an' hang yer head. Fine! An' don't forget it."

Moxey consented to get the guns; he knew of places where guns were sold illegally. And he soon came back with two automatic pistols, and cartridges.

They concealed the fifty thousand dollars by pulling tacks out of the carpet in one corner, laying the carpet back, spreading the bills out widely and thinly, so that there would be no bulge, then replacing the carpet. Then they set out, Moxey following as a bodyguard.

It was a curious experience for Seagrove, slouching along the street like a young tough. And then they heard the newsboys again, calling their first editions of the evening papers.

"Corsair demands a million fer the life of society girl!"

vi

THE demand had been made upon Julia's mother.

It was the boldest and most extravagant coup yet engineered by the Murder Master. The ego that possesses every criminal after a series of successes, had bounded to dizzy heights.

Sundown that very day was the limit set for payment of the ransom.

"Any affair that may be attended with the letting of blood or the release of a soul from its habitation of flesh must be concluded, or at least the bargain closed, before sunset of the day upon which it is begun."

The fateful words of Heri-Moo had been repeated in the letter which bad reached Julia's mother. She was prostrated. The lawyer, Elzivir Curts, was acting for the Moores. He was in close consultation with the police commissioner. Detectives, regulars and reserves, were combing the city.

The letter of the Corsair revealed that Julia Moore never would have been disturbed if Arthur Seagrove had paid his own ransom.

In a cigar-store Seagrove went into a telephone-booth, and called the Moore house. He got Elzivir Curts.

"I've just read the news in the paper," Seagrove said. "The million they demand is guaranteed. Pay it, or make arrangements to pay it. Scour the banks, and dig up a million dollars in cash. Leave it wherever they say. I'll pay it."

"Arthur," Mr. Curts begged, "go to the police commissioner immediately. He's scouring the city for you."

"There's nothing I can tell him beyond what he already knows, Mr. Curts. I've got a good chance of keeping them off my trail if I lie low. If I run around with the police, I'll be spotted, and they'll get me as they got the others. My only chance is to keep out of their sight, and I'm starting a detective game of my own today."

He continued to resist all pleadings. "How do they expect you to pay them the million dollars?" he asked Mr. Curts. "The papers don't say."

"They haven't indicated that as yet," he was told. "All they want today is Mrs. Moore's agreement to pay it. She is to make the announcement in time for the last editions of the evening papers. If her agreement is in those papers, Julia's life will be spared. Then, I suppose. we shall hear from the Corsair again— with instructions as to how to pay."

"Well, be sure, Mr. Curts, to have that agreement in the evening papers."

"Oh, yes— we have already attended to that, on the advice of the police commissioner. That will be in the papers, though we may decide later not to pay it."

"Don't take any chances. Do everything they ask, even pay the million, if the police can't get Julia before it's time to pay. They'll kill her instantly, if they detect a trick."

"The police commissioner is handling all that "

"I'll be responsible for the million."

That was all Seagrove could do. Just one single clue he had. In his pocket reposed the clipping he had held out from Heri-Moo, the slip of paper with part of an advertisement on the back, with wheels drawn in pencil in the white spaces of it. Somehow, that seemed to be a link with the Corsair.

IN a forlorn hope Seagrove set out with Moxey. If he could find a loitering place of Heri-Moo's race, locate some spot where they gathered, a coffee-house, a tobacco-shop, or a pool-room, a start might be made. So they wandered about the East Side, in and out of places that Moxey suggested, but without revealing to anyone that they were together.

As the hours went by, the futility of this quest bore in upon Seagrove. Not one man did they see who might, from the looks of him, be said either to belong to Heri-Moo's race or to have anything in common with him. Seagrove began to realize that his only hope was to let Heri-Moo find him, and then, through Moxey, turn the tables upon the Eurasian.

The best thing to do, he decided, was to return to the neighborhood of his uptown apartment or to the vicinity of Julia Moore's home, and there loiter about until Heri-Moo or some other member of the Corsair's gang should sight him. Seagrove and Moxey would remain apart, within sight of each other. In brief Seagrove himself was to be the bait that would draw out one of the killers; and then Moxey was to get busy.

It seemed a good idea. It got better and better in Seagrove's mind as he wandered along the Bowery, on the way back to the hotel. He stopped occasionally to gaze into shop-windows and to take furtive looks at Moxey.

But on one occasion he did not see Moxey.

This disturbed him; he did not think Moxey had deliberately given him the slip. But had Moxey got a clue, had he stumbled upon some one in the street crowds, and then gone off on a mission of his own, with no time or chance to notify his employer?

Finally Seagrove returned to the little hotel and waited.

AT twenty minutes past four Moxey came in, breathless.

"I seen a funny-lookin' guy followin' you," he said.

"Following me— where?"

"In the Bowery, an' along the avenue. He followed you right to this hotel, on the other side o' the street. He seen you stop in the doorway, an' when you come inside he hopped in a taxi an' beat it. I hopped in a taxi too, an' beat it right after him."

"See where he went?"

"Yeah, I guess so. He got outa the taxi in Ninth Avenue, an' walked up the street a ways, two or three doors. Then he come up missin', while I was payin' my driver off. But my eyes were off'm him fer only a coupla seconds. I been hangin' around over there, hopin' he'd show up again, but—"

"That's close enough, Moxey. If you've got him located within a block, if he disappeared in some building in that block— why, we'll run him down. But tell me— what'd he look like?"

"Well, he looked like that guy you told me about. Little, with a face that was kinda black and still wasn't black. You know what I mean."

"Yes— swarthy. How was he dressed?"

"Like a dude, all spick and span— with gaiters."

Seagrove nodded and said: "That sounds good, Moxey. And you're sure he was following me?"

"That's a cinch. He's good, too, on the shadow. He kep' outa yer sight. I kep' outa yer sight, too—afraid maybe you'd do sump'n' to tip me off to him."

"That's all right, Moxey. I guess maybe they've been on my trail right along. I'll bet they've been on my heels all day, but just didn't get a chance to slip the works to me. He saw me come into the hotel here, and decided I'd stay in the room awhile. Then he went back to report. Moxey, if we can locate the place where he made his report—"

"I can show you that block in Ninth Avenue where he come up missin'. Guess maybe we c'n figger sump'n' out."

"That's what we can, Moxey. Let's go!"

They went together this time, in a taxi from which they disembarked two squares from the block they sought. On the way Moxey described the business establishments in that block—a cigar-store on the south corner, a fruit-store, a haberdashery, a vacant shop, a second-hand bookshop, a delicatessen, a shoe-repairing place and so on. At intervals, Moxey said, there were stairways leading to the dwelling flats above. It was in lower Ninth Avenue, traversed by the elevated, a gloomy, littered section of the city.

From across the street, Seagrove studied the buildings that interested him. He had an idea that Heri-Moo, if it was Heri-Moo that Moxey had trailed, had disappeared up one of the stairways. He could not conceive of any of those little shops as being the lair of the Murder Master. He hardly knew where to start in, but an idea did come to him, as he studied the heavily laden rack in front of the bookshop. He could visit that establishment, and probably get into conversation with the proprietor. From him he could get perhaps an idea of some of the families that lived in the shabby flats overhead.

Was Julia Moore being held captive behind some of those murky windows? The thought sent Seagrove across the street swiftly. Moxey was stationed at a vantage-point in the street.

ENOCH BOWLITT

Books Rare and Modern.

That was the legend on the window toward which Seagrove headed.

BUT despite the urge that was upon him from the thought that he might at this moment be within striking distance of Julia's place of captivity, he did not forget that he was dealing with death— the man in the subway car, another in the crowded lobby of a theater, a third at the telephone in his own apartment, the fourth in his own home!

So Seagrove was alert as he crossed the street. It was a dingy little shop that he peered into. First he stopped at the rack on the sidewalk and studied the volumes thereon. It was a good chance to loiter, and to study the street throngs for the sinister face of Heri-Moo.

Moxey was studying faces, too— and watching windows.

Enoch Bowlitt— an odd name; it had the tang of the sea in it. He could imagine a sailor on an old clipper ship having the name of Enoch Bowlitt. He stepped into the shop. Mr. Bowlitt should prove an interesting individual.

Mr. Bowlitt came forward. There were no other customers.

He was a withered old fellow, but his bent form told of younger days when he probably looked tall and strong. His face had a grizzled power in it; his eyes were bright and searching. He wore a faded suit and a wing collar with a large tie, dark and plain.

"I'm interested in sea stories," said Seagrove.

"Well, young man," said the slow, cracked voice of Enoch Bowlitt, "I have a few."

He thrust his bony head out. His eyes were very bright.

"Back this way, sir."

He led the way toward the rear, stopped at a row of shelves and said: "I have my shop pretty well spaced off, sir. I can lay my hands on any kind of a book I have without much hunting. On these six shelves you will find sea stories. Pirate stories in plenty, if it's thrills you're after. Phoenician pirates, Carthaginian pirates, Moors, Romans, all those fellows who ravaged the Mediterranean. And here we are,"—running a gnarled finger along a certain row— "the Spanish Main! Anything you might want, sir. Help yourself."

"Thank you. Ah, you seem to be interested in the sea, too."

"I am."

The old fellow was certainly studying Seagrove sharply, but that was probably just his way. His eyes burned behind glasses that provided another ancient touch— with their octagonal rims.

"I followed the sea," he added brusquely, and went back to his desk.

Seagrove had a scheme. He would manifest a keen interest in Enoch Bowlitt's adventures, draw him into friendly talk and slip in questions about the neighborhood.

The ends of the shelves in question ran down to the desk, but Seagrove was just now at the other end of them. He did not see the outspread newspaper on Enoch Bowlitt's desk— a paper from which the likenesses of Arthur Seagrove and Julia Moore looked up.

Mr. Bowlitt got up, wandered out a rear door and closed it behind him. Seagrove divided his glances between the titles on the shelves and the face of Moxey in the street. He was hoping Moxey would again spot Heri-Moo, and signal him.

Mr. Bowlitt returned to the shop, sat down at his desk again, folded the newspaper and laid it aside.

Seagrove engaged him in conversation, and Mr. Bowlitt thawed. He came around and stood at the shelves with his customer. They talked very pleasantly now. Seagrove tried out a few questions about the people in the neighborhood who bought books, and got friendly answers. He glanced through the window at Moxey occasionally.

Presently Bowlitt excused himself and walked to the front of the store. He stood in the doorway, looking into the street. From somewhere he summoned a man, and that fellow stepped inside, dragged the shutters from behind a row of shelves, and outside again, began to put them up at the windows.

Mr. Bowlitt was old-fashioned in that respect, too, it appeared. He still used the old-time shutters at his windows.

HE returned to Seagrove, who was now near the desk.

"Don't be in a hurry, young man," he said. "I'm catching an evening train for Philadelphia, but there's no hurry. Take your time."

"Thank you."

Seagrove meant to go before the shutters excluded the visage of Moxey. Mr. Bowlitt began to look at the volumes his customer had picked out, and seemed to be calculating their price. There was a gaslight above the desk. Seagrove's glance fell upon the large blotter below it.

"You have very good taste in books," Bowlitt was saying.

Seagrove stared at the blotter, sidewise, doubting the evidence of his own eyes:

Some one in a meditative frame of mind had drawn at least a score of little wheels upon the blotter.

The same design that was twice repeated upon the clipping Seagrove had in his pocket!

The Corsair— the Murder Master!

vii

A TREMOR, a chill shudder, rippled over the young man's flesh from head to foot— the reaction of surprise and the sudden realization that he was perhaps trapped in the lair of the killer. He turned, with a show of casualness. But as he turned, Enoch Bowlitt moved— moved with a new and astonishing speed. Before Seagrove could make a move to defend himself, the pistol had been snatched from its amateurish concealment in his hip pocket, and Bowlitt had darted with it behind a table piled high with books.

The shutters were up. The door was locked. The fellow who had put up the shutters, and who evidently had been standing guard somewhere in the street, was meandering back toward Seagrove, a mirthless grin on his face. Seagrove was trapped. And now Heri-Moo himself appeared.

The Eurasian came into the shop by way of the rear door. He glanced at Seagrove— and then did an astonishing thing: Swiftly, he moved toward the big fellow coming from the front. He was very sly about it, a serpent gliding toward unsuspecting prey, for the man's attention was fixed on Seagrove. Suddenly Heri-Moo was at the big man's side, and his right hand performed a darting movement. And instantly the big fellow's face turned from a visage of menace against Seagrove to a staring mask of horror. A yell escaped his lips, and died down to a gurgle in his throat. Then he fell.

Seagrove had meanwhile seized the only weapon at hand, Enoch Bowlitt's heavy walking-stick, from a corner behind the desk. He had no time to speculate as to why Heri-Moo had inflicted his mysterious death-thrust upon a man who, by all the evidence, was a fellow-conspirator. For Heri-Moo was coming at him now— Heri-Moo, and death!

It lurked in his hand. The evidence lay on the floor, for the big fellow was clearly dead. The strange Eurasian had made only a slight movement toward him, from the side, a mere touch. Yet there he lay, dead.

The crooked grin was on Heri-Moo's face. There was murder in that grin.

What could he expect to do, that tiny little man? Well, what had he done to five men already, one just a moment ago ? He had killed them in a twinkling. So sure of the result was Enoch Bowlitt that he stood placidly behind the table of books. But his face had turned as murderous as Heri-Moo's. He watched this game of life and death, rapt. It was the face of a maniac!

Seagrove crouched, determined if possible to strike down this monster. The odds would not be so great if Moxey would only show up. What had become of the man?

CLOSER and closer the little Eurasian was coming, watching his chance. It seemed to Seagrove that if he removed his eyes from the black, glistening orbs of Heri-Moo for the space of a wink, the secret death would strike him. But he remembered one important thing: Heri-Moo's movement toward the fellow dead on the floor had been with his right hand. And so Seagrove shifted the cane to his left, crouching yet, concealing the movement behind the desk.

Then he leaped suddenly and struck with the heavy cane— not at Heri-Moo's head, but at his right hand. The blow cracked.

This was a signal that filled that little bookshop with violent movement. Heri-Moo howled, and grabbed his injured right hand with his left. Seagrove sprang over the desk, and while Heri-Moo strove to get in close, for that brief but fatal thrust, beat savagely at his hands with the cane.

A tiny object gleamed on the floor. Seagrove stepped on it as Heri-Moo reached for it, and then laid out the Eurasian with a crack on the head.

The fury of sound brought the scream of a woman. It was muffled by distance and by partitions, yet it had the effect of turning Seagrove into a wild man. Julia!

Somewhere in that place, above or below, Julia Moore was held captive. She screamed again, and Seagrove shouted in answer.

But he had no chance to go to her then; for a rear door burst open, and three yellow-faced men, evidently mongrels like Heri-Moo, rushed in; and each carried a purposeful pistol.

In a desperate attempt to strike at his enemies separately, Seagrove leaped at Enoch Bowlitt in a flying football tackle. Bowlitt fired but missed; and the two came to the floor together. The old man was no match for Seagrove, who quickly wrested the weapon from him, and then struggled to his feet, clasping Bowlitt close to him as a shield.

Then it was that Seagrove learned the temper of this desperate crew. For after a brief hesitation and a swift interchange in their own tongue, the three in the rear leveled their pistols and began firing. At once Bowlitt went limp in Seagrove's clasp, seriously hurt, it was apparent. And though Seagrove answered his enemies' fire, his living— or dying— shield hampered him; and he would doubtless have quickly lost the battle but for the help that now came.

For the front door was burst open with a crash; Moxey sprawled in with it, and after him came the police, with drawn guns. The firing redoubled; and then— A sudden silence.... Enoch Bowlitt had slipped limply to the floor. And the swarthy criminals who had not hesitated to sacrifice him lay there also, dead or wounded.

ARTHUR SEAGROVE, jamming his way ahead of the police up the stairway that led off a passage to Enoch Bowlitt's flat above, was the first to reach the side of Julia Moore. She had been tied hand and foot and bound to a heavy chair, when word came up to her guards that Seagrove was in the bookshop below.

She stood up for a moment after her thongs were cut, and then fell forward into Seagrove's arms. In just a few moments she regained her strength sufficiently to go to the telephone, and to give the news to her mother....

As Julia and Seagrove sped uptown in a taxi, they heard newsboys shouting in the streets:

"Corsair captured! Julia Moore rescued by Seagrove! Extra— extra! All about the capture of the Murder Master ! "

But they returned to police headquarters that night, at the behest of the commissioner. Detectives were scouring the city, running down all possible leads respecting Enoch Bowlitt and Heri-Moo, and phoning in their reports. Julia and Seagrove, in the office of the commissioner, the door of which was besieged by reporters, were apprised of these reports as fast as they came in. All the devices known to the police were being employed to wring confessions from Heri-Moo and the two wounded Eurasians captured in the bookshop. One of the latter was dead; and Bowlitt lay unconscious in a hospital.

It developed that Moxey had held some conversation with the man left on guard by Heri-Moo; and the Eurasian, from a window upstairs, saw this. He instantly leaped to the conclusion that his man had betrayed him, and that he had brought Arthur Seagrove and his bodyguard to the bookshop. So Heri-Moo killed his own man as quickly as he could, killed him while the fellow really was bent on slaying Seagrove.

THE report from the medical examiner was read to Julia and Seagrove:

"From the hypodermic syringe found broken on the floor of the bookshop the laboratory recovered a few drops of fluid, of which tests have been made. It is a poison, name unknown. It forms a clot the instant it is introduced into a vein or a capillary, by turning a small amount of blood to a jelly. This clot, reaching the heart a very few seconds later, causes instant death, by stopping valvular action. The poison perhaps is some old secret of some Asiatic people.

"A very small needle was used, so small as to leave no wound. A man armed with such a syringe containing that poison could easily kill a man who was in combat with him. All that was necessary was for him to get close enough to jab with the needle, into any part of the adversary's body. A tiny bit of the poison introduced into the capillaries, that network of connecting ducts between the arteries and the veins, forms a clot in the space of about a second, congealing sufficient blood in the bloodstream to cause death. In perhaps two more seconds the clot reaches the heart, and the victim falls dead. He would have just about time enough, between the pain of the jab and the stoppage of his heart, to cry out and to make a few motions."

That was the Corsair's secret. But who was the Corsair?

"If the man with the real brains is still at large," the commissioner suggested, "perhaps we haven't heard the last of these murders yet. He's just brazen enough to try something, and quickly, too."

But at this point the chief of detectives entered, and after saluting, made his report.

"You may find this hard to believe, Chief," he said, "but this Bowlitt is our Murder Master. He isn't the brains behind the poison plot— that is, he didn't find the poison. That came from Heri-Moo, no doubt. You see Heri-Moo, if starting on a campaign of extortion and murder, would want to find about as safe a place as he could as a retreat. What was safer than that dingy old bookshop?

"The reports we've got in from the Federal authorities say that Bowlitt, as a sailor thirty-seven years ago, was mixed up in a mutiny at sea. He served a few years in prison. After that, by his own admission, he came to New York and worked around the harbor. When his health went back on him, he bought that bookshop.

"His neighbors say he always acted a little cracked, and the young fellow that worked for him up to a year ago says he was a great reader of pirate stories— histories, fiction, and all that. Well, we've copied those notes to the police and the newspapers, on that rickety old typewriter in his shop. There's no question but what they were written on the same machine. Bowlitt's our man! "

ENOCH BOWLITT never recovered consciousness to confess; and Heri-Moo died by his own hand in jail. But a large part of the Murder Master's loot was found hidden in the cellar of the old book-shop; and the weird crimes peculiar to the Corsair of Manhattan have not been repeated....

Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Seagrove never look upon Cleopatra's Needle, as their car passes through Central Park without recalling that hectic night when they failed to keep their tryst there. And this thought always induces another— of gratitude that they escaped the fate Heri-Moo had in store for them.

On these motor-excursions the car is usually driven by their chauffeur, and man-of-all-work, Alfred Moxey. Usually, we say; for Moxey succumbs now and then— at rarer and rarer intervals, be it said to his credit— to the lure of habits formed long ago. But upon these occasions he comes back so earnestly repentant that forgiveness follows as a matter of course.

___________________

4: Blackmail Broadcast, Unlimited

Ellis Parker Butler

1869-1937

Blue Book June 1923

ON one of those delightfully warm and sunny January mornings which we occasionally have in New York, I reached Walt Magen's offices somewhat later than usual. The day was so pleasant that I had left the bus on which I had been riding, to walk down Riverside Drive from the Tomb to Seventy-second Street, and it was after ten o'clock when I reached the headquarters of the Walter Magen Detective Agency. Walt never required us to keep any particular "hours," and I had no case in my hands. Since he had decided that I had what he called an automatic brain— a brain with a somewhat abnormal ability to see clues and by combining them, jump straight to a conclusion another man might only reach by long and arduous thinking, if at all,— he had not used me on any of the ordinary cases that came in.

When I reached his office, however, I saw my "color" on the bulletin-board, and knew he wanted me. I went to his private office at once. When I entered, I ound him busily at work with his correspondence, but sitting in one of his com- fortable chairs by the window was a woman, handsomely gowned and coated, but with her face entirely concealed by a heavy veil. Walt Magen looked up, and seeing me, dismissed the stenographer. As soon as she had closed the door behind her, he turned his desk chair and motioned for me to draw up two of the vacant chairs.

"Now, Mrs. X," he said, "this is the young man we have been waiting for. If he cannot help us, no one can. Will you explain your matter, or shall I?"

The "Mrs. X" rose and crossed the room. By her lithe movements as well as by her hands— which are an excellent index— I judged her to be young. Twenty-five was the age I granted her. Her garments indicated that she was a woman of very considerable wealth— or of great extravagance. She took one of the two chairs and sat bending slightly forward. I noticed that her hands showed little or no signs of nervousness, such as women's hands usually do when taking up serious matters with a detective, and I judged from that that she was a woman of considerable social experience, or possibly one who had led a life other than that we call "sheltered." Her very first words confirmed this.

"In the first place," she said in a remarkably sweet voice, "I will say, as I told Mr. Magen, that I went on the stage when I was fourteen."

"An Englishwoman," I said to myself, for her accent was unmistakable. Her next words confirmed this.

"That was in the colonies," she said. "My parents were English, but they left England because of some trouble my father got into. He was not a good man. And my mother was not a good woman— not in any sense of the term. So, as soon as I was old enough, she put me on the stage. And in our colony, the stage was bad— execrably bad! I did not escape the badness."

"Mrs. X has explained to me," Walt said kindly, "that from the stage she slid downward into the worst sort of seaport music-hall, and that her reputation was as bad as it could be. We need not go into it again. It is painful to Mrs. X to dwell on that, of course."

"THANK YOU," the woman said. "So that sort of thing continued for years— for eight years, until I was twenty-two. Then a man— he is now my husband, Mr. X— came out from the hinterland gold-fields. He was and is a fine man, an American, but he had been living a rough life in the mines, with bad companions, and he had struck it rich; and when he reached the port, he and the other men of his party cut loose to have a wild time. That was how they drifted into the Eldorado Music-hall. All this does not matter much, but there was a fight, and he was stabbed, and I took care of him. For several days he was close to death, but when he recovered sufficiently to know anything, he was through with wild life forever. It was as if he had had a blow on the head that brought him to his senses. All his goodness came to the top again. And then he asked me to marry him and come to America and forget all about all my past life. And I did that."

"She reformed," interpolated Walt. "She never had liked the rough life. She has been running as straight as a string ever since."

"That's it," she said eagerly. "My husband is in business here in New York, and we have a home in one of the suburbs. We have two children, a little boy and a dear little girl. No one knows I was ever anything I should not have been. We are so happy— we have made so many dear friends where we live. I'm not boasting, but we have the most beautiful home in our suburb; we are the center of the social life. We belong to all the clubs. People like us, and we like the people. We did hope to live the rest of our lives there— just live as ordinary folk and be happy."

"And this is what she has received," Magen said, handing me a sheet of paper. I read what was written on it.

The sheet was typewritten, and at the top, as if in imitation of a printed letterhead, had been typed "BLACKMAIL BROADCAST, UNLIMITED." There was no date and no address. Where the "Dear Sir" or "Dear Madam," and the name and address of the addressee usually appears in a letter, there was an oblong hole in the paper. Mrs. X, leaning toward me, explained this.

"I cut out my name and address," she said, "because I want no one to know it. I thought you might want to keep this letter, to examine it more closely, and I was afraid some one might see it. You will see that it mentions matters connected with my past."

It did, but not in the first two paragraphs. The first two paragraphs might have been cut from a circular advertising the sale of stock in Blackmail Broadcast, Unlimited.

"Blackmail Broadcast, Unlimited," the letter said, "is a close corporation of experienced crooks, organized in the most efficient manner, for the extortion of blackmail. Many of the best crooks in the blackmail business have recognized for some time that far better results might be obtained by consolidating the various blackmailing interests in America than by the present wasteful methods. As a result of many consultations, a combination of the leading blackmailers has now been brought about under one management, and our officers and board of directors include the most prominent blackmailers now living. We are now ready to transact business on a large scale, and propose to begin operations immediately.

"In undertaking our widespread campaign of blackmailing," the letter continued, "we have discarded most of the outworn methods formerly employed and still used by our competitors. We have adopted modern methods and appliances. It has been customary, if a husband wished to conceal certain irregularities of conduct from his wife, to threaten to write to the wife. Or if the wife had been indiscreet, it has been the rule to threaten to tell the husband. Often our chance of reward has been lost because the husband or wife immediately confessed to the other, rendering our information valueless. We, however, do not stop there. We own a flock of high-powered and very swift airplanes, and with these and our own 'permanent smoke' we mean to write the guilty secrets on the very sky so that all may read them."

"It has been done in a commercial advertising way," Magen remarked. "You see what a grip it gives the crook on his victim. Think of writing this lady's past on the sky above her home town! A hideous and terrible business!"

"Tn the case of yourself and husband," the letter continued, "we believe you will be willing to pay a small sum to have your past remain unknown. We ask two hun- dred thousand dollars. Otherwise we shall, on March 26th, begin writing your history on the sky, using that part of the sky above the suburb in which you live. On March 24th you will receive a letter telling you where and how to deposit the two hundred thousand dollars. And may we call your attention to the fact that, if you seek flight, a forced sale of your fine property would result in a loss of, say, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. By paying us the sum we ask, you will save fifty thousand dollars."

"Clever crooks," Magen said.

THE remainder of the letter was merely a jumble of names and dates, evidently connected with the past of Mrs. X in the "colony," and the letter was signed "Blackmail Broadcast, Unlimited."

"I have asked Mrs. X whether she suspects anyone in particular," Walt said, "and she does not; so you know as much about the case now as I do. This lady and her husband, when they received this letter, decided to come to me. Their happy life in their chosen home is threatened with destruction. Unless they pay these rascals a huge sum, they will be driven forth as exiles and outcasts. They may be hounded out of America unless they pay."

"And even if we pay, we can never be sure that more demands will not be made," said Mrs. X. "And thousands of others may be blackmailed in the same way. My husband and I have wealth; we can afford to fight this hideous demand. We hoped. to live in peace, but if we must be driven from decent society, we would rather go down fighting than otherwise. We would rather fight this out now than live in terror."

"You say your husband thinks that, too?" I asked.

"Oh, positively!" Mrs. X exclaimed. "He would have come here with me to tell you so if his coming would not have told you who we were. A man cannot hide behind a veil; he cannot disguise himself as a woman can. Oh, pray save us from this awful thing!"

"We will do our utmost," Walt said; and then with a smile: "And if we can't protect you, no one can." Then he said, to me: "So there's your job. Get the bunch of crooks, kill this scheme they have worked up, and go the limit with them. The entire facilities of the agency are at your disposal. Anything you want to ask me?"

I turned the letter over in my hand and then held it to the light to observe the watermark.

"You might have some one go through the card-system and pick out all the blackmail cards," I said as I arose. "I'd like histories and finger-prints. What do you think of Zrane? It seems like one of his schemes to me; he has more imagination than most of them."

"Might be Zrane, at that," Walt admitted. "Anything else?"

I told him there was nothing else, but that I might ask Mrs. X a few questions about her colonial days, if she would answer them.

"Take Consultation Room Six," Walt said, and stood while E left the room with the veiled lady.

Our consultation rooms are sound-proof (except when we wish them to be otherwise), and I explained this to Mrs. X.

"I would like you to tell me everything  you feel you can," I told her when we were seated in Number Six, "because my automatic mind works in a peculiar manner. 'Automatic mind' is not my name for it; Mr. Magen calls it that. He discovered it, or thinks he discovered it. I do not often 'follow clues' in the usual sense. I pour into my 'automatic mind' any and every clue and bit of information; and suddenly— in a moment or a week— my 'automatic mind' combines two or more facts, often seemingly most unimportant facts, and in a flash I see the answer I need. I am telling you this, Mrs. X, because I want you to be as explicit as you can. The bit of detail you think least important may be the very bit needed to combine with some other item of evidence."

"I think I understand," she said, and for the first time I saw her hands show a trace of nervousness.

"It would be," I said, "of great value if you could bring yourself to tell me your name, your husband's name, your place of residence, and the names of those you think your friends or enemies in the place where you now live. Not a word spoken here will be repeated."

"I can't tell you," she said. "I'm afraid to tell you."

"Then no matter," I said. "We will get at the colonial matters. And let me say, at once, that I discount this 'combination of blackmailers' idea just ninety-nine per cent. I do not believe there is any 'Blackmail Broadcast, Unlimited,' whatever. The idea is clever, but it is not common sense. Crooks do not form such combinations; least of all do blackmailers. Two or three crooks have gotten hold of the story of your past; one can fly an airplane. They figure that the threat of sky-writing would frighten you far more than a mere threat of vague publicity. They find you living in a quiet community, your thoughts on what your neighbors think of you, and they guess that when you receive this letter you will visualize the airplane in the sky above your own home, and the homes of your neighbors, actually writing out your past history so that all can see. You will imagine Mrs. A and Mrs. B standing on their lawns, their heads thrown back, reading your story in the sky. To this, which is like a modern miracle of crime, they add the mystery of a huge crime-combination of blackmailing powers, On the one hand you see use made of the mighty force of modern commercial union, and on the other the mysterious force of modern science. The thought was to amaze and stun."

SHE said nothing, but one of her hands clasped the other, and her fingers moved nervously.

"But sifted down, what does it amount to?" I asked her. Some man or woman who knows more or less about your past has discovered that you are the girl from that colonial music-hall. He cannot get money out of your husband, because your husband knows everything about your past. So he threatens to tell the neighbors. And how can we prevent him? To prevent him— or her— we must discover who he is. And to do that, I must know as much as you can tell me about the men and women you knew in the colony. In that way I may be able to find a connecting thread that will lead me to the blackmailer. You can see that, I think?"

"Yes," she said, still pressing her hands together. "Yes!" |

"Mr. Magen's agency is, as he likes to boast," I said, "nothing more than a great card-system. The amount of information on file here is stupendous. Mr. Magen's cards can tell more about most of the living criminals than they could tell about themselves. As soon as this interview is ended, I shall go through the cards, and some small hint may lead to the man we want. For example, one of the men listed may have been in the colony when you were there. You don't mind answering a few questions?"

"Oh, no!" she exclaimed.

"Then," I said, "what was the colony— what was the town or city?"

She hesitated.

"Need I tell that?" she asked.

"It might help us," I suggested.

"I'd rather not tell, if I need not," she said.

"It might be a great help to us," I said. "If one of our listed blackmailers happened to have been there, it would suggest that he is our man. But of course, if you feel it would be telling too much, I cannot urge you."

She showed neither relief nor disappointment. I did not care much for the name of her colony; I was sure I could guess it from something she would say. But in this I was mistaken. She talked freely enough of her life in the theater and the music-hall, and mentioned names by the hundred, as it seemed to me, but when she came to mentioning a place, it was always "and in that place" or "and when we were in that town." She did not object when I jotted down the names she gave. Now and then she corrected my spelling of them.

"And on what ship did you come to America?" I asked her.

"I'd rather not tell you," she said.

I was not entirely satisfied with the results of my questioning, but giving a woman in trouble the third degree has never been my best work. I had, at any rate, secured enough names to keep me busy a day or two, checking them against our lists of names and aliases, and it would require hours of close reading properly to study the cards of the crooks in our lists. She left, and in leaving she promised to come again if anything further transpired.

SHE returned the next day. I had sent three of our best operatives to get on the track of Bogdo Zrane, with orders to watch him like a trio of hawks. While I had not specialized in blackmailers, it seemed to me that Zrane's type of mind was exactly that which would plan such a letter as Mrs. X had received. Zrane was an accomplished crook. He had education, and as I had told Magen, imagination. He was growing old now, but I had not heard that he had retired from evil ways. A number of his earlier exploits suggested that he would be just the man to conceive of the use of sky-writing in crime. He had been the first man to use the telephone in bunco-work, and, as one invention after another appeared, Bogdo Zrane seemed to delight in planning a method of using them to trap the unwary. I studied his card and saw, with a smile, that we had no record of any exploit in which Zrane had used an airplane. It amused me to think of old Zrane sitting in his nest somewhere and fretting his old white head because he had not been able to use the airplane in crime, and then of his grin when sky-writing was invented and he saw how he could use it in blackmail. Then our unknown client came for her second visit.

She had brought, this time, a second letter. As before, she had cut out the typewritten name and address of herself and her husband, using a very small pair of scissors, I judged. In fact, when I examined the edges of the hole she had cut, I decided she had used a pair of delicate finger-nail scissors, for the hole had been cut with little snippings of the blades, and under a magnifying-glass the edges of the hole were somewhat scalloped, as they would be if nail-scissors were used. The letterhead matter—"Blackmail Broadcast, Unlimited'— was typewritten as before. Evidently the blackmail trust did not believe in printers.

"In order to impress upon you the fact that Blackmail Broadcast, Unlimited, is able to do all it says," this letter ran, "we shall begin writing on the sky above your home tomorrow or the next day, the letters 'B.B.U? No doubt those who see these letters written on the sky in white vapor at a height of two miles will imagine it is some advertising scheme, but you will know it is meant as proof that we can carry out our threat. In this connection permit us to say that we are aware that you are consulting the Walter Magen Detective Agency, for our agents saw you enter and leave Mr. Magen's offices. We have no objection whatever to this. In fact, we welcome it. Our newly invented airplanes are so speedy and our hiding-places so secure that we urge you to use every possible means to have our 'planes destroyed or followed. All such attempts will fail, and their failure will only emphasize the fact that our threats will be inevitably carried out on March 26th, unless you agree to our terms."

I read this letter while Mrs. X sat in Room Six with me, and when I laid it aside, she leaned forward in her chair.

"Can you do that?" she asked. "Can you send out airplanes to follow the 'plane and capture or destroy it?"

"We can do almost anything," I assured her. "We are always ready to attempt anything that will help us in our work. I would have to consult Mr. Magen before I went to the expense of an airplane fleet; such things are costly. At the moment, however, that need not bother us. We have fully two months before March 26th, and some other method of quashing this gang's plans may develop."

"I don't think you ought to hesitate," she said, with what seemed. considerable feeling. "I have told Mr. Magen I will advance any sum needed to cover any expenses. I don't believe you realize what this means to me— my life ruined, my home destroyed, my children's lives spoiled orever. I told Mr. Magen I wanted everything done— everything possible. He promised me he would use every means. I don't think you are taking this seriously enough. I'd like to see Mr. Magen, if you please."

WE went into Magen's office, and she made the plea for fast 'planes just as she had made it to me, and Magen acceded to her request instantly.  "That will be all right," he said to me. "Mrs. X has deposited enough to cover all expenses. Get in touch with the best flyers in the East, and if they are not the best in America, telegraph for the best, no 'matter where. If necessary cable Europe. Is there anything else, Mrs. X?"

She hesitated and then spoke.

"I don't like to say it, and I don't want to offend this young man, Mr. Magen," she said, "but I am afraid I do not feel quite satisfied with what he is doing. I thought—"

"Don't feel that you are offending me by what you are saying," I said, for she hesitated again. "I think perhaps you are right. I think perhaps I am not handling the case as Mrs. X would like it handled, Walt."

"Now, that's nonsense!" Walt exclaimed. "This is exactly the sort of case you can handle."

"I think so myself,' I said, "but what I say is that I am handling the case in the only way I know how to handle it, and it does not seem to satisfy Mrs. X. I'd like to suggest, Walt, that you make an exception of this case and handle it yourself. I mean that you take charge of it and use the whole machinery of your agency."

"Yes, our mysterious Mrs. X said eagerly, "please do that, Mr. Magen."

Walt frowned. His agency now had so many ramifications that he never gave his special attention to any but the most vitally important cases. I closed one eye, slowly, the one away from Mrs. X. Walt took the wink as I meant it.

"Very well," he said, "I'll tackle this case myself. I'll drop everything and get at it with both hands. Just give me time to clean up a few things. Can you come in again day after tomorrow?"

OUR veiled client said she could, and Walt told her he would be ready to go over the whole matter with her then.

When I had shown Mrs. X to the elevator, I went back to Walt.

"What's the idea?" he asked. "Why the wink? Why are you so eager to give up the case?"

"I'm not giving it up," I said. "I've solved it."

"You have? When?"

"Tomorrow or the next day," I laughed. "Our Mrs. X has beautiful hands, hasn't she, Walt?"

"I didn't notice them," he smiled. "Yes, I did too, now that I think of it. Beautiful firm hands."

"You would not imagine she ever worked in the North Woods, would you—  chopping down trees? Or that she shoveled sand in a pit?"

"No! Has she?" he demanded.

"I don't imagine so," I said, grinning at him; "but I'll bet you a good cigar she would not let you take an X-ray photograph of her cranium, even if she does call herself Mrs. X."

"You get out of here!" Walt laughed. "Don't come giving your riddles to me. When are you going to turn in your report, if you really have wound up this Mrs. X case?"

"When she comes in to see you," I said, and I made it my business to be on hand when she came in two days later.

WHEN she entered Walt's office I was already there, and I placed a chair for Mrs. X.

"You had something to report?" Walt asked me.

"A few details," I said carelessly. "In the first place, I think I can tell Mrs. X what she wanted to know."

"You mean who the Blackmail Broadcast, Unlimited, gang is?" asked Walt.

"I don't believe that is what she wanted to know," I said, "but I'll come to that. I'll begin by saying that Blackmail Broadcast, Unlimited, did write its initials on the sky yesterday as it promised. At three o'clock yesterday afternoon an airplane, very high in the air, came from somewhere and wrote B.B.U. on the sky above Westcote, Long Island. The letters were written with white vapor expelled from the exhaust of the 'plane, and were, perhaps, half a mile in length by a quarter of a mile wide, each. It happens that there are only three houses in or near Westcote that are of such palatial dimensions that a forced sale would mean a loss of anything like two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, or one hundred thousand dollars, or even fifty thousand dollars. While each of the owners of the three houses is married, it happens that each of the three wives are well-known women and their life-stories are known from the day of birth onward. It also appears that one of the wives is an old lady, over seventy years of age; one is quite stout; one is a chronic invalid and at present in Florida. None, I am sorry to say, resemble you in any respect whatever, Mrs. X. None spent her youth in any 'colony.' "

She said nothing.

"MY observers report that the B.B.U. 'plane did not appear above any other suburb of New York," I continued, "and so we may consider that Westcote was the suburb referred to in the first letter Mrs. X received. When I read that first letter, Walt, I noticed that the name and address had been snipped out of it. That emphasized the fact that nothing else had been snipped out of the letter— no name or place-name. Hence, when I read the letter, I noticed that particular pains had been taken to avoid mentioning names. It was 'yourself and your husband' and 'the suburb in which you live' and so on. Mrs. X, then, in Room Six, was as careful to avoid giving any clue to her identity as the letter had been. You must blame my 'automatic mind,' Walt, for putting those two facts together. The strange question my 'automatic brain' threw to the surface was 'Why, if Mrs. X is herself the blackmailer, does she come to the Magen Agency asking us to work on a supposititious case?' "

"Oh!" cried Mrs. X. "Oh, I'll not sit here and hear such things said of me!"

"I am ashamed to say that when Mrs. X left me that day, I did not shake hands in a friendly spirit," I said, "but because I wished to make sure that the palms were calloused. They were."

Our mysterious client closed her hands.

"In fact," I said; "they are the hands of an aviator— or should I say of an aviatrix? Am I right in thinking they are the hands of Miss Ray Eckstrom, whose air-exploits were given so much space in the papers before she had that serious fall two years ago? The fall that caused the slight fracture of her skull, which an X-ray would involuntarily no doubt reveal? And am I right in thinking that perhaps a few scars are hidden by the very heavy veil? Because we were lucky enough to catch a very fair portrait of the B.B.U. flyer yesterday when she leaned over the side of her 'plane to peer down. The telephoto lens is a wonderful invention."

I DREW the photograph from my pocket and offered it to Miss Eckstrom, but she refused to touch it. "Of course," I said, "you were unfortunate in the fact that we knew that Bogdo Zrane enjoys playing at crime with modern inventions, and that we knew he holds the theory that women are more easily corrupted than are men, and that he would, if possible, seek out a woman aviator for crime purposes. That gave me a hint. I don't know that I have any more to say, but I do want to explain to Miss Eckstrom that I was not neglecting her affair as sadly as she thought. Here is a memorandum of the three times she has met Zrane since her first visit to us. Here is a map showing where she keeps her 'plane. Here is a statement from the wholesale chemist who sold her the ingredients of the 'permanent smoke.' Here is a copy of the three conversations, secured by dictaphone, that she has held with Zrane lately. And here, nicely done, is a chart of the route taken by Miss Eckstrom's 'plane from the time it left the hangar yesterday until it returned to the hangar. So I think we have told Mrs. X what she wanted to know."

Walt said nothing, and Miss Eckstrom said nothing; so I had to blurt out my climax without frills.

"What Zrane wanted to know, and sent Miss Eckstrom to find out," I said, "was whether, if he undertook blackmailing by sky-writing, a first-class detective agency could run him down. The answer seems to be: 'Yes.' "

I don't know what I expected our veiled client to say to this, but what she did say was an utter surprise. She arose, and with a sweeping gesture threw back her veil.

"You're very smart," she said, with no trace whatever of an English accent, "but I'd just like to tell you I don't think much of your telephoto lens if it made me look all scarred up. There! See for yourself!" I gathered from her words that a temporary blackmailer had become the eternal woman again. And a good thing, too!

_____________________

5: The Prima Donna's Diamonds

Another true detective story by

Thomas Byrne

1842-1910

Former Chief of Detectives of New York

Boston Sunday Post 20 Aug 1905

Probably written by an anyonymous ghost writer. Byrne was indeed a controiversial Chief of Detectives

I BELIEVE that this case, all things considered, was the most puzzling that ever came under my notice.

Men, bad or good, are logical creatures and move on regular lines. Women are spasmodic and temperamental, and move to their own ends on lines which no man can guess. More than this, truth is ever stranger than fiction, and the most ingenious efforts of the story-writers are now and then put out of court by the everyday happenings of ordinary life.

There was brought to me in my office on Mulberry-st. one morning a card with a name not unlike "Count Ghirardelli." Real names cannot be used, as all these people were and are well-known in opera circles, and musical people have been said to be not the least vindictive and jealous of their kind. The Count, who was shown in, proved to be one of the most companionable fellows I ever met. He was between thirty and thirty-five, just under six feet, and strikingly handsome, though fair rather than dark, a type rather unusual among Italians. He was plainly but admirably dressed, neat in all his appointments, and he gave me a really fine cigar from a gold-and-copper cigar-case, with his crest in diamonds, which was a work of art. He told his troubles in a direct man-of-the-world way that made us friends from the start. And there was a twinkle in his eye, revealing a quick sense of humor that materially enlivened our many meetings and dinners together which the case brought about afterward.

He was the husband, he said, of Mademoiselle Blank, a woman with whose wonderful voice the opera-goers and newspapers were then fully occupied. She was Mademoiselle Blank to the public, but in private life was the Countess Ghirardelli. She had a valuable collection of jewels, several hundred thousand dollars' worth, the major portion of which were kept in a bank in Rome, while she carried with her, for public and private use, perhaps seventy-five thousand dollars' worth. Of these, a diamond tiara, valued at fifteen thousand, had disappeared. His wife did not speak English well, and was so nervous and upset over the loss or theft that she had asked him to notify the authorities, and he had come to me. I took up the case at once and went with him to their apartments, an expensive suite in a leading Broadway hotel.

When we entered the parlor I found madam, in a pale blue wrapper, volubly talking about her loss to a group of members of the company, her most intimate associates. This was bad, as the first essential in recovering stolen jewelry is keeping quiet about it, and I whispered to Ghirardelli to send the visitors away. This was done, and the interview narrowed down to madam, the Count, the maid Suzanne and myself.

Briefly summarizing the facts, madam had been entertained at supper bv some prominent Italian residents three nights before. She had worn the tiara to the supper, and had worn it home. She distinctly remembered taking it off when disrobing, placing it on her dressing-table. The maid, by her order, had gone to bed hours before. The Count occupied the adjoining room. The next morning she had had her chocolate in bed about half-past eleven, and the same party of friends had grouped as usual about her bedside. She always had friends and gossip with her morning chocolate. They included three women and two men, and all had been among the people who had just gone out. The things she had worn the night before remained just as she had left them. The maid had had no chance to put them away, because when she brought in the chocolate madam had sent her out to do some shopping for some things she needed immediately. When she returned at half-past twelve she dressed madam and then proceeded to put the things away. She asked madam where she had put the tiara. The tiara had disappeared. It was careless, of course, but "Corpo di Christi!" who could believe that one's best-loved and most intimate friends were thieves? Careless? Yes, but one got used to having such things about and nothing had been stolen before.

This last was important. If she had a thief among her personal attendants in her extensive travels over Europe, something would have been stolen before that day. To suspect Suzanne the maid was out of the question, she said. She had been with her for ten years; they were like sisters. She had sent Suzanne to the bank in Italy with hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth of jewels. Before accusing Suzanne she would sooner accuse herself, etc.

It seemed perfectly clear, a burglar or sneak thief being out of the question, that the tiara had been stolen by one of the five visitors. I may here remark that, the people all being strangers to me, I had no conception whatever at that time of the extraordinary game which I had been officially marked to sit in.

Madam did all the talking, in broken Italian- English. Suzanne heard her mistress' protestations of affection and of trust like any honest maid or companion. There was a steady, calm gaze of appreciation in her eyes, and she received the tribute calmly as if she was beyond all suspicion and the compliments were no more than her due. I made up my mind at once that Suzanne was innocent.

I took the names of the five visitors and learned all I could of their private lives and characters. They were all members of the company, had come from Italy together, were making more money than ever in their lives and, including madam and the Count, were like one affectionate family.

Madam in private life was a stout, rather short woman of thirty-five or more, who, in her blue wrapper, with her black hair down her back in two braids, appeared like anything rather than a grand-opera queen. She was vigorous, hearty and strongly affectionate by nature. She clearly loved the whole five, and not the least part of her unhappiness was the painful doubts of them which the theft had made necessary. She was several years older than her handsome husband, but fond of him as he was of her. The only clue that arose in the general description of the five, as given by herself and the Count, was the fact that one of them, a young baritone whose name was not unlike Del Bonti, was madly in love with Suzanne.

I told Ghirardelli that I had all his and madam's facts in the case, and that, as servants were often-times shrewder observers than their employers, I would like to have a private talk with Suzanne. He and his wife accordingly went into another room, and I was left alone with the maid.

This Suzanne was as attractive and as interesting a girl as I ever met. Though a Neapolitan, she had adopted the French name and spoke French perfectly and English tolerably. She was dark, tall rather than short, slender, perfectly shaped, strong and supple. Her bodily strength and suppleness, shown as she walked or sat straight- backed in a chair, impressed me. A strong will was marked in the slight aquiline cut of her nose, in the firm set of her lips and in the fine, clear-cut modeling of her chin. She was not handsome; but, as I have said, better than handsome, she was interesting. She did not yet appear to have a life-story ; but she was one of those women, who, having one, are certain to keep it locked within themselves, and they are rare.

"Suzanne," said I, "how old are you?"

"Twenty-eight."

"Are you married?"

"No. I am jeune fille." She used this phrase with the Continental meaning, the modest claim of propriety and virtue.

"Who do you think took the tiara?"

"I don't know. I was out."

"You have no idea?"

"None."

"But we must suspect one of these five people. Now if you had to suspect one of the five, which would it be?"

"They are all the same. How could I say one and not the other?"

"But if you had to choose between the women and the men, which would it be?"

"The women, of course!" she said promptly. In saying this she spoke quickly and sharply. I had an instinct at that moment that Suzanne knew the thief. Why I had it I could not say.

"Why the women?"

"Women are weak. They love pretty things. They envy them." She spoke with a certain con-tempt for womanly weakness. Clearly Suzanne herself was not weak.

"But don't men also care for pretty things?"

"Only for their value in money."

"How do you know that?"

"I don't know; but it's true, isn't it?"

"Is Del Bonti in love with you?"

"Del Bonti is a foolish boy," she said.

"But he is in love with you?"

"He says so. They all laugh at him."

"And do you laugh at him too?"

"Yes, I laugh at him too," she said, smiling, showing a remarkably pretty set of teeth. She was evidently good-humored and gratified, in a womanly way, at Del Bonti's affection, but did not appear to take it seriously.

"Does he want to marry you?"

"He says so."

"But he gets a large salary, and it would be a good marriage for you. Does he save his money?"

"Yes."

"How do you know?"

"He said so."

"Why don't you marry him?"

"I don't want to marry," said Suzanne sharply. There was a pressure on her lips as they closed and the chin curve deepened. Suzanne had some feeling in the matter, but what it was remained to be seen.

"You have not told Del Bonti that you would marry him when he was rich enough, have you?"

"I have never told him that I would marry him at all."

"Do you think Del Bonti took the tiara?"

"Impossible," said she.

"Why? It must have been one of the five."

"No, no! Not Giovanni!" she said warmly.

Whereupon I made up my mind to pay particular attention to Giovanni.

I had a young Italian detective on the staff for this sort of work, and on returning to my office put him on the case. He was to be a special writer for an Italian paper (the editor was a friend of mine), stop at the hotel, meet all the people in the case, give them puffs now and then in the paper, hear all the gossip and seek a clue. His particular line of investigation was to be Del Bonti. Two days afterward he reported that Del Bonti lived at the Hotel Marten in Lafayette-pl., took supper there every evening, and sometimes went afterward to the Gambetta Club, an international club not far from Marten's, where baccarat was the chief social relaxation. This was encouraging, as baccarat, in spite of Suzanne's belief, was not the safest means of saving one's money.

He was going to take supper with Del Bonti that evening, and I suggested that I would drop into the restaurant by accident. This I did, and was introduced to Del Bonti and invited to join them. Del Bonti was a stout young Italian of madam's stamp, the peasant rather than the aristocratic. He had a round face, round features and slightly projecting brown eyes. He was generous, enthusiastic, and as far as I could see anything but a potential thief. Gambling and love, however, do strange things with men's natures.

In keeping close watch on Del Bonti and the others of the five a week passed. The Count, eagerly interested, dropped in to see me daily.

He shrewdly picked my time of greatest leisure, after lunch, and being, as I have said, the most companionable fellow I ever have met, I rather enjoyed his company. I dined with him one evening at Delmonico's, and we had then, as always, a good time together. I could give him no news of the tiara or the thief, and beyond telling him that we were doing our best gave him no information as to the lines which had been laid. I pumped him quietly as to the five, and learned that he strongly suspected Del Bonti. He intimated that the latter was a good fellow, but impulsive, hinted that Del Bonti was a gambler, and indicated a belief that there was more between Del Bonti and Suzanne than appeared on the surface, all of which agreed with my own ideas of the situation in so far as it had developed.

My interest in the case received a tremendous impetus one morning from a telegram from the chief of detectives in Philadelphia. A tiara somewhat resembling the one described had been found by' the Philadelphia police in a pawnbroker's shop. Preferring to get my information at first hand, I immediately slipped over to Philadelphia and saw the jewel. It was in the hands of a pawnbroker on Arch-st., and proved to be a great puzzle.

It was a tiara all right, and was worth about fifteen thousand dollars. It had been pawned two days after the theft at the hotel, and thus corresponded in point of time. But it was so different from the one described that it could not be seized on the description nor could the man who pawned it be convicted.

The one stolen from madam, as described, was all diamonds, with a large almond-shaped diamond at the top. The Philadelphia article was an arrangement of diamonds and pearls entirely different in appearance.

It was of the same value, however, had been pawned just after the theft, and no other lost tiara had been reported from any direction.

I cross-examined the pawnbroker closely. He said the tiara had been pawned by a man, unmistakably a German, who gave his name as Max Feldman and his address at a certain number on a certain street in Cincinnati. He wore a light Alpine hat, a mustache and Vandyke beard closely clipped, and was evidently pressed for money. On the tiara he had been loaned five thousand dollars. I immediately telegraphed the police department of Cincinnati for information. Before I got an answer I had looked through a Cincinnati directory and found that Max Feldman lived at the address given, and was the head of a firm there dealing in German importations. The reply verified these particulars, and this settled the question of the Philadelphia tiara, for a time at least.

Nothing more happened in a week, and then came another surprise. A pawnbroker on Fourteenth-st. called on me and showed me a narrow gold-and-diamond wristlet containing eighteen fine diamonds. He said that a friend of his, a man whom he knew well, had called on him the night before and wanted to borrow three thousand dollars on it. The pawnbroker did not like to lend the money, in fear that it had been stolen. I asked where his friend got it, and the pawnbroker said:

"He lent three thousand dollars on it to a man who had lost heavily at the Gambetta Club."

"Who was the man?"

"I don't know."

"What is your friend's business?"

"He's a gambler."

"Send him to me, will you, and leave the bracelet with me."

The gambler called that afternoon. I found he was well-known in a certain set, was "square" as gamblers go, and that there was nothing against him.

"Whom did you get this from?" I asked.

"A German, Feldman is his name. He's a plunger at baccarat."

The name startled me. The Cincinnati German had turned up again, this time in New York, and once more touching the lines of the New York case, yet apparently having no connection with it whatever.

"How long ago was this?" I asked.

"Four weeks."

This was two weeks prior to the theft of the tiara

"How did you learn his name?"

"I gave him a receipt, saying I would return the bracelet on repayment of a loan of three thousand dollars. He didn't want to lose it; said he could take up the loan at any time."

I immediately wired Cincinnati for full particulars as to Feldman. The answer came back that Feldman was rich and had been in New York and Philadelphia at the times named; that he was married, but that his wife had no jewels of the kind described. I asked for further particulars, which I won't go into— Feldman might have other women friends who had jewels.

I put another detective on the case, sending him every night to the Gambetta Club with the gambler; but there was no sign of Feldman. He had not been at the Club in sometime, and appeared veritably to have been a transient visitor to New York. I was waiting for information from Feldman himself, but he was not in Cincinnati, and the police there were trying to locate him by wire. This was not easy, as he seemed to have gone East for a little pleasure trip.

He seemed so close to the case, however, that I determined to show the bracelet to madam. I called on her that afternoon and found her with Suzanne. I asked to see her privately, and she sent Suzanne out. As Suzanne went out I saw her face in the mirror. She had flashed a glance at me so full of hate and venom that it absolutely changed her expression. I was astonished, but felt a glow of satisfaction. My interesting Suzanne was not so innocent as she seemed. She was probably the thief and was playing a deep game.

"Madam," said I, "have you a gold bracelet or wristlet containing eighteen fine diamonds."

"Yes," said she, surprised at the question.

"Have you lost it?" I asked.

"No," she said.

"Is it like this?" I showed her the wristlet.

"My God!" she exclaimed, springing to her feet. "That too?" She stared at the jewel, thunderstruck.

"But no, no, no!" she cried. "I saw it but yesterday." She dashed into her bed-room and came back with a similar bracelet. "See, it is not mine!" she said.

She snatched the one I had brought, and compared the two in the light from the window. Her face became blank and puzzled. "What a mystery!" she said. "The one you brought is mine— I am sure of it. It is an old friend, yet how can you have it and I have this one?"

I took "this one" from her and examined it carefully. It was an excellent duplicate, but the diamonds were paste. I did not know at the moment what to do. To reveal the discovery would put the thief or thieves on their guard. The real bracelet was unmistakable from the dust around the diamonds and the old appearance which came from use.

"I think you must be mistaken," I said.

"Impossible! The one you have is mine."

I made her promise to say nothing about it, promising in turn that the bracelet should not leave my hands and that if it proved to be hers it should be returned. I left her staring at the imitation and volubly invoking the gods in fluent Italian.

As I went away I felt sure that madam's jewel-case contained more imitations than the one discovered. Her jewels in Rome might be in the same condition. I was not ready at that time to examine the other valuables she had brought with her, as the thief or thieves would surely take flight. I believed that I held the key to the situation in Suzanne. I told the detective to keep constant watch over her and not let her out of his sight. If she attempted to run he was to arrest her.

The Count called on me at five o'clock, greatly perturbed. His wife of course had told him of the bracelet, and he was staggered. He was eager to know if there was any way of getting at the truth as to Suzanne, and I gave him some encouragement but. not much.

The next thing that happened was the arrest of Suzanne. Without any previous warning my detective marched into headquarters with her at eleven o'clock that morning. She was pale, resolute and defiant. Before questioning her I wanted the story. I had her placed in a certain waiting-room and then got the particulars.

"She left the hotel at nine o'clock, with a small traveling-bag," said the detective. "She took a cab and handed an address to the driver written on a card. She drove off and I followed her in another cab to a North River pier. She went on board a Liverpool steamer about to start, and I followed and took her into custody. Instead of showing fight, she was quiet as a lamb. She seemed heartbroken over something.

" 'Don't take me away till the steamer goes,' she begged, and of course I consented. I wanted to see who else would turn up. We waited on deck by the gang-plank, but screened from the view of anybody coming down the pier. She kept her eyes strained for the sight of some one, and as the time of departure approached grew nervous and agitated. She cried a little, wiped her eyes convulsively and twisted her handkerchief and dug her nails into it like a woman in fear and agony. She did not seem to be afraid that her friend would be caught. She acted like a woman in love that some man had gone back on.

"When the whistle blew she sank down on the deck in a sort of collapse.

I spoke to her, but she did not seem to hear me. I took her off the steamer, put her in a cab and then she braced up like you see her now. She kept muttering to herself in Italian all the way up here. She's going to make trouble for somebody."

The case was clearing. With Suzanne angry the truth was sure to come out. I sent the detective up to the hotel to get all particulars of what happened there, and was just going to interview the girl when an officer came in and said that a man wanted to see the arrested woman. This was excellent news. The man was a foreigner, the officer said, an Italian. I could not see him, as if it was Del Bonti, as I supposed, he would, iearn my identity, from having met me at supper and be on his guard.

"Put him in the room with her," said I, "and close the door. Afterward bring him here."

And then it was that I regretted the absence of the Italian detective. The room in which Suzanne had been placed was used for a particular purpose. It was an ordinary waiting-room in appearance, with a table, chairs, bare walls and bare floor and no other furniture or pictures that might excite suspicion. But by a simple contrivance connected with the wall every word said in it above a whisper could be heard clearly in a room adjoining and taken down by a stenographer if necessary.

The moment the man entered the room there was a scene. Suzanne was like a tragedy queen. Such a tirade of rage, love, upbraiding and despair mixed together I never heard in my life. She was wild in her rage and contempt, heartbroken in her love and misery. The man said little. He only tried to sooth her in monosyllables. I could not catch his voice well enough to identify it, sup- I posing that I had heard it. My Italian is not up to the academic standard; but I could make out that the man had betrayed her, had lied to her, had made a thief of her, and all for love of the basest wretch, according to her present view, that walked the earth. The man seemed to wait cleverly for the storm to blow itself out, and then started in to sooth her. He spoke in a low tone, but cautiously and earnestly. I let him go on as long as he liked.

He finally seemed to win her over— there were embraces and protestations, etc.— but whatever she had promised, Suzanne was once more under his thumb— what she had agreed to I could not make out.

I went back to my private office and sent for the man. I was not entirely surprised when the officer showed in my excellent friend the Count.

I was not entirely surprised; but confess that I was not ready to act. Here  was the most polished and accomplished scoundrel I ever had met— my friend with the keen sense of humor and the excellent cigars, with two women, his wife and Suzanne, absolutely under his thumb. I then determined to land this accomplished gentleman if possible, and I gave him plenty of rope, listening with babe-like innocence and interest to his story, which was most excellent of its kind.

He had been playing the detective himself, he said, had watched Suzanne studying a list of steamer departures which she obtained at the hotel desk. Seeing her depart without permission in a cab, he had followed, but had been  delayed through his imperfect English.  But he had seen her leave the pier in company with a man and had followed , etc.

"Has she confessed to you?" said I.

"Yes."

"She stole the tiara and got a duplicate of the bracelet?"

"No. She denies taking the tiara."

"Knows nothing about it, in fact?"

"So she says."

"Has she obtained duplicates of anything else?"

"No."

"Why did she do it?"

"She's in love with a man. She will not say whom; but of course it is Del Bonti. Del Bonti would not marry her unless she had a fortune. Poor girl! I cannot help sympathizing a little. Love makes fools of the best of them."

"That is true," said I to my excellent friend the Count. "Will you make the charge against her?"

"I shall have to, I suppose," he said; I "but I must consult my wife. She really loves Suzanne," he said, with deep i sympathy for his loving and tender- hearted wife.

"There is no time to lose," said I. "We will go to madam at once. And we will take Suzanne along with us," I added.

"But—" the Count was disturbed— "will that be necessary?"

"Yes," I said. "I want to confront her with her mistress."

"But my wife— she sings to-night— she is a very nervous woman."

"I can't help that," said I.

"But— but business is business," he urged. "If she does not sing she will lose some thousands of dollars. It will surely prostrate her. She is very tender-hearted."

"My business is also business," I said, "I am going there at once, and with Suzanne. If you fear that the scene will be too much for your feelings—"

"Oh no, not at all. I must be beside my dear wife in her trouble," he said.

And so, taking Suzanne with us, we drove to the hotel.

We found madam with her jewels spread out on the drawing-room table engaged in examining them. She was doubtless looking in fear for other duplications. She looked at us in surprise as we entered, and all three seemed to wait for me to speak.

"Madam," said I, "Suzanne was arrested by one of my men this morning as she was taking the English steamer. She has confessed to your husband that she duplicated the bracelet "

Madam started as if struck with a whip, and flushed. She said nothing, but merely poured forth her flood of mental accusation in a way that was crushing.

Suzanne, however, refused to be hypnotized. Madam was a great woman in a great rage. Suzanne, however, was equally aroused, but her feeling was hate for madam. They were like lioness and leopardess. But madam felt only indignation and contempt, while Suzanne loved the Count and hated his wife in an Italian woman's way. Madam, however, had no suspicion of this.

"It is your property, madam," said I, "and you must make the charge against her."

"Yes." she said, calm in her contempt.

"It is most unfortunate," said the Count to her. "To-day you have rehearsal. To-night you sing. Will tomorrow morning suffice?" he asked, turning to me.

"No. It must be done at once." I knew that if he had any time at all he would twist his wife around his finger, induce her to forgive Suzanne, and escape punishment himself.

"Then there is the tiara," said I.

"Oh, yes. Did she take that?" cried madam, furious.

"She denies it," said I.

"She lies!" said madam.

The Count said something to her in Italian which visibly softened her. Then he followed with a warning. I think, that she should do nothing till he talked it over with her. There was business to be considered. She was in a very prominent position, etc.

I felt sure she would not prosecute, and that this had been the Count's promise to Suzanne. To tell madam the truth would not be wise. I had no proof whatever of the love affair.

The situation was a difficult one. Seeking a solution, mv eyes roved about and fell on the jewels on the table. Among them was a fine miniature, set in diamonds, of a man with a Vandyke beard. It was an excellent picture of the Count. The mysterious German was revealed.

"Madam," said I, "do you know Max Feldman?"

"He is a friend of my husband's, an American," said she.

"Have you ever met him?"

"The Count told me, if I remember rightly, that your tiara was all diamonds, with an almond-shaped diamond at the top."

"I beg pardon. I said diamonds and pearls," said the Count politely.

"Yes," said madam.

"Quite so," said I.

"Take her away!" cried madam impetuously. "I cannot bear the sight of her."

"You will prosecute her?"

"Yes. But I cannot come to-day. It is impossible. To-morrow morning."

The Count turned to Suzanne and gave her a look which she understood. Suzanne stood mute and defiant.

There was nothing else to do then, and I took Suzanne away and sent her down to the Tombs.

At ten o'clock the next morning I received the card not of madam, but of that distinguished gentleman Count Ghirardelli.

"Well?" said I dryly.

"My dear wife— she is so tender-hearted— she declines to prosecute."

"It will not be necessary," said I. "We can convict the girl without her."

"I am afraid it will be difficult," said he. "You see— the fact is— we needed money. Suzanne had the bracelet duplicated with madam's consent."

This was an excellent lie, but just what I expected.

"And with her consent of course you gambled it away under the name of Max Feldman."

" Yes," said he, in mock sorrow. "One cannot always win."

"You shaved off your beard the day before you met me, didn't you?"

"Yes, I think I look younger," he said, smiling complacently.

"And you stole the tiara and pawned it in Philadelphia and gave me a false description of it."

"Pardon me. I did not steal it. I took it with my dear wife's consent. We needed ready money," he said.

"And your dear wife will swear to this? "

"Undoubtedly."

"When she knows of the love affair between you and Suzanne."

"Love affair?" He seemed greatly surprised. "Preposterous!" he said, laughing. "Suzanne would never say such a thing. And if she did, my dear wife would never believe it. Think," he said, his sense of humor touched, "if she were so mad as to believe it, how ridiculous it would make her before the public!"

There was no doubt that the rascal had the game entirely in his own hands. He controlled both the women and deceived them both as he pleased. He had reported the loss only because his wife forced him to and he thought it safer to do so himself. Merely as an official formality I went with him to see madam.

She would scarcely speak to me, said nothing except at his dictation, and bore out his story in every particular. I pitied the girl, and was glad she would not suffer.

There was no way of reaching the Count , but I determined to put him on the grill a little on my own account.

"You have misled the police." I said to him alone, "and in this country that is a very serious offense. I shall look up the law in the case and cannot answer for the consequences."

Amid storm, tears, tragedy and other accompaniments, as I learned from the detective, the Count left his dear wife two hours later and took the train for Montreal. She was denied his affectionate and consoling presence until the opera season was over and she rejoined him in Paris. I had his history looked up, and found that his name was Franz Becker,  that he hailed from Mühlhausen in Alsace, and was a commercial traveler in Italy when he met madam at Milan and married her. With her money he bought a title of Count.

With some years' experience to go upon he was without doubt the most graceful, companionable, heartless and conscienceless scoundrel that I ever met.

And I have always wanted a look at the two hundred thousand dollars' worth of jewels in the bank in Rome.

_________________

6: A Detective Adventure

Anonymous

Western Star and Roma Advertiser 29 April 1911

"I AM in rather an awkward, position," said the visitor, slowly, "and I want you to extricate me. I am very confident of your  ability to do so, because of  the successful way in which you solved the Workingham mystery."

"If you will state your case, I will give attention," replied Desmond, ignoring the compliment

"Then you'll come with me to my home?" went on the other, who had given me name of Phillips. "All my documents are there, for, not counting upon a refusal, I did not bring them."

"What is the distance to your house?"

"Three miles or so. I have a cab outside."

The Jehu evidently knew where to drive, for no instructions were given him before the two entered the vehicle. Phillips relapsed into silence, nor did he speak again until the cab drew up to the door of a large brick, house, situated in a street that Desmond did not remember having seen before.

"Here we are," he said, ascending the steps and throwing open the door. "Follow me." And Phillips led the way along a dimly-lit passage and entered a cosy room at the other end.

"Now that you have brought me this long distance you will kindly give me the facts of your case at once," said Desmond sharply, "I may say frankly I do not like this secrecy."

"You are safe in our hands," said the other. There is no need to be afraid."

Desmond noticed the plural. "So we are not alone then?" he said, with a quick glance around the room.

"By no means. I have a few friends here." He touched a bell as spoke and four men entered the room. The detective was startled, but he did not show it.

Phillips burst into a laugh. "Draw your chair up to the table and take a cigar," said he.

The others all proceeded make themselves comfortable, so the detective proceeded to do likewise; so far as he could see there was no cause for alarm.

"Now sir," began Phillips, "I must tell you, first of all, that you are not required to solve any real case of mine. I and Mr. Smithson have made a bet regarding you.

"We were talking the other day about the Workingham affair, and as I said you had found the truth very cleverly, he remarked that, circumstances were greatly in your favor. We began to argue with this result: we have imagined a case and wish you to solve it. We shall tell you a story and act part of it. If you succeed in proving to our satisfaction who the murderer is— for the case is one of murder— you will receive the sum of £100. If you fail, you will receive £10 for your; trouble. What have you to say?"

"I do not like being made the subject of a bet," said Desmond.

"You must go in for it," put in Vernon. The almost pleading tone look caused the detective to look more closely at his pale, thin features.

"Very well, then, I agree," said he and his eyes fell upon the other's face he thought an expression of relief crossed it.

"Thank you," said Phillips. "We will start right away. It has been decided that I tell the first part of the story. Last night I and Lovely there entered this house at ten o'clock. I called Smithson up from his chemical laboratory in the basement, and Walters from his portion of the house, and we awaited the appearance of Vernon and Jackson. But as these two failed to come, after ten minutes had passed we all went upstairs to Jackson's room. There a dreadful sight met our gaze. He was lying dead upon the floor, and close by was Vernon, just recovering conciousness."

"It was plain that Jackson had been murdered, and all things pointed to Vernon as the one who had done the dastardly deed. He had been stabbed by the latter's knife. We formed the idea that he himself had been knocked senseless by a blow upon the head, dealt by the dying man in a supreme, final effort. We charged Vernon with the crime, but he denied it: but you shall hear his explanation from his own lips. Mr. Desmond."

"At nine o'clock," began Vernon, trying to keep his own voice steady, "I entered the house at the front and proceeded straight upstairs to Jackson's room, having to see him upon a purely private matter. There was no-one about that I could see; indeed, everything was so quiet when I opened the door that I thought Jackson himself must be out. But as I went inside quick footsteps sounded behind me. I was about to turn, when I received a crushing blow upon the .back of the head. I staggered forward, caught a glimpse of Jackson lying on the floor in a pool of blood, and then fell down senseless, to if awake some time later and find myself accused by you gentlemen as his murderer. But I am innocent, I swear it."

He made this declaration, so earnestly as to call forth sarcastic comments from Smithson.

"Have you anything more to say?" questioned Phillips. "Can you account for the fact that your knife caused Jackson's death?"

"I cannot. Until it was shown to me as the one used I had not seen it for a week," relied Vernon with emphasis.

"That will do. Now, Mr. Desmond, you have heard the main facts. Circumstantial evidence of this strongest kind is brought against Vernon. His story is a simple one. Can you prove his guilt more conclusively, or establish his innocence? You may ask any questions you please.

"Had Vernon any ntotive? Had Jackson ever quarrelled with him, Smithson, or Walters?" paid Desmond, after a moment's thought

"He had quarrelled with both me and the accused," put in Smithson, rather sullenly.

"Did you see Jackson last might?" asked the detective, turning and looking at him.

"Me? Yes, but I left him well and hearty at about ten minutes to nine, and proceeded downstair to my laboratory. Jackson looked at his watch and gave me the time."

"Walters can be left out of it," thought Desmond, "It rests between Smithson and Vernon."

"Have you any more questions to ask here?  If not, you shall see the position in which we find the two men," said Phillips.

"I have no more questions at present," was the reply.

"All right. Vernon, you and Lovely go Upstairs and get ready for the parts you are to play. You understand what to do. Knock when ready."

The men addressed arose and left the room, Vernon giving a backward glance that puzzled the detective.

"I think they will be ready for us shortly," said Phillips. "This sort of thing is rather nerve-shaking. Smithson looks really ill."

"Do you mean to accuse me of—" began: Smithson.

"Of poor nerves?" put in Phillips, with a warning glance at the other. "Oh, no. You look really white and troubled, that's all."

"He wants some of his town drugs," said Walters, with a forced laugh. "Come, come, don't get to words. Listen. Vernon is knocking. He is awaiting us."

Phillips put down his cigar and led the way upstairs, the others following. "This is the room," he said to Desmond. "Lovely is in the position we supposedly found Jackson. Enter, please."

The detective did so. He could not suppress a start of surprise.  There, lying upon the carpet, was Lovely, attired in a brown check suit. His arms were outstretched, his face fixed as if in death. A small blood-stained knife and a heavy knobbed stick were by his side. The affair seemed too grim to be mere play.

"Vernon will show us how he entered the room," said Phillips. "This may seem unnecessary, but it is his own wish. Perhaps he wants to do a bit of realistic acting. Ready, Vernon?"

"I am." The man having first turned the gas low, proceeded to the door and closed it behind him. After a moment's wait, he opened it again, and, stepping inside, spoke as to himself: "Evidently Jackson is out. I'll go downstairs and await, his return. The business—"

He stopped suddenly and made as if to turn. To the watchers it was as if some unseen person had struck him an unseen blow. He uttered an exclamation, half or terror, as he staggered towards, the centre of the room.

"My God," he muttered, as he came to the body of the pseudo-Jackson; then he fell down in a dead faint. He had gone too far with his acting. This latter was reality.

"He's overdone it," cried Phillips. "Fetch water. Here, Lovely, get up and help."

In a very short time, Vernon opened his eyes and glanced quickly around.

The others had their attention elsewhere for a moment. "Bend down, quick," he whispered, just loud enough for the detective to hear. "Save me, for God's sake. Save me. It is—"

"Here you are," shouted Lovely, running up with the brandy. "Pour it down his throat. Now help him on the couch."

The whispered words of the prostrate Vernon had brought the detective to the conclusion that there was something behind all this; what at present he could not imagine. He saw that the best thing to do would be to proceed as if he suspected nothing. So, with a jesting remark, he proceeded:

"Where was the supposed Jackson stabbed?"

Lovely pointed out the place.

"But a stab there would not be fatal," said Desmond.

Phillips frowned sharply at him. "He bled to death," he said. "You will understand that a large quantity or blood would flow from such a wound."

"Certainly, certainly. I suppose I can examine his clothes?"

"There is absolutely nothing in any of the pockets. No clue is to be found there."

"Nothing whatever? This is the watch Mr. Smithson referred to, I suppose?"

"Yes, Jackson looked at that when he told me the time," replied Smithson.

"Very good." Desmond drew it out of Lovely's pocket and opened the case to glance at the dial. His heart gave a sudden jump; only with difficulty did he restrain a feeling of triumph. But his face was as unmoved as before as he went on with his inquiries.

"There is a dark corner here," he said, entering the passage. "Anybody hiding in it would be unseen by a man ascending the stairs. You could have waited here, Mr. Smithson."

"What the— of course, but I went straight downstairs after leaving Jackson. It must be plain that I could not be the one Vernon alleges— alleges, bear in mind— struck him."

"Quite plain, eh? Yet such a thing is as probable as the supposition that a dying man struck him with such force as to render him unconscious for nearly an hour. But I have seen all that I require. Shall we go below again?"

Phillips agreed, and the five men went downstairs, Vernon having by this time quite recovered. They seated themselves around the table again, and after a moment or two, the question was put to Desmond whether he had formed his conclusions.

"Yes, to my own satisfaction, if not to  yours," was the reply. "In the first placed Vernon is quite innocent. His story I believe to be true. Perhaps in a law court my evidence would be insufficient to convict, but I unhesitatingly declare Mr. Smithson to be the murderer."

For a moment there was a strained silence in the room, to be broken by a loud oath from Smithson, whose face had suddenly become livid.

"Your proofs," he shouted, hoarsely.

"Yes, your proofs," echoed the others, eagerly.

"First, this shred of cloth that found in that dark corner of the passage upstairs belongs, if I mistake not, to the coat Mr. Smithson has on. That proves that he stood there against the wall, does it not? Secondly, let me ask a question: Has anyone of you been in Jackson's company of late between the hours of 8.30 and 9 o'clock? But, of course, as he only exists in the imagination, the question is—"

"No, no, I have been in his company about that time," put in Phillips, quickly. "You see, the real Jackson is Lovely," he added, in explanation.

"Have you seen him, then, do anything with his watch?"

"I have seen him take it out and open the front; but what he did I cannot say."

"Your watch, please, Mr. Lovely. Thank you. Now observe the hands. Do you see anything peculiar? But, of course, you know all about it, don't you?"

"No. Why, the hands have caught in one another. The watch has stopped at about seventeen minutes to nine. And Smithson declared that Jackson told him the time from the watch later than that. The statement was untrue. You, Smithson, must have been in the  room when Vernon entered the house. You heard him. ascending the stairs, and took Jackson's stick and hid in the passage with the rest, as Vernon has stated."

"You are correct, Mr. Desmond. Allow me to congra—"

Smithson sprang up with a cry of rage.

"Curse you," he shouted; "curse you." And before the unfortunate detective could do anything to defend himself the man lifted the chair high in the air and brought it down with a dull thud upon his skull, knocking him senseless to the floor.

DESMOND knew no more until he found himself in bed in his own home, with a nurse sitting beside him

"How long have I been here?" he asked, weakly.

"You were brought in a cab early this morning. I and the doctor were sent for by a stranger. Do you feel better now?"

"I am getting stronger every minute. What was the stranger like? Can you describe him?"

"Neither the doctor nor I saw him, but. there is a letter he left for you, with instructions that you had to read it as soon as you were better. Will you sit up?"

When the nurse had arranged the pillows he tore the envelope open. His head was aching badly, but in his anxiety to hear the truth about his adventure he forgot that. The first thing he pulled out was a £100 banknote; then followed the following letter:

My dear Friend,

I call you this because you have saved my life. As you no doubt will guess, last night's affair had more reason for it than a mere bet; it was a matter of life and death. We are a peculiar society, of American origin; more I cannot say for obvious reasons. The story we told (and acted for you) had actually occurred, only the real Jackson was not killed outright. He was lying unconscious in the house the whole of the time. It was absolutely necessary that we should know who had attacked him, so your aid was invoked. You proved that I, who was accused, with great reason, I admit, am innocent, and found Smithson guilty, for after his assault upon you he confessed all. According to our rules he will not live long. I must warn you not to attempt to trace us. By the time you read this we shall have vanished.

Again do I thank you. Believe me to be, always your debtor,

Jamestone Vernon.

And this was all. Hugh Desmond has since devoted days to the search for the street and the brick house, or for some of the men whom he saw there, he has not succeeded. They have disappeared as utterly as if the earth had swallowed them up. Did the real Jackson recover from his wound? Did Smithson meet with the penalty hinted at in the letter? These are questions he may never have answered. But he will never forget that night's strange adventure, when he solved a mystery by the two hands of a watch catching in each other.

_______________

7: Detective Tempest Faces the Music

Ward Muir

1878-1927

Kangaroo Island Courier, 15 August 1914

'THE THIEF musn't slip through your fingers,' said Mr Neville Barker departmental chief of the detective force. 'If you let the thief slip through your fingers, Tempest— well, you'll have to face the music, I warn you.'

'He won't escape me,' said the young detective.

TEMPEST rang the bell of a small but well-appointed house in Mayfair two days later, and as he did so he glanced hurriedly round to see that his plain-clothes men were at their posts. Yes, the house was surrounded No one could enter or esoaps from it without being observed or noted. All was going well. At any moment he would be able to make the arrest.

'I want to see Mrs Carshalton,' said Tempest, stepping smartly into the lobby when the door was opened. He was ushered into a luxurious apartment, and the servant withdrew. At the same moment a woman rose from the sofa on which she had been lounging.

'Well, Dick?' she said.

'Good heavens! Sylvia!' gasped Tempest.

'Yes.' She shrugged her shoulders. 'You behold in Mrs Carshalton no less a person than the Sylvia you once knew as the clergyman's daughter in you far-off country home. Odd, isn't it ? You, on your side, have changed even more than I have. You are now the famous young detective, Richard Tempest, the dreaded of criminals, and, I, on my side, am— one of those criminals.'

'This is horrible,' he stammered.

'You have come to arrest me on the charge of stealing the Countess of Desford's jewels? I expected you. Here I am.' She met his eyes fearlessly.  'After all these years we meet— like this! Strange that it should be your hand which it to deal the blow.' Her voice sank. 'You— who loved me once.'

'And who will always love you,' he muttered hoarsely, sinking on to a chair, and burying his face in his hands. For a moment there was silence— a poignant silence. Mrs Carshalton's face had lost its reckless look, and was drawn with pain.

'How did you come to— to this?' Tempest asked at last.

'Carshalton, my husband, brought me to it,' she said dully. 'He's dead now. But he and one of his bosom companions taught me to be what I am— and I learnt only to easily. When you have me under lock and ktsy, and make inquiries about me, you'll find the Desford jewel theft is but one of several items to my account. It's the biggest, though— my biggest coup, and the one  that's to end it all.'

Drops of icy perspiration burst forth on his brow, he did not heed them. He was going through a terrible ordeal. On the one hand was his love for Sylvia; on the other, his duty, his prospects, his honour.

'Oh give me time!' he muttered. He staggered to his feet, and, blind with misery, found his way from the room. His head was whirling as he stepped into the street, but with a mighty effort of will be forced hie features into a semblance of calm as the sergeant who was in charge of the men watching the house approached him deferentially.

'Do you wish to act Mr Tempest ?' the man asked.

'No— er— not yet. We can't effect an arrest for the present.' Detective Tempest hardly knew his own voice as be spoke.

'I suppose I'm to keep the men on guard as before sir?'

'Yes — no,' Tempest vacillated. 'Yes, of course, sergeant.'

'What will the chief say?' was Tempest's thoughts as he hastened towards his rooms.

ii

AFTER a sleepless night Tempest was vaguely looking at his morning's letters when he came to one which riveted his attention. It was a small envelope of thick blue paper, curiously woven and embossed, and a faint scent of wild rose was wafted from it. The scent Sylvia used. He remembered it— should he ever forget it? The drawing-room in the little house in Mayfair was heavy with it.

He tore open the envelope and drew forth the letter from within— aquaint sheet with scalloped edges, and with the perfume clinging to its every fibre. Yes, it was from Sylvia. He read:

Come and take me at once, Dick; I can't bear the suspense. You won't get the jewels, so you must get me or you will be ruined. The jewels are gone, my accomplice has them now. But come— come— and put me out of my misery.

Sylvia.

Tempest stared at the letter. He knew he had reached a turning-point in his career. He must save Sylvia — somehow; or if she could not be saved, he, at anyrato, would not be responsible for her arrest. That was, more than he could endure. He must go to his chief, and hand in his resignation. He would abandon the case— abandon the force and his life-work.

The chief's office when he reached it was unattended. Mr Neville Barker was engaged elsewhere, so Tempest decided to wait for him.

His eye strayed round the room, automatically taking in its details. Under the chief's table he noticed a brown handbag, with the familiar initials 'N.B.' painted on it. On the table was a box of expensive cigars— Baker had always been famous for his taste in cigars. A bright fire burned on the hearth, and Tempest mechanically sat to warm himself at it. He was shivering— but not with cold.

In the fender lay the remains of a torn-up letter. Some of the pieces— most of them— had been burnt, but a few had fallen from the fire.

Tempest looked at them with lack-lustre eyes. Fragments! His life was to be rent in fragments such as these. Suddenly he bent down and picked up one of them. Thick, blue paper— quaintly woven— scalloped edges! His heart beat fast. There was no writing on this portion of the paper, but still it was extraordinarily like—

He held it to his nostrils and inhaled wild rose scent.

His chin sank on his breast in thought. Then, without waiting for the return of his chief, he hastened from the room. A brilliant stroke, a lucky guess, and he might win the game yet. Aye, and 'face the music', too, with a smile.

iii

IN the Mayfair drawing-room he met Sylvia boldly— Sylvia, so wan and tired-looking, so different from the would be cynical Sylvia who had received him the day before.

'I have found your accomplice.'

He plunged immediately into his game— the game of bluff be was playing for freedom's sake. A look of profound relief rose on Sylvia's face, though she tried pathetically to hide it.

'I shall describe him to you,' Tempest went on. 'He is a tall, stoutish man with a waxed moustache— usually dresses smartly. I know where he lives, and the name under which I know him— though this may not be the name he has given you— is Barker, Neville Barker. Do you know who he is? I mean do you know his profession, Sylvia ?'

She shook her head.

'He has already tried to betray you,' said Tempest bitterly, 'and to betray me, too.' He was beginning to fit together the links of this fiendish plot. 'He knew of— of my love for you, didn't he Sylvia?'

She nodded, 'How did you know that? He and Carshalton often joked about your boyish devotion— you remember how you wrote vowing never to marry anyone but me. Carshalton had found your love letters to me— I always kept them— and he read them aloud to Barker one night, as a joke, to torture me. They had been drinking together.'

'And Barker has the Desford jewels?' asked Tempest.

'He called yesterday after you left, and took them away in a handbag. I don't know how your men allowed him to pass.'

Tempest could have laughed aloud. Naturally his men had allowed the chief of the detective force to pass.

'It was a brown handbag, wasn't it,' he said.

'Yes, with "N.B." on it.'

He sprang into a hansom, and five minutes later was in the chief's office once more. There lay the brown handbag, still in its former position under the table. Cunning Barker— who knew that this place was the one spot iu the whole universe where the Desford jewels were safe to be unsought.

'Well, Tempest, my boy,' drawled the chief, leaning back in his chair and puffing at a cigar. "Caught the Desford thief yet?'

'Yes.'

Barker was slightly taken aback.

'But I don't intend to arrest her,' Tempest added slowly.

'Then it's a "her" and not a "him".' Barker was trying hard to be jocular.

'You were right,' said Tempest. 'The thief was a woman. That being so, I think the recovery of the jewels will be sufficient—'

Barker started. 'You've got the jewels?'

'Yes; and'— Tempest spoke distinctly— 'and the accomplice, who turns out to be a good deal more guilty than the thief herself.'

Barker paled. His cigar dropped from nerveless fingers.

'Outside this door, Mr Barker, an inspector is at present waiting, and if I call out to him be will enter, and I shall insist on this handbag being opened in his presence.' Tempest's voice was steady, but its steadiness cloaked an intense anger. 'l am going to walk off with that handbag. You shall quit England immediately, and I shall take this handbag and contents and restore them to the Countess of Desford. Once you are out of the country, I believe that Mrs Cashalton will be able to live straight again— with my help. You agree to the terms of the bargain?'

ACCORDING to the papers, the Desford jewels were recovered, but the thief was never run to earth; and so one connected this mystery with the marriage, soon afterwards, of Richard Tempest, the new chief of the detective force, with Mrs Sylvia Cashalton, of Mayfair; or the sudden disappearance of the former chief, Neville Barker— who had preferred not to face the music.

_______________

8: The Corner of John Street

Percy James Brebner

1864-1922

Chronicle (Adelaide), 9 Dec 1916

The Grand Magazine, Nov 1916

HE CALLED A TAXI, then he looked up at the sky, or rather towards the sky, for the January afternoon was almost as dark as night owing to an overhead fog. The order of his actions revealed the state of his mind; he was determined to go yet felt it was not the land of day to choose for such a journey. Perhaps, like the breather, he was in an abnormal condition.

'I want to go to John-street, the corner of John-street,' he said to the driver. It is out beyond Ealing, New Ealing, I think they call it.'

'Yes, sir. I know the part although I don't happen to know the street, but I'll find it.'

For a few moments the man seemed rather surprised to find himself in the taxi, he had almost expected the driver to get out of such a journey, plead the weather or shortage of petrol; instead, he seemed quite pleased with the job, and in the vague directions appeared to find an added zest to the journey. It may have been that work didn't come his way very easily.

The taxi was an old one, nothing smart about it, various collisions had come its way, evidenced by the repairs, and the engine must long ago have run to the limit of miles for which it was guaranteed. However, the traveller was in no hurry, was under no strain of excitement, although, as a fact, curious circumstances, extending over a long period, had led up to this journey to unknown John street. It was only natural he should pass them in mental review as he went.

He knew little about London, and Ealing was as much a mystery to him as the Desert of Sahara; yet, leaning back in his seat, he stared straight in front of him, paving no attention to the streets through which he passed, nor to the traffic about him. His vision was bounded by the broad back of the chauffeur who wore a rough overcoat, old and but of date in style,  somewhat horsey in cut, with two buttons at the back.

The passenger was conscious of the chauffer's appearance without really thinking about it, it was there, a kind of background to his reverie. He had travelled a considerable part of the journey before he changed his position, making no attempt to rouse himself out Of the past into the present. Now he put his hand into his pocket for his cigarette case but stopped midway in the action of taking it out. There were no buttons on the back of the chauffeur's coat, but—

He leaned forward a little, staring hard, then sat back again. Two fixed and unblinking eyes were looking into his. They were inside the cab. They might have belonged to a person sitting on the let-down seat opposite, only there was not the faintest outline of a body there, and the seat was not down. They were rather catlike eyes, but he decided they were human or had been.

At first he pressed himself as far back in the corner as possible, away from those eyes, but after a few moments he made an effort, mental and physical, to throw off the delusion The eyes did not vanish, if anything they became more intense and compelling.

Taxis rattled past emphasising the fact that he was in the midst of busy, normal life, yet the eyes remained. They did not gradually fade into two buttons in the back of a greatcoat as the passenger expected them to do. His hand was still in his pocket grasping his cigarette case, but he did not take it out, nor did he look away from those eyes. He could not.

'Asleep, sir?'

He started. The cab had stopped and the driver had opened the door.

'Asleep! Yes— yes, I must have been,' he said; but he was thinking the eyes could have nothing to do with buttons because they had been there after the driver had left his seat.

'This is John-street, sir. It seems a longish street, but this is one corner of it.'

'Quite right. This is where I get out.'

'Do you happen to be going back soon, sir? I could wait. You will have some difficulty in picking up another taxi here.'

'I am not going back. I don't know when I shall be going back.'

He paid a liberal fare and walked up the street;, anxious to get away from that taxi. He would not have got into it again in any circumstances. He walked on until it had gone, then turned back.

Yes, this was the comer of John-street, there, was the name painted up, but it could not be the place he wanted. There must be some mistake. These were all small houses, as new as if they had been finished yesterday, and the house he sought was quite different.

He glanced across the road at a brick wall, an old wall with a stout wooden door in it. The house he wanted might be behind that wall. He crossed the road. Cut into a stone slab let into the brickwork by the door was the name— Mansfield Lodge.  It was the house, but he walked away from the door after raising his hand half-way towards the bell. He wanted a few moments to pull himself together. Those eyes in the taxi had taken a good deal out of him.

He lit a cigarette as he walked slowly up the road. After all it was a stupid day to have chosen for his business. True, the fog was not quite so bad out here, but even in these now houses they were beginning to light up; in that old house the darkness would be—

'Dash it all, I never was a coward,' he said, flinging away the cigarette. 'It is too late to begin being one now. Of course I shall go in.'

He recrossed the road and walked slowly back. A boy passed him, whistling, and lent an atmosphere of encouragement. The electric light was suddenly turned up in a house an he passed, and a red ball glowed above the gate. A doctor's.

He paused to read the name on the brass plate— Dr. Harry Rogers. A young man set up for himself in this new neighborhood— a very normal, a very ordinary neighborhood really. At one time they were all large houses about here no doubt, they had been bulled down, and the ground cut up for building purposes, all except Mansfield Lodge.

These reflections brought him to the bottom of the road on the side opposite to Mansfield Lodge.

He stood looking at the old wall, and above it. There were some trees, grown ragged with neglect. He was not quite sure whether he could see the house in the gloom beyond, but that didn't matter. He was going on. He crossed the road quickly, walked to the door, but did not ring. He took from his pocket some keys tied together with string, chose one, and was putting it into the door when he stopped.

There was a grille in the door, shut, he was sure, a moment ago, but now— now he did not know whether it was shut or open, what he did know was that a pair of eyes were staring into his from that grille, the same eyes which had stared at him in the taxi.

He started back, turning away from the door, from those eyes. He did not want to look into them again, he was afraid of them. What was the matter with him? Up the road glowed the red lamp. It suddenly looked exceedingly friendly. He wanted to talk to someone. Why not? He asked himself the question and promptly answered it.

Two minutes later he was ringing the doctor's bell, and almost immediately afterwards he was facing a round little man who seemed delighted to see him.

'Come in. come in. I've been expecting you.'

'Expecting me!'

'Nothing mysterious in that,' said the other, leading the way into a room at the back. 'I happened to be looking from an upstairs window, saw you get out of a taxi, and watched.'

'Why?'

'Just curiosity. I'm full of it, born that way.' He looked little more than a boy. His round, laughing face had not a line in it, his blue eyes were as innocent as a child's, there was not a suspicion of hair either on upper lip or chin.

'You are Dr. Harry Rogers, I presume?' said the visitor.

'Ah, the brass plate outside. Circumstantial evidence again, and circumstantial evidence is so often wrong. It is wrong in this case. No. Dr. Rogers is away, mending a breakdown in his health. I'm the locum, Reginald Neeves by name. Have you ever heard of Neeves on Nerves?'

'I'm sorry, I—'

'Don't apologise. It is a small book and is not as well known as it will be some day. Anyway, I'm that Neeves. Human activity is compelled by circumstances, Mr.—'

'My name is Withers— Anthony Withers.'

'Circumstances have much to do with our activities, Mr. Withers. Look at me. You wouldn't take me for a doctor; you might doubt whether I was old enough to be a first year's student. Youth is charming, but it plays the devil with a doctor. I don't look the part and— let me whisper it— looking the part is the chief asset with a large percentage of medical men. I have been trying unsuccessfully to get older for the last half-dozen years. People put no faith in a man as young as I look, so I have been ekeing out an existence on locums, and in my spare time have studied nerves. That is my history, what is yours?'

'It is not to be told so concisely, I am afraid.'

'Time is of no consequence,' Neeves said. 'Stay, I will tell you something of your history. You are a stranger in Ealing, and I should say in England. You have eyes that are accustomed to great distances, so I should sav you have lately come from one of the colonies. A friend or relation, probably the latter, lives, or did live in Mansfield Lodge yonder. You have come to see him, or to take possession of his property. I could not see distinctly, but, judging by your attitude at the door in the wall just now, I fancy you have the keys of the house! Well, you didn't go in. Something stopped you. Nerves, I said to myself as I watched you. Then you rang my bell and I opened the door expecting nerves.'

'I've never suffered from nerves in my life,' said Withers, 'at least, not until to-day. The fact is, Dr. Neeves, your red lamp looked friendly and I wanted someone to talk to. It was worth paying a fee for.'

'Talk away. Bother the fee'

'Your guesswork comes near the truth,' said Withers. 'I have been in Australia all my life, went there as a child with my father and mother. My mother was the sister of Joseph Cockrane who until recently lived at Mansfield Lodge. There must have been some desperate quarrel in the family, because, gentle as my mother was, she certainly hated her brother, and I have no doubt the fault was on his side. We had one or two other relations in England, but when they died nothing in the nature of a legacy or remembrance of any kind came our way. I have heard my father and mother say it was Uncle Joseph's doing, that he had got the whole family under his thumb. I judged that my people would have been under his thumb too had they not cleared to Australia.'

Neeves smiled and nodded his head. He might have been listening to a humorous tale. He seemed physically incapable of looking serious.

'My people died,' Withers went on, 'and I forgot all about Joseph Cockrane. I am doing fairly well out there and wasn't expecting anyone to leave me money. One day I received a letter from a solicitor over here, a Mr. Linacre of Gray's Inn-road. My Uncle Joseph was dead, he wrote, and to make reparation for the way in which he had treated my family had left me his heir. The lawyer enclosed a letter which my uncle had written to me before his death, a sort of confession of his hardness and uncharitableness. Mr. Linacre informed me that the property ran into several thousands and strongly advised me coming over to look after it. I wanted a peep at the old country and this was an excuse for a holiday.'

'You speak as if you didn't believe in that fortune.'

'I'm not quite sure that I did. You see I had grown up in a fixed idea regarding my uncle. I called on Mr. Linacre, and he soon convinced me the fortune existed and that it was mine after the necessary formalities. Until I saw the lawyer I did not know my uncle lived at Mansfield Lodge. I had never heard the name from my people. It appeared that the house had been left just as it was, my first business being to look at the contents, decide what I would keep and; make arrangements for the sale of the rest. The lawyer said the contents were valuable. He gave me the keys although I believe a man and his wife are looking after the place. Sleep there, I think. I didn't come at once; I gave him time to let the caretakers know I was coming.'

'Why did you choose such a miserable day?' Neeves asked.

'Well, I had made up my mind to come to-day, so I came. I dare say I thought there might be no fog out here, and it isn't so bad.'

'And you didn't go in after all. Why not?'

Withers told him of his experience in the taxi. 'As you were watching me, doctor, you saw that I went to that door twice. The first time I intended to ring the bell, but I didn't. I walked up the road to try to forget those eyes. The second time I meant to let myself in, and then those eyes looked at me from the grille or— or I imagined they did. It was then that your red lamp looked so friendly.'

'You don't drink?' queried Neeves.

'Not to excess. I am not a teetotaler.'

'I judged you a temperate man,' said the doctor, 'so we start unhandicapped. Yours is a very interesting case, Mr. Withers. I could be technical, but it would not explain. There are some things you cannot explain, though scientists won't admit it. Let us be practical, the manner of your uncle's repentance was peculiar, to  say the least of it; the letter, for instance, left with the lawyer instead of being sent direct to you. Still, old men get eccentric, so we won't lay too much stress on this point. But giving you the keys when caretakers were in the house seems to me extraordinary, a quite superfluous proceeding. Did it not strike you so?'

'I cannot say it did. I suppose Linacre  thought the caretakers might be out, and didn't want me to have my journey for nothing.'

'But he communicated with them; they would be expecting you. No, that explanation won't do. You must have come to England, Mr. Withers, immediately on receipt of the lawyer's letter?'

'I did. I had made up my mind to take a holiday before I received it.'

'And your uncle must have died at the end of October. I have been locum here since then, and there was a funeral from Mansfield Lodge the day after my arrival. He was not a patient of Dr. Rogers. It was a very simple funeral, a hearse and one mourning coach, and there were only two mourners. I was not in a particularly curious mood that day, but I happened to be coming back from a visit just as the funeral started, and strangely enough I was starting out to pay another call when the mourning coach came back. Only one man got out. I  imagine it was the caretaker. Once or twice I have seen his wife taking things from tradesmen at the door, but I have never seen either of them leave the house nor met them about the neighborhood, so the lawyer giving you the keys is extraordinary. Now you come to me with jumpy nerves and Mansfield Lodge seems to be the cause. A far less curious person than I am would become speculative.'

'You ought, to have been a detective instead of a doctor,' laughed Withers.

'Ah, my innocent appearance would have been an asset then instead of a drawback, wouldn't it? Well, just now a detective might be of more use to you than a doctor.

'Are you suggesting that I should go to the police?'

'No, but forgetting my profession for a moment, I am suggesting that as a detective I might help you to solve the problem,' said Neeves earnestly, though still with a smiling face. 'I do not like your Mr. Linacre's way of doing business. It seems to me you were meant to use the keys he gave you, and had you rung the bell I do not believe it would have been answered. You would naturally have supposed the house empty, let yourself in, and then— well, then whatever devilry was intended would have happened.'

'So speaks the detective; the doctor, I presume, still considers me a bundle of nerves.'

'At present the doctor expresses no opinion.'

'And what does the detective advise?'

'That he should put on his coat and hat, run upstairs to transfer a Colt's revolver which is in a drawer there to his pocket; and then come and see you use those keys. By the way, may I look at them for a moment. Ah, two of them are labelled, I see door in the wall, front door, and you find out yourself what the remainder are for. Well, will you use the detective?'

'Certainly.'

'Good. For the time being Neeves on Nerves doesn't exist. I won't keep you waiting a minute.'

He dashed out of the room with the vim of a schoolboy off to play footer, and five minutes later he and Withers were walking down the road to Mansfield Lodge.

Both men looked at the grille as they stood before the door in the wall. It was closed.

'There are no eyes this time,' said Withers.

'So we use key number one,' said Neeves, 'and don't use it as if you were a burglar, my dear fellow. Remember the house is yours and all that is in it; besides, the worthy couple are expecting you, there is no necessity to frighten them by your stealth. I dare say they are watching for you, and I want to keep in the background until they have seen you.'

Withers therefore entered alone, took some moments to get the key out of the lock, and pretended to close the door; then Neeves slipped in and closed the door with a bang. He wanted to advertise the coming of a visitor.

They were standing on a flagged path under an arched metal covering, supported by wooden pillars up which flowers had climbed at one time. The path ran straight up to the front door.

'Now for key number two,' said Neeves. 'Will you let me do it?''

Withers handed him the bunch and the doctor fitted in the key, making considerable noise with it, but the door did not open.

'Won't it turn?'

'But, but I don't want it to,' Neeves whispered. 'Now is the time for stealth. Come round the house. We must find another door. I don't suppose they use the front door much.'

He led the way, going quickly and treading carefully. There was a light in a curtained window at the back, the only light to be seen, and near the window was a door.

'Their usual exit, I expect, and very likely not locked,' the doctor whispered. 'If it is I'll try to burst it open, and if I don't succeed at once we must smash that window and get in.'

The door was not fastened and they entered a passage. Not waiting to instruct his companion further, Neeves hurried to the room in which the light was, and Withers followed him close enough to see him whip out the revolver and cover the terrified old woman who sat by the table. It seemed to Withers that she must have been terrified before they entered.

'Keep quiet and you won't be hurt,' said Neeves leaning across the table. 'Cry out, and— here, Withers, tie one of these round her mouth and fasten her hands behind her with the other.'

He pulled two silk scarves from his pocket and tossed them to his companion. He had evidently prepared himself for emergencies.

'You heard me call him Withers, didn't I you?' he went on, talking to the woman, 'so you know who he is and why he is here. Help us now and we will make it as light as we can for you afterwards, no matter what your part in the business has been. Where is your husband?' The old woman shook her head as Withers made the scarf secure.

'Where is he?' said Neeves again.

'She cannot answer now I have tied her up,' said Withers.

'Point. Where is he?'

The woman stretched out a trembling arm and pointed to a door. The room was half kitchen, half sitting-room. There were many cupboards, and the door she indicated looked no different from the rest, but it opened, on to a dark flight of stairs which led to the cellars.

'There's some trickery,' said Withers, 'he wouldn't be down there.'

'It fits, it fits excellently,' Neeves exclaimed, making an effort to conceal his excitement and looking as if he might burst out laughing at any moment.  'We are quite safe. See, there is no lock on the door. We can leave her; she is paralysed with fear— her husband's doing, I suppose, certainly not ours. Come on. We are quite safe.'

After a moment's hesitation Withers followed him down the stairs, but he was not satisfied with his companion's argument. He was remembering the eyes which had looked at him in the taxi and from the grille. They were not looking at him now out of the darkness, but he felt that at any moment they might do so, and he was conscious of being very close to peril.

At the foot of the stairs Neeves paused.

'We want to get to that part of the cellar which is under the hall,' he whispered. 'It will be to the left and behind us. Won't it?'

Withers did not answer, and Neeves flashed a small electric torch, keeping the ray on the ground so as to minimise the danger of its betraying their presence.

The cellars ran one into another and were not intricate, and on turning the corner of a wall there was no further need for the torch.

Both men stopped abruptly, and found it difficult to suppress an exclamation.

On the edge of a square opening, at least six or seven feet wide, in the cellar floor, stood a lantern, and beside it crouched a man. His head was tilted backwards. He was looking up into the darkness above him, waiting for something to happen. He was perfectly motionless. Whatever activities he had been engaged upon were over, finished; he had only to await the result.

'Don't move,' Neeves whispered. 'I am going to flash the torch in your face,' and as he did so he said aloud in a firm and clear voice—

'Anthony Withers has come this way instead.'

The effect was instantaneous. The crouching man sprang to his feet, swinging round as he did so, and a cry, like the cry of a wounded animal burst from his lips. The light of the lantern touched his face, clearly defining it against the background of darkness. The doctor did not turn the light of the torch upon him, he kept that steadily on Withers. The two faces were distinct in the gloom of the cellar. For a moment the man stood by the lantern, motionless as a carved image, then suddenly he threw out his arms and the next instant he was gone. There was a short, sharp shriek, then a great splash of water, then silence.

'My God! I didn't think of that,' said the doctor, hurrying forward. 'Carefully, Withers, it is a well.'

'We must get him out, Neeves, we—'

They were standing on the edge, and the doctor sent the electric ray down into the darkness.

'Impossible. See how deep it is. He has only met the fate he intended for you. We must tell the police at once. It is fortunate you came to me to-night.'

'Just how could you know all this? I do not understand.'

'I didn't. I speculated Linacre's strange action in giving you the keys when there were caretakers in the house. Then the keys themselves, two of them so carefully labelled, those for the door in the wall and the front door, the rest not being of any importance. They weren't. Had you entered by the front door, a trap would have given way under your weight, and you would have pitched past the waiting man into the well. He was watching to see the end, ready to push you to your certain death should you by chance strike the edge and have consciousness enough to cling to it. Come, we must get the police at once.'

At the foot of the stairs Withers stopped and caught his companion's arm.

'It is horrible,' he said in a low tone.

'Don't be foolish,' Neeves answered. 'Sympathy is wasted on such a cold-blooded villain.'

'It isn't that, doctor; it is something worse than that. Did you notice his face as he stood there?'

'Yes. Are his the eyes you saw in the taxi?'

'No, no; I don't think so. I had forgotten all about the eyes. No. That face is familiar. Different though it is, as is my mother's face. The man who stood there was Joseph Cockrane, my uncle.'

'Surely, Withers, surely you—'

'I am certain— certain.'

They went up into the kitchen. The woman was still sitting at the table just as they had left her. Neeves took the scarf from her mouth and untied her hands.

'You go for the police. Withers. You will find a man on point duty at the corner by the Red Lion. Turn to your left at the bottom of St. John-street. I'll hear what the woman has to say.'

She had nothing to say. At first Neeves supposed she was speechless with terror. But he soon discovered that she was dumb, and at present she was not in a state to write answers to questions. Even while the police had made full investigations into the career of Joseph Cockrane, much was left to conjecture.

THE WELL was  dragged.

The body recovered was undoubtedly that of Withers' uncle, and the dragging showed that Cockrane was not the only one who had found death in that well. Although it could not be proved conclusively, there was evidence enough to suggest that at least one of Cockrane's relatives had been done to death in the same manner in which he had intended to get rid of his nephew. Probably he was one of those from whom Anthony's mother had wondered that there came no remembrance of any kind, a lonely man who has disappeared from the world without causing any excitement. Withers was also a lonely man, and it was most unlikely that anyone in London would know his movements. Months would elapse before any enquiries were made, if they were ever made. And who would look for a death-trap in New Ealing?

In the old days, before water had been laid on, the well undoubtedly supplied the house, and when it ceased to be used it had not been filled in or built in. Cockrane's discovery of it when he bought Mansfield Lodge may have given him the idea of making the trap in the hall.

Mrs. Forbes, the dumb housekeeper, wrote a long statement, and since the police were able to prove that much of it was true, there was mo reason to suppose that any of it was false. It was her husband who had died, and Cockrane had arranged that he should be buried in his name, that it should be thought he had died and not Forbes. If the master chose to do this, she did not mind. It made no difference to her. She had been afraid of Forbes all her life, and with all his peculiarities she had never been afraid of the master. She declared she knew nothing about any former tragedy. If it had happened she must have been out of the house at the time. She knew that Anthony Withers was coming, her master had told her so; indeed, he said that one of his reasons for having Forbes buried in his name was to benefit his nephew.

It was not until two or three days ago that her master had changed, and the change frightened her. He was terribly excited, threatened to kill her if she did not do exactly as she was told. She was not to go anywhere in the house without his permission, and that evening he had ordered her not to leave the kitchen. He was going to watch for his nephew, he said, and presently he had rushed in, had ordered her not to move out of her chair, and had gone down into the cellar. She had sat there terrified until the arrival of Mr. Withers and Dr Neeves. There was no reason to doubt the woman's statement. When questioned about the lawyer, Linacre, she said she had never heard of him.

Whether the lawyer knew what fate was prepared for Anthony Withers must remain a matter of conjecture, for when the police went to his house he had gone, and could not be traced. He must have known that Cockrane had not died, must have guessed that some villainy was on hand, but how he knew that it had miscarried, and that it was time for him to bolt, was impossible to say. The police believed he had been handsomely paid for helping in the deceit and getting Withers to England, and that he had gone as soon us he had completed his work by handing Withers the keys.

Undoubtedly Joseph Cockrane was a maniac, a homicidal maniac. Dr. Neeves suggested that the family feud had acted on an unstable mind, awakening a latent ferocity which had blended with extreme cunning. The madman had probably conceived the idea of exterminating all the relatives with whom he had quarrelled, and had brought the last of them across the world to meet his fate, holding out the hope of a fortune to accomplish his end.

'And you almost certainly would have met your fate, Withers, had you not rung my bell that night. Now, as sole relative, you inherit your uncle's considerable fortune, and will return to Australia a much richer man than you left it.'

'You and those eyes saved me,' said Withers. 'Can you explain those eyes, doctor?'

'I have helped you as a detective, not as a doctor. No, I cannot explain those eyes. They were sent to warn you of your danger, and mere science has no explanation for such things.'

_______________

9: Her Ransom

Percy James Brebner

Central Queensland Herald 16 July 1942

A DULL MORNING had turned into a wet afternoon, and the weather had a depressing effect on me. By arrangement a cab was waiting for me at the small wayside station, and as we splashed along the muddy country road I found myself worrying over the recent interview I had had with my guardian. His advice always sounded kind and sensible, but somehow it always irritated me. I suppose my independent spirit had much that was headstrong in it, and I was convinced that I should have liked Charles Neville much better if my father had not left him my guardian.

"Of course you must do as you like Nora," he said when I told him that I was going as a companion to an old lady in Yorkshire. "Except as regards your financial affairs I have no longer any control over you."

"I suppose you do not like my going?"

"No. There is no necessity for you to do anything of this kind; you are too young and far too pretty to be entirely independent, and I should much prefer your staying with Mrs Lucas for the present."

"Where you can so conveniently look after me," I said. "No, I am tired of doing nothing. I am nearly 20, and quite old enough to take care of myself. Besides, all I have in the world is a hundred a year, which you will go on doling out to me in quarterly instalments until I am five-and-twenty, and—"

"Unless you marry before then with my consent," he said quietly. "In that case I hand you over the capital."

"I am never likely to ask your consent, so I will fill the intervening years with work."

He shrugged his shoulders, a habit which always made me angry. It seemed to express such superior knowledge joined to such profound pity for my ignorance. He was a barrister, rather a well-known one, but that did not mean that he knew everything.

"When do you go to Yorkshire?" he asked.

"Tomorrow."

"You did not think it necessary to tell me until the last moment, until it was all settled?"

"Was it necessary?" I asked, but the pained look in his face touched me a little. "What would have been the use? You never agree with me."

"I only know of one other point of difference between us," he said. "My objection to Robert Stoneham."

"For which you are unable to give any sufficient reason," I retorted.

"Unwilling rather than unable, perhaps," he returned. "But let that pass. I suppose you have taken steps to find out all about this Mrs Roworth you are going to in Yorkshire?"

"Yes, and Mrs Lucas has seen her letters."

I think this statement lay a little heavily on my conscience as I drew towards my journey's end. It was true enough, but it was Roger who had made the inquiries, and I know this would not have satisfied my guardian, so the statement was a misleading one so far as he was concerned. I wanted to get away from him, and from Mrs Lucas, and, for a time, even from Roger. A month ago Roger Stoneham had asked me to marry him, and I had said "No"; not very decidedly perhaps, but he quite understood that I was not willing to give up my freedom yet, and I had given him no right to suppose that, when I did, it would be to him."

I would not have told my guardian that I had said "No" to Roger for any-thing; he would have supposed that I had taken his advice, and that was the last thing in the world I intended to do. Besides, I had not really made up my mind about Roger. I liked him, but I did not want to give him any promise now, but I might be very glad to do so presently.

The fact of the matter was that I hated having Charles Neville as my guardian. My father had been a most eccentric man, but the most eccentric thing he had done was leaving me in the care of Charles Neville. The terms of the trust were utterly absurd, at 19 I was free to order my life as I would, but if I married without my guardian's consent my hundred a year ceased until I was 25, when I got my little capital of about three thousand pounds. Any girl of spirit would have resented the situation, I argued, but somehow the wet afternoon and the early closing in of the November day took much from the glamour of the new start I was making in life.

The cab drew up before a door in a high wall, and the driver got down.

"This is the Grange, miss. Shall I ring the bell?"

"Do, please."

I did not want to get wet, so I waited in the cab until the door was opened by an angular, hard-faced woman, who looked at me critically, and then ordered the driver to carry in my luggage. My heart sank a little lower than it was already. This was evidently some contankerous old servant, who probably resented my advent, and would take every opportunity of making me uncomfortable.

"You've brought bad weather with you, Miss Heathcote," she said, not unpleasantly, as she led the way along the covered path which ran from the door in the wall to the house. "You'll be glad of some tea, but very likely you would like to go to your room first."

It was a large house with long passages in it, and full of echoes. It gave the impression of being half empty— of not having sufficient people in it. It was depressing, but my room was delightful, a chintzy room with a low ceiling and a window looking over the gardens, Of course, nothing could be anything but depressing on such an afternoon as this.

When I went down, the angular woman was waiting for me in the hall, and took me to a room at the back of the house, very cosy and old-fashioned. She closed the door, and crossed to the little tea-table which stood by the fire.

"You will find that chair comfortable," she said, and, to my surprise, she sat down to pour out tea.

"When am I to see Mrs Roworth?" I asked.

"I am Mrs Roworth," she answered handing me my tea.

"You!" I exclaimed, and then I went on hastily: "Of course, it is not really strange, but somehow I had expected Mrs Roworth would be different."

"Don't apologise, my dear. I can assure you I am very lonely here, and need a companion badly. I am not fond of servants. I only keep one in the house, and as she was getting tea I opened the door."

"Only one servant in a house like this?"

"Don't be alarmed," she answered; "you won't be required to do any menial work. A woman comes in every day, two when cleaning has to be done; and I keep a good many of the rooms shut up to save work. If you don't like spiders, I should advise you not to go into any room when you find the door locked."

The girl who cleared the tea things away was quite young, and not too bright, I fancied; she seemed uncomfortable whenever Mrs Roworth looked at her. It was certainly a curious situation I had come to, but during the evening my spirits revived considerably. Mrs Roworth improved upon acquaintance, and became quite hilarious over a game of bridge-patience.

That night I slept like a top. If there were any sounds about the house dur-ing the hours of darkness they were not sufficient to rouse me. I was down quite early next morning, but Mrs Roworth was already up. She must have been well over 60, but she was exceedingly vigorous.

"You'll want to write and tell your friends you have arrived safely," she said after breakfast. "Don't worry about me; I am always busy in the morning. That room opposite is the drawing room; there is a piano. Play and sing if you want to, you won't disturb anybody. There's the garden if you want to go out."

That evening we played bridge-patience again, and afterwards she would persist in telling my fortune by the cards. I laughed, but quickly under-stood it was no laughing matter with her. She believed in it, and was most elaborate in her methods.

"Why, my dear, she exclaimed, "I didn't know you had money."

"It is a very small amount, Mrs Roworth."

"Three thousand pounds if it's a penny, unless the cards are deceiving me," and she touched two or three of them, as though she expected me to understand. "But there is trouble com-ing unless you are careful. There is a dark man and there is a fair one. Oh, my dear, take my advice and have nothing to do with the dark man."

"And the fair one?" I asked.

She dealt out half a dozen cards rapidly.

"Happiness, prosperity, everything you can desire. Marry the fair one quickly. Ah, there is colour in your cheek ! The cards are speaking the truth. Wait." She gathered the cards to-gether and dealt out 26 of them. "Does his Christian name begin with R?" she asked.

"You are very wonderful, Mrs Roworth."

"It's the cards. People are so sceptical in these days."

Really it was wonderful. Roger Stoneham was fair; I think that was why I first liked him. My capital was about three thousand pounds. I was certainly impressed with Mrs Roworth's fortune-telling when I went up to bed that night. Thinking about it kept me awake, for hours it seemed, and when at last I became drowsy only part of my brain appeared to go to sleep. I was still half conscious of my surroundings, knew that I was in a large house with many locked-up rooms in it, which might hold all manner of secrets. I felt rather lonely, as thnngh no one else was sleeping under the same roof, and then quite suddenly the whole house seemed to be alive.

I was sitting up in bed, wide awake now. Had I heard a scream or had I been dreaming? Dreaming, of course, and I was about to snuggle under the bedclothes again when I threw them back and sprang out of bed. There was a cry, distant but clear, and it was certainly in the house.

I will not say I was not afraid; I was, but it was the kind of fear which compelled me to do something. In a second or two I had put on my dressing gown and was in the passage. I went along the passage and across the landing to Mrs Roworth's room; but as I was about to knock at the door I stopped. Was I certain I had not been dreaming? The house was very still now, the tick of the clock in the hall below alone breaking the silence. I did not knock. I went back to my room.

I said nothing to Mrs Roworth about my disturbed night. With daylight I felt convinced that I had been alarmed without adequate cause. After breakfast I went into the garden, which was large and in rather a tangled condition. Mrs Roworth had told me that a gardener came in two or three times a week and I caught sight of him dig-ging amongst some cabbages. I walked in his direction— I felt like talking to somebody; but the moment he saw me he slouched away. I found him later in another part of the garden, but before I could get near to him he walked away again.

When I entered the house I went up to my room for a book which I had left there, and as I was coming down again I heard Mrs Roworth speaking angrily. She was in one of the rooms to the right.

"You'll do it carefully or not at all. I will not be—"

Someone interrupted her, but it was only a murmur that I heard.

"Very well, see that you do," she returned, and she came into the passage, slamming a door after her. I could not tell which room she came out of.

"Workmen irritate me," she said when she saw me at the top of the stairs. "I suppose I'm a food to let the gardener do odd jobs about the house. You must think me a very bad tempered person.'

I said I didn't. Evidently there were two gardeners at "The Grange" sometimes, and if this one were like the one I had seen, I hardly wondered that he tried her temper.

Mrs Roworth and I were together for the rest of the day. She would make me talk about myself, said it made her feel young again.

"And I am inclined to feel rather old today," she went on. "The fact is, my dear, I was dreaming about you all night."

"What were you dreaming?"

Was this remarkable old lady uncannily clairvoyant as well as a fortune-teller?

"It's the cards— your fortune," she said. "I had a horrible dream that you were in the power of the dark man. My dear, marry the fair one as soon as you can. There is a fair one, isn't there?"

"I know a fair man." I said, and perhaps I blushed a little.

"Marry him," she repeated, and then, looking at me strangely, she went on: "I believe you have said 'No' to him. Take it back, my dear, while you can. Would you like to ask him to come here and see you?"

"Oh, no," I answered.

"Why not? I am good enough as a chaperone."

"Dark or fair, I have no intention of marrying yet."

I must have spoken very decidedly, for she changed the conversation at once.

It was rather late when we went to bed, but I did not go to sleep. I never felt more wide awake in my life. There was no attempt to delude myself that I was dreaming when a scream rang out in the stillness. I was out of bed in an instant. I felt sure that it was Mrs Roworth who had screamed. I believe I was less afraid than on the previous night. Mrs Roworth was curious. She had strange dreams, she had told me so and I thought that she most have cried out in one of her dreams. Once again I slipped on my dressing gown and went hastily down the passage to her room. This time I did not hesitate. I knocked, opened the door and went in.

"Mrs Roworth!"

There was no answer, and I crossed to the bed. It was empty.

I was quite unprepared for this, and I stood for a moment unable to move. Fear had suddenly gripped me. Then, with a great effort, I turned, and immediately hands were over my mouth and rough arms about my body. In a few minutes I was lifted, almost thrown, on to Mrs Roworth's bed, my arms and legs firmly bound.

"You can feel what this is," said a man, touching my forehead with something cold. "It's a revolver, and if you utter a sound, except to answer questions, I pull the trigger."

A candle was lighted, and I saw there were three men in the room.

"You have money," said the man beside me.

"No— only— "

"Never mind where it is; you have money," and until the money is in our hands you will remain a prisoner. If it is not ours within a week from tonight you will be quietly got rid of. Before morning you will be far away from The Grange, so you need not think of rescue. Bring the candle," he went on, turning to his companion, "and paper and ink."

These were brought, and the man lifted me into a sitting position.

"I will undo your hands," he said, "and you will write as I dictate."

"I shall not."

"We shall see," he answered grimly, and then as he began to unfasten my hands he stopped.

"What was that?"

I had not heard anything, but the other two men left the room quickly. The man beside me continued to listen, and presently there was a sound of a scuffle on the landing. Then the door was burst open and the two men re-turned dragging a third between them.

"Now we can make her do anything," laughed one. "This is her lover— been spying he has, and got trapped."

I gave a little cry of bewilderment. I was Roger Stoneham

"Stand him up against the wall there," said the man beside me, and then, turning to me, he went on: "Now, will you write the letter. If it isn't commenced at once I will put a bullet into this fool of a lover of yours."

"What are you asking her to do?" said Roger. He was out of breath, but he spoke calmly.

"We want three thousand pounds for her ransom," was the short answer. "We know all about her guardian. She cannot fool us."

"Will you let me speak to Miss Heathcote alone for a few moments?" Roger said after a pause.

The men hesitated.

"That can't hurt. They're both bound." said one. "We don't want to have any death in this business if it can be avoided."

"Very well," muttered the man beside me.  "We'll give you a quarter of an hour. It is death or the letter then."

My brain was in a whirl. I could not arrange my thoughts in any order. Even Roger seemed unreal.

"Can you ever forgive me, Nora, for bringing you to this?" he said, as soon as we were alone. He had shuffled across the room and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Is Mrs Roworth in league with these men?" I asked.

"I am afraid so."

"But you made inquiries," I said. "Indeed, you first called my attention to the advertisement."

"I know, and yesterday something irresistibly compelled me to come and see that you were all right. What I heard in the village convinced me of your danger, and I broke into the house tonight to save you, with this result," and he lifted up his bound wrists. "But there is a way out. I can give guarantees that will satisfy these men if you will give me the right to do so. Promise to marry me, Nora."

"How will that help us?"

"Oh, don't waste time, dear. We have only a quarter of an hour, and my life is in jeopardy, and yours, too, perhaps. Promise to marry me and it can easily be arranged."

"Could you give me the gaurantees without my promise?" I asked. Never in my life had I felt less inclined to many him than now.

"Nora, you do not understand. I—"

"And you, too, have made a slight mistake, Mr Stonehan. Miss Heathcote does not come of age until she is 25."

Roger stumbled as he started to his feet. The door was opened quietly. I thought it was the gardener I had seen that morning who had entered the room; certainly the clothes were the same, but the man was my guardian.

"The police have already secured your accomplices; this officer will see to you," he said quietly.

My guardian never shrugged his shoulders once as he told me the whole story.

He had always distrusted Roger Stonenam, but he had never guessed near the real truth. Charles Neville had followed me into Yorkshire to make inquiries about Mrs Roworth, and learnt in the village that she had only just taken The Grange furnished, and that she lived alone with only one servant in the house. Then in the village he saw a man he recognised, a criminal who had not long finished a term of imprisonment, and when he found that this man came to The Grange he feared the worst. He at once communicated with the police, and became the gardener that day to watch the house. He and the police had entered at dusk, and had been on watch all night.

"You were in the hands of a notorious gang, Nora. The whole thing was carefully planned, and they attempted to frighten you first so that you might be the more ready to fall into the trap. Stoneham wanted your money."

This was the explanation of Mrs Roworth's wonderful fortune-telling, then. If I had asked her to let Roger come and see me, probably nothing would have happened. My guardian was a dark man. I hadn't thought of that.

"All for my poor three thousand pounds," I said.

"Your father was eccentric, Nora. I thought that I was the only person who knew the facts of the case, but somehow Stoneham must have heard of them, through an eavesdropping servant, perhaps. His mistake was in thinking that you came of age when you were twenty-one. I was not to tell you until you married with my consent, or unless emergency should arise. It has arisen. Your father handed me nearly a quarter of a million of money, which I hold in trust for you. His whole idea was to save you from fortune-hunters."

"A quarter of a million!" I gasped.

"It has been, and is, a difficult trust," he said, "because— well, because you didn't seem to like the trustee. Your father did, you see, and hoped—"

I don't know quite what I said, perhaps it was more the way I looked, but the next moment Charlie was telling me what he declared he had been longing to tell me for years, ever since I was in short frocks, in fact.

In a sense, I suppose, he is still my guardian, but he is something far dearer than that.

_________________

10: The Ghost of the Cabinet

Percy James Brebner

Mail (Adelaide) 20 Dec 1919

I HAD MET the Murchisons in Switzerland. I had gone to Montana for the golf. Murchison had been seized with an immense enthusiasm for the game, but was a shocking player, not the first-class recommendation to the people there one could imagine, but he was such a good fellow, and had such a charming wife and daughter that he was most probably the most popular man in the hotel.

The younger generation to a man, myself included, were the slaves of Joan Murchison. Old Murchison— so he came to be called, although he was not more than fifty-five— and I became exceedingly friendly, and from time to time he was confidential. I learnt that he had spent all his life in Australia, but was now home for good. He had made his fortune, was a millionaire in fact, but you would never have guessed it from his manner, and there was never the slightest suggestion of display about any of them.

'Now I've bought a place in Kent,' he told me, 'not far from Ashford. It stands on the top of a jolly hill, and in clear weather has a glimpse of the sea. You must come and see us, Carling. There is a good sporting golf course in the neighbourhood, and, with practice, I shall probably be able to give you a much better game than I can at present.'

Such a general invitation hardly counted, of course, but Murchison was not that kind of man, so that I was hardly surprised and was extremely delighted when a month before Christmas I received an invitation to spend the festive season with them. I had made no other arrangements, as it happened, and if I had I should have been sorely tempted to break them in order to see Joan again. So it was I came to Hillside.

You could see the house for miles. It stood nearly at the top of the hill, a rambling odd stone edifice, all corners, and gables and unexpected windows, perched against a background of pines. The gardens were in terraces, full of points of vantage from which the views were magnificent. Within the house was quaint and picturesque, a large hall or house-place, which forms a delightful gathering ground for the family, occupying a central position. There was a great open hearth in it, the ceiling was beamed, and the furniture in this hall, and throughout the house, was old and in keeping.

Murchison was as delighted with his home as a child is with a new toy. He took me all over it, pointed out unexpected doors and passages, and a hiding place behind the panelling on the stairs.

'It is beautiful,' I said, 'and your taste?'

'Stop a bit; I am not going to take unmerited credit.' he laughed. 'What we have put into the house is due entirely to my wife and Joan, but as a matter of fact I bought this place as it stood, and there was a quantity of furniture in it. I have made some small structural alterations, but they are all confined to the servants' quarters.'

'I should think the house must have a history,' I said.

'None of any particular interest, I fancy. The last owner soon grew tired of it, and decided to go back to London. Before that it was occupied for short periods by different people, and previously was for a long time in the hands of caretakers. During their residence some idea of a ghost seems to have got about.'

'Since they were in such comfortable quarters they would naturally be inclined to keep the story alive,' I said.

'My idea exactly,' he answered, 'and as we are all rather matter-of-fact persons, we did not consider the ghost a drawback. Certainly it has not troubled us.'

'What is the story?'

'I asked the agent, and he didn't know. I enquired in the village and could hear noticing definite. Weird and unaccountable sounds at night seemed to be the general opinion, evidently something of the good old-fashioned sort, Carling, which used to bring a kind of trembling delight to my childhood, clanking chains, and the rest of it, with a final explanation which involved the doings of smugglers or some equally interesting people. I don't fancy that kind of ghost is going to be much worry to a man familiar with the Australian bush and with the real perils of those who live such an adventurous life as I have done.'

I did not think so either, yet this happened only a few years ago, and today, if yon look up the bill, you will see a house gradually going to ruin, with windows either dark, like empty eye-sockets, or, when, the sun catches them, aflame with fire as though unholy revels were going forward within. The terraced gardens are a tangle of weeds, and only the background of pines remains as it was.

The story is so far definite now, and Murchison would neither sell the place nor pull it down. He could afford to let it fall to ruin in its own way, which was the best thing that could happen to it, he declared.

WE WERE a large party at Hillside when I arrived a week before Christmas, and during the next day or so other arrivals brought the party up to 16, chiefly young people, among them a man named Powell and his sister. He was an architect with ideas, not only on house-planning, but on furniture, too. He has become fairly well known, and I have heard it said that he makes his clients furnish as he thinks best, not as they want to. I have seen some of his work in this direction, and cannot say it appeals to me. Murchison thought a great deal of his opinion, however; had he not done so this history would probably not have been written.

Another guest, who was of greater interest to me, was Denson Lorden. He was a splendid specimen of a man, just a little rough in manner, perhaps, but a man to like. He did appeal to me considerably, and would have done so far more but for the fact that he was evidently a great friend of Joan's. He was Australian-born, his family had been out there a long time, and he and Joan had known each other from childhood. I recognised in him a formidable rival. Whether he considers me formidable or not I cannot say, but I could see he did not like the attention I paid to Joan.

He was rather a curious mixture. Although all his own life had been spent in the open air, in hard work and strenuous days, there was much of the dreamer about him. In the midst of a lively and general conversation he was liable to fall into a reverie, and be far away from his immediate surroundings. It was evidently characteristic, for Joan laughed at him.

'In the clouds again, Denson,' she said on the very afternoon of his arrival. 'You haven't altered in that respect, at any rate.'

He came back to the present with a slight start.

'No, no; nor any other respect,' he said quickly. There was a look in his eyes which told me much. That was the moment when I recognised him as a dangerous rival.

The house party was altogether a very pleasant one. There was not a jarring note in it, and even Powell, whose ideas on furnishing were apt to become tiresome at times, seemed to. have little to find fault with in the arrangement of Hillside.

We were all at tea one afternoon in the hall, only the firelight flickering on the panelling and furniture, a satisfied and contented atmosphere about us, and a delicious smell of buttered toast and hot cakes. There was a sudden pause in the conversation, and Powell broke it.

'There is just one thing wrong here, Mr. Murchison— that cabinet. It is a fine piece of furniture, and is quite lost where it is. It ought to change places with that oak chest.'

'Oh, Teddie, do be quiet,' said his sister. 'If you begin talking shop you will spoil the flavour of these cakes.'

'I can't see what difference it makes where furniture stands,' said Lorden, helping himself to another of the aforementioned cakes. 'A chair is just as easy to sit on, no matter in what part of the room it may be.'

'I entirely disagree with you. For everything in this world there is an obvious place.'

'Powell is right in this case,' said Murchison. 'If some of you fellows are not too lazy to lend a hand, we'll make the change at once.'

It was like Powell to sit where he was and direct operations. The rest of us got up.

'I see the cabinet is screwed to the panelling,' I said.

'Screwed!' and Murchison examined the little clasps which held it on either side. 'Oh, that is only to prevent its toppling forward, I expect. Just ask them in the kitchen for a screwdriver, will you, Joan?'

The cabinet was soon unfastened. It was a solid piece of furniture, standing as firm as a rock.

'Doesn't show much inclination to topple forward, said Lorden. 'This is your idea, Mr. Powell: won't you come and give a hand at the removal?'

'Is it so heavy?'

It was heavy, but we had moved it before Powell had got well out of his seat. He went and examined the holes made by the screws in the panelling.

'No harm done, easily plugged up,' he remarked.

Joan was standing some little distance away, holding the. screwdriver which her father, had handed to her. Perhaps from her point of vision the firelight touched the panelling which the cabinet had hidden in some peculiar way.

'Doesn't it look different to you, somehow?' she asked, turning to her mother, who had watched our labours from her chair by the tea table.

'Naturally the colour would—'

'I don't mean the colour, Mr. Powell,' said Joan, going to the wall and using the screwdriver as a pointer. 'This panel is surely wider than the others, and it doesn't seem to me to be on the same level. You will see what I mean much better if you go and stand over there.'

Powell ran his finger round the edge of the panel, and suddenly there was a click.

'A tiny button under the moulding,' he exclaimed.

'A door,' several of us said in a breath, for one side of the panel had given inwards.

'This is exciting,' said Joan. 'Another secret hiding place, father.'

Powell pushed the panel inwards. It swung easily on its hinges, but the moment he let it go it swung back again and fastened itself.

'Be careful,' said Mrs. Murchison. 'I don't like these self-closing traps.'

Murchison lit two or three candles. 'Come along,' he said. 'We'll investigate.'

We did not all go together. Some of us stood and kept the panel open whilst others went, but we all had our turn. It happened that Joan and I went together, with two or three others, of course, and I only mention the fact because the subsequent events were mysterious in the extreme, and it may be there was significance in a small point of this kind.

A few feet of narrow passage, bearing a little to the left, led to a small octagonal room which was dimly lighted by three narrow slits, filled in with glass, placed just below the angle of juncture between the ceiling and the walls. I may explain that later investigation showed that the room was hidden in the masonry of the older part of the kitchen building, and the projecting roof effectually concealed the window slits. As I have said, the house was all corners, and the discrepancy between the interior space' and the outside plan easily escaped notice. Powell said that from this point of view it was the most cleverly concealed chamber he had ever seen.

The room was furnished simply but completely. When I say simply, I do not mean cheaply. Everything was good, but of a bygone fashion. Dust was everywhere; nothing could have been moved for many, many years, and yet there was a curious sense of life in it. It did not feel like an empty room which had been deserted for a long time. Joan suddenly put her hand on my arm.

'It feels exactly as if someone were here, someone we cannot see, doesn't it?' she whispered.

It was curious that she should have the same feeling, but at the moment the touch of her hand on my arm concerned me more. She had deliberately moved to my side, she had whispered to me, that no one else could hear, and there was a confidential trustfulness in her manner.

Lorden was not with us. I wondered if she would have gone to him instead of me had he been there. We all returned to the hall, the door was allowed to close itself, and Murchison and Lorden drew the oak chest in front of it.

'I rather wish the cabinet had not been moved,' said Mrs. Murchison.

'Oh, but think of the wonderful discovery it has led to,' said Powell. 'This house must have a quaint history.'

'I believe not,' said our host.

'It simply must have,' Powell insisted. 'When I go back to town I shall see if I can't hunt it up. I am convinced that room could tell us stories if its walls could speak; besides, the person who had that cabinet screwed to the panelling must have had it put there to conceal the door. It is not possible that he screwed it into the exact place by chance.'

'The cabinet was there when I bought the house,' said Murchison; 'I believe it has been there a long time.'

'Possibly there was good reason,' Mrs. Murchison remarked. 'By moving the cabinet we may have let loose the ghost.'

'Oh, mother!' Joan was seated near me, and I thought her mother's suggestion frightened her.

'This is the very atmosphere of an old-fashioned ghost story,' said some one. 'It makes you want to draw near the fire and keep close together.'

Some of us laughed, put the discovery had evidently left an impression, which was not altogether comfortable, upon most of us. Lorden was sitting back in the shadows.

'I am going to tell you rather a remarkable thing,' he said suddenly, breaking into a pause. We all turned towards him. He rather startled us.

'The moment I entered that room it seemed strangely familiar to me, just as if I had known it a long time ago, but had forgotten all about it until I saw it again.'

'Is it possible you have seen it before?' asked Powell.

'No, this is my first visit to England. Of course, there is nothing in my fancy. We have all had experience of feeling that some place or incident is familiar; some reflex action of the brain accounts for it, I suppose, but this was curiously real. The moment I got inside that room I felt that I could have closed my eyes and described and told the exact position of every piece of furniture in it.'

It was soon time to dress for dinner, and I fancy most of us found some relief in the fact. The adventure had got on our nerves. We were all glad to dismiss it and think of something else, and when, after dinner, Powell was inclined to return to the subject we promptly shut him up.

A very direct result was the outcome of the affair so far as I was personally concerned. From the moment Joan had confidently laid her hand on my arm in that room our attitude towards each other changed. I grew bolder. I sought her company more definitely. It seemed to be in the natural order of things that I should do so; the others appeared to recognise the reasonableness of it, and Joan herself gave no sign of finding anything strange in it.

Perhaps the beginnings of love are like this. I do not know, I have no wide experience to draw from; besides, this was not the beginning with me. I had  fallen in love with Joan at Montana.

Another thing was also apparent. From the moment Lorden told us of his feeling about the octagonal room he appeared to indulge in his absent-minded reveries more frequently than ever, and it was always Joan who, with some laughing remark, recalled him to himself. Then he would look at her quickly, start a little, and answer her. Poor chap, I was sorry for him. I was sure he cared for Joan, and he could not help seeing how it was with us.

His attitude during the day following the adventure led me to suppose that he accepted the inevitable, but the next day I was convinced to the contrary. He was full of suggestions, excellent in themselves and proclaimed by the house party generally, but they made it quite impossible for me to get away quietly with Joan. Not until after tea did I have her to myself for a moment, and then we were in the hall together.

She said something about it being time to dress, but I begged her to stay for a few moments. She laughed as she sat down, and I was rejoicing at my good fortune when I felt, rather than heard, some one behind me. I turned, quickly to see Lorden on the stairs, looking down at us.

At the same moment a curious thing happened. There was a click, and the door in the panel came unfastened. It did not open.

We all started and turned quickly towards the door. Joan looked at me, and was pale, I noticed.

'It couldn't have been fastened properly,' I said, as I crossed the hall, and, stretching over the oak chest, I gave the door a slight push. It opened about a foot, and then shut itself sharply. There was no doubt about its being securely fastened this time.

Lorden said something which I did not catch and went upstairs.

'I must go and dress,' said Joan.

I did not attempt to keep her. I could see that the incident had upset her. At the bend of the stairs she looked back for an instant and smiled down on me. That made me too happy to think much of Lorden or the opening door.

But the following morning the door gave again under very similar circumstances. I had manoeuvred things rather cleverly. Every one went to the links, even those who were not going to play went for the walk. I pleaded an important letter to write— I had heard Joan ask Mary Powell to excuse her going as she had several things to do. I dare say the plot was rather thin, but it worked all right. I did not attempt to write my letter, and Joan's 'several things to do' consisted of a small piece of needlework which she brought down by the hall fire. I fancy it could have been achieved in any odd moment.

'Haven't you gone with the others?' she began when she saw me.

'I thought I overheard what you said to Miss Powell,' I answered, 'and I wanted to—'

Then the door clicked, just as it had done last night. Joan sprang to her feet with a little cry, and I turned to nee Denison Lorden standing in the doorway of the library.

'That catch is evidently out of order,' I said, as I moved across to fasten it again.

'Curse the door!' Lorden exclaimed. 'I wish they had left the cabinet where it was,' and he passed into the garden without another word.

'I can't stay here. Mr. Carling,' said Joan. 'I am positively afraid of that door. Like Denison. I wish the cabinet had not been moved.'

'Come into the drawing room,' I suggested.

'It is curious, isn't it?' she said, as we went.

'A trifling startling, certainly, 'but it is not very surprising that the catch should have gone wrong. Powell may have strained it when he first opened it.'

Possibly, indeed probably, I should have thought a great deal more of the recurrence of the incident had not my mind been full of something far more important. I closed the drawing room door, and so sacred was the next hour to me I will not share it with any one.

When I opened the door again Joan had promised to be my wife, and that night every member of the house party knew it. There was no reason for secrecy after I had spoken to her father and mother, which I did that afternoon. We received general congratulations, and the statement that the news was no surprise. Denison Lorden was as hearty in his good wishes as any one, and I could see this was a relief to Murchison. He was very fond of Lorden, and had told me quite frankly that afternoon that he was afraid he would feel it.

'Not that there has ever been anything between them,' he said, 'but I am pretty certain, he hoped there would be some day. You see, they have known each other since Joan was a child, and he was a boy just beginning to feel important.'

THE following day was Christmas Eve, a day I am ever likely to remember, even if memory fails me in other matters. We had arranged to have a dance after dinner, and during the evening Murchison suggested some games. He was not too old to enjoy them, he declared, so we ought not to be. He knew several which I had never heard of, and, of course, one of them involved two people going out of the room. This part was given to Joan and me.

The drawing room door was closed on us; we were alone in the hall. Was it very strange that I should take her in my arms and kiss her? The next ten seconds were crowded ones, everything seemed to happen at once.

'Denson!' Joan said suddenly. She was facing the stairs, my back was towards them. She spoke curiously, and I turned. I had not noticed Lorden's absence from the drawing room, but now he was coming slowly down the staircase, leaning on the banisters, a revolver in his hand.

'The last kiss, Mr. Carlin,' he said, with a horrible, short laugh.

I could not speak. I made a movement to drag Joan behind me. The distance between us and the stairs was shot, but I was convinced that Lorden meant to shoot her, not me. When the door in the panel clicked sharply; more, it opened, nearly wide— and stayed open! It was just as if some one stood by it and held it, preventing its closing itself, yet no one was there— no one we could see.

The effect was instantaneous. I say no one was to be seen, but God knows it this was true so far as Lorden was concerned. He uttered a cry like a man in pain, and fired, neither at Joan nor at me. I am certain, but at something behind us. The bullet struck somewhere in the passage which led to the octagonal room, and immediately, as though the person who held it had been hit, the door swung to and shut itself.

The revolver dropped from Lorden's hand; and I suddenly found Joan lying in my arms in a dead faint. Then the people came running from he drawing room. That night the groom rode over to Alford, and early on Christmas morning Denson Lorden was taken from Hillside.

Poor fellow, he was raving mad, and I may say at once that three months later he died in a lunatic asylum. Why had he gone mad so suddenly? To answer that disappointed love was the reason might satisfy some, but it satisfied none of us who were present at Hillside.

The doctor suggested that his fits of absentmindedness were a warning of his condition, but then Murchison said he had always been a dreamer. I do not pretend to explain. I can only set down the facts.

Powell did not rest until he had hunted up the history of the house, and the reason it had got the reputation of being haunted. The dates were rather indefinite, but it appeared that about a century and a half ago the man who had lived there had committed murder under peculiar circumstances.

He was no longer a young man when his first wife died, but he fell madly in love with a young girl, and when she preferred another man who was about her own age, he shot his successful rival, and by some means escaped punishment.

Whether the deed was done at Hillside was doubtful, but the murderer lived there for years, chiefly in a hidden room, so it was reported, that he might have no intercourse with his fellows. In this way, it was declared, he had expiated his crime, for he lived to a great age, and in constant fear.

Powell suggested that he may have concealed himself at Hillside and so escaped punishment, but we could find no proof of this. Did death take him altogether from Hillside? The question may make the scoffer smile, but there are others. I feel convinced that on the first and second occasion when the door clicked Lorden was so startled that he was prevented from committing the crime which his diseased brain had planned. On the third occasion his madness may have overcome his fear, and that time the door was opened and held open!

What Lorden saw, who shall say?— but he fired at it instead of at Joan and me.

Strangely enough that octagonal room had made a curious impression on the three of us; is it altogether foolish to think that the restless spirit of the man who bad committed a crime long ago suddenly appeared to prevent another crime? There was nothing to show when and by whom the old cabinet had been screwed over the door, but one very startling fact came to light. The name of this owner of a hundred and fifty years ago was Dennison, and we were able to prove that he was an ancestor of Lorden's. Lorden even had his name in a mutilated form— Denson.

Murchison would not continue to live in the house. He had been very fond of Lorden, and only the presence of very great evil, he argued, could have had the power to drive him mad in this unaccountable way.

Joan, by a miraculous intervention, had escaped, but nothing would persuade Murchison that there was not a curse upon the house. He would put an end to that curse if he could. So Hillside is empty, slowly going to ruin as you see it to-day.

__________________

11: Lady Langton's Jewels

Percy James Brebner

Sunday Times (Sydney) 13 July 1919

'AM I not to see you again this evening, Clarice?'

'No. I ought not to be here now. If your grandmother knew—'

'I'm going to tell her some day, soon.'

'Not yet, Dick; it would spoil everything. And you must let me go now.'

He held her for a moment longer, then kissed her and released her. She went quickly through the shrubbery towards the house, while he lit a cigarette, very well satisfied with himself.

To tell the truth, Richard Langton had been very well satisfied with himself ever since he could remember. Never having known his father and mother, the fact that he was an orphan had not troubled him. He had been brought up, and rather spoilt, by his grandmother, Lady Langton. She had lived some years in India, where her husband had acquired wealth. The only son, who was in the Army, had been killed in a skirmish on the frontier, and his wife had died in giving birth to a son three months afterwards.

Before Dick was two years old his grandfather had died, and then Lady Langton had come to England. She bought a small estate called The Grange, a few miles from Horsham, and found her whole life and happiness wrapped up in her grandson. So if Dick was a little spoilt, if he was inclined to be an idler, it was not altogether his fault.

Now a crisis had come into his life; the smooth surface of his existence was ruffled. He was in love, and since he was certain that his grandmother would not approve of his choice, there was a secrecy in his romance which gave it a decidedly piquant flavor.

Lady Langton was ill, not dangerously, so the doctor said, but she was confined to her room, and was obliged to have a nurse. Clarice Danvers had come from a nursing institution in town. She was a lady, very pretty and graceful, and had not only won the goodwill of her patient, which she had taken some trouble to do, but also had speedily captured the heart of her patient's grandson.

Dick Langton's declaration had not been long delayed. Clarice was convinced that, however much Lady Langton might like her as a nurse, she would not approve of her as a wife for Dick. To win her consent must be a question of time, and she had urged her lover to be careful.

Every day between tea and dinner time she met Dick in a secluded walk in the grounds, and was intensely happy.

This afternoon she entered the house by a garden door and ran lightly upstairs. Her patient occupied a large room over-looking the gardens, and Clarice had the dressing room which communicated with it. Lady Langton was dozing when the nurse went in. She just roused sufficiently to say that she didn't want the lights yet, and then went to sleep again. The nurse moved quietly about the room, turned the key in the door, fearful, perchance that Dick might come. She listened a moment to the quiet breathing which came from the bed, then sat down by the fire and let her thoughts wander. After a while the patient showed signs of rousing again. Immediately the nurse was beside her.

'In the dark!' exclaimed Lady Langton in a low voice. 'Why, surely you—'

'Yes,' the nurse whispered as she bent over her; 'you did not want the lights.'

The patient sighed a little heavily and then dozed again. For some time the nurse watched her, apparently not quite certain whether her charge was as well as usual to-night. When she left the bedside she moved on tiptoe, and the firelight was still the only light in the room. There was another period of silence, and then footsteps in the corridor and a slight clatter of plates. The servant came to the dressing-room door.

'Quietly,' whispered the nurse, as she opened it a little way and put out her hand. 'I'll take it. She is asleep.'

They would not he disturbed any more to-night, for both the patient's and the nurse's supper were on the tray.

Even to one whose work is nursing, the long hours in a sick room must pass terribly slow at times, especially when there is little to be done, and not much anxiety about the patient. At intervals the nurse went quietly to the bedside, but Lady Langton did not move. The nurse had returned to her chair after one of these visits to the bed, when a slight noise startled her. A mouse in the skirting only. But it came again, and she rose quickly. She crossed to the room and saw a piece of paper had been thrust under the door.

'Do come down for five minutes, Clarice,' she read, 'only for five minutes, just to say good night. Write yes across this and push it back under the door. I'll wait in the library until you come.'

She smiled as she read this message by the light of the fire, and for a moment or two seemed to hesitate; then, with a pencil, she scribbled across tile paper, 'Not to-night, dear. Good night.'

She slipped it under the door, saw it drawn away from her fingers, and heard footsteps go quietly along the corrider. She had not heard them approach the room.

She moved cautiously about her room for some time. She went back to her chair by the fire. Perhaps the note had made her restless, for restless she certainly was. She crossed to the bed several times to look at her patient, who was sleeping heavily. She seemed a little anxious about her, and presently lit the candle, and shading it with her hand, looked into Lady Langton's face. The inspection appeared to satisfy her, for she blew out the candle, and having gently arranged the bedclothes, went to the window, and, drawing back the curtain, looked across the gardens, which were lit with the light of a pale moon.

She went back to her chair and deliberately forced herself to remain quiet and motionless. In this mood it was only natural, perhaps, that her hearing should be keen. The servants had gone to bed, she heard them upon the stairs, and had heard doors close in their quarters. She had heard Dick pass along the corridor to his room, had heard him pause outside the door, perhaps in the hope that she would relent and come out to him for a moment. She did not move, and he passed on and closed his door.

For some time longer she waited, and then rose quickly. She went to the bed and looked at her patient, than she passed into the dressing-room and felt her way from the dressing-table to the drawers, and to the long chintz-covered dress ottoman which stood at the foot of the bed. She went to the door, opened it, and listened, bending forward that she might catch the faintest sound.

Was the house quite silent, or was there a sound from the other end of the corridor, a sound which she seemed rather to feel than hear? At the far end of the corridor, down half a dozen steps, was a room Lady Langton used as a business room.

For a few moments the nurse remained in her attentive attitude, then she stepped into the corridor, went quickly and lightly towards that room at the bottom of the six steps. She entered it noiselessly. The moonlight shone into it from the uncurtained window, touching the writing table which stood in a corner. The side of the room where the door, was was in darkness, and the nurse stood in a corner which a high bookcase formed with the wall. Had the sound come from this room?

Yes, that was a sound, a dull tap on the wall near the window. She did not move. Across the moonlight in the room fell a shadow. A man was at the window, his deft fingers worked at the fastening. In a few seconds the window opened and he stepped in, quickly followed by a second man, who must have stood upon the ladder behind him. The door was locked in a moment, the man passing so close to the nurse that she could have touched him.

'Now, then, flash that torch over here. It's a five minutes' job.'

An electric ray pierced the corner, and the man who had first entered the room was kneeling down pulling back the carpet.

'Press that bit of skirting — gently; a little more to your right. That's it. Clever contrivance, eh? No fool this old woman. Kept 'em safe for a good many years she has. They're here right enough,' he added quickly and excitedly.

The nurse saw that a board in the flooring, set loose by the pressure of the bkirting, was raised. If was a secret hiding-place, and from it the man took a leather case.

'Look!' he said as he opened it. Then he turned round sharply at a sound behind. 'Move and I fire!' said a voice out of the darkness.

The nurse had glided noiselessly from her corner, to the door. Now she covered them with a revolver. So suddenly were they disturbed that the two men were taken at a complete disadvantage, and before they had recovered from their surprise she spoke again.

'There is someone coming. Go! You have time if you are quick. No; leave those cases.'

With her other hand she unlocked the door sharply. Her keen ears had caught another sound. In a moment the men had rushed for the window and the ladder. The second man was still clinging to the window-sill when Langton ran down the six steps and entered.

'Dick!' she murmured.

'Clarice!' He could hardly see her in the darkness.

'I heard someone,' she whispered. 'They have gone— only just gone. I saw them. You will catch them. I'll go back to your grandmother.'

Langton ran back along the corridor, calling to the butler, who soon came hurrying from his room, and they went down into the hall together. The nurse heard the front door opened, and then footsteps running on the gravel. She slipped the revolver into her pocket, and in a moment was on her knees.

Hastily she took the jewels from their leather cases, put them in her pockets, and then she, too, went quickly along the corridor, but not to Lady Langton's room. The servants were awake and moving about, but she did not call to them. She ran down the stairs, went out by a garden door, and turned towards the front of the house.

The burglars had entered from the garden side, and she had no desire to meet either them or Dick Langton. She reached the roadway, but only crossed to the fields beyond, and she made at once for the shelter of a hedge. She went quickly, never hesitating which direction she should take. The path across three or four fields was familiar to her.

She climbed a railing into another road and whistled— a low whistle, but clear. It was immediately answered, and the next moment there was the soft purring of a motor.

'Right !' she exclaimed as she got in. 'Get away as fast as you can. I'll double up behind here and get rid of these clothes.'

'Heard another motor yonder not two minutes ago,' said the man.

The nurse laughed, and the motor began to move rapidly.

LANGTON and the butler searched the gardens in vain. There was no doubt how the thieves had effected an entrance: the ladder was still against the window of the room, but the burglars had made goodi their escape. As he entered the house presently Langton was far from dissatisfied with the night's adventure.

Clarice had disturbed the thieves at their work, so the booty they had secured was probably small. She had not said so, but he had gathered that she had come upon the scene before they had had time to do much. Possibly they had gone away altogether empty-handed. The nurse's bravery would appeal to his grandmother. His task would be lightened when hc came to tell her that Clarice was to be his wife. All the servants were up now, and no one of them seemed inclined to be left alone.

'It's all right, they have come,' Langton said reassuringly as he went up to his grandmothers business room. Then he saw the leather cases scattered about the floor, and pulled back the carpet and the raised floor-board. A secret hiding place, and the burglars knew it. Something of greater value must have been hidden there than in the safe, that was why the safe had not been tampered with.

He picked, up the leather cases and opened them one after another. They were all empty. The thieves had been successful after all. How disappointed Clarice would be. What jewels could his grandmother have hidden here? He did not know that she possessed any of special value. She had never mentioned them to him; he had never heard her talk of them. Perhaps only empty cases had been in the hole in the floor.

'I wonder if Clarice can throw any light upon this mystery,' he murmured. 'I must see her at once.'

He went to the dressing-room door and knocked lightly. There was no answer. He turned the handle. The door was locked. He went to the door of his grandmother's room.

'Nurse! Nurse!' he called quietly, but clearly. There was no answer, and this door, too, was locked. He stood listening for a few moments. What had happened? Was Clarice hurt?

He went back to the dressing-room door and called her again, louder this time, but still there was no answer. He became alarmed and hastened downstairs. Clarice must be hurt. She might be dying. He sent the butler for tools with which to force the lock, and then a housemaid came to him.

'I don't think Nurse Danvers is back yet, sir.'

'Back! Back from where?'

'I caught sight of her going quickly down the stairs just after you went down. sir. I think she went out by the garden door near the library.'

'Nonsense! You must have been dreaming. That's right, Phillips,' he said, as the butler came back with the tools. 'You had better come with me.'

'The noise is likely to frighten the mistress, isn't it, sir?' Phillips said as they went upstairs.

'We must be as quiet as we can,' Langton answered, 'but we must have that door open.'

Although the door was solid, the lock proved to be rather weak. No great noise was made in forcing it. Langton went in and lit a candle. Phillips remaining in the doorway. Clarice was not here, and Langton went to the door between the rooms, which was pulled to, but was not latched.

'Grannie, are you asleep?' he said, pausing before he entered. There was no answer, and Clarice was not there either. He put down the candle and went to the bed. His grandmother was asleep, but was it only his fancy which made her look unnatural? There was a peculiar smell in the room, too. It seemed strongest near the bed.

'Phillips! Phillips!' he called. The butler came in on tiptoe. 'Does that look like a natural sleep to you, Phillips?'

The butler looked at his mistress.

'I don't think it docs, sir. Shall I fetch Mrs. Marks? She would know.'

'Yes, go and fetch her.' Mrs. Marks was the cook. Directly she entered the room and looked at Lady Langton she pronounced the sleep unnatural.

'It's chloroform, that's what it is, sir.'

'Good heavens! What does it all mean?' said Langton. 'Stay with her, Mrs. Marks. I'll send someone for the doctor and the police at once.'

The stables were at a little distance from the house, and no one there had been aroused by the excitement. If was some time before Langton could wake the chauffeur and send him off in the car to Horsham.

'Bring the doctor back with you, and the police, too, if you can.'

He went back to the house slowly. Now that he had time to think for a moment, the terrible truth seemed to catch him by the throat. Clarice was gone. The jewel cases were empty. Had he come upon her at the very moment when she was helping the thieves to secure the booty? It could not be. Yet she had gone. Was her manner strange to-night? when he had rushed into his grandmother's business room? Yes, perhaps it was. She was excited, that was natural, but she had been very eager to get rid of him. He had thought her very brave; now another reason for her. attitude was forced upon him.

What was it that had startled him to-night?

Some slight but unfamiliar sound had made him open his bedroom door. and then as he listened he had heard a door unlocked sharply, the door of that room at the end of the corridor. Then everything seemed to happen in a moment. Yes, it was very strange that she should be in that room, and the housemaid declared that a few moments later she had run down the stairs and had left the house by a garden door.

Slowly Langton went back to his grandmother's room. Mrs. Marks was there alone.

'Is she still the same?' he asked.

'Yes, sir; but I don't think any harm will come of it. The mistress has just been put to sleep so that she shouldn't wake up and give the alarm. Of course, the nurse would know exactly how much to—'

'I suppose she would,' Langton answered, as he went into the dressing room. He could not bear to hear anyone accuse the woman he had loved, even though circumstances forced him to accuse her himself. What a fool he had been! And his folly was not over yet. This was her room. It held something of her personality still. She was a dainty woman, and a few of her things were on the toilet table— the brushes, a silver-topped bottle or two, and a handkerchief.

He took up the handkerchief. It smelt of chloroform. On a chair were her cloak and bonnet. She had worn them when she came to him in the garden, and she had gone without them. Her anxiety to get away must have been great.

For him all the joy had gone out of life, and presently, when the doctor and police came, hw would have to answer horrible questions about the woman whom he loved.

He got up quickly, angry with fate.

'I am a fool!' he muttered, 'shall be a fool until all these things are taken away. I suppose this ottoman has some of her clothes in it. Everything nust be cleared away quickly or I shall go mad.'

He lifted the lid, and then gave a cry which brought Mrs. Marks from the adjoining room, and she echoed that cry the moment she was beside him.

In the ottoman, lying at full length, bound hand and foot, gagged, and nearly fainting, was Clarice Danvers.

THEY LIFTED her out and placed her on the bed, took away the gag, undid the bonds that held her, and then there was a purring of a motor in the drive. The doctor and the police had come.

Clarice Danvers was able to give little information. When she had come back to her room after seeing Dick in the garden, she, had opened the ottoman to get something out, and was immediately seized from behind, whether by a man or a woman she could not tell. Strong hands held her. She knew that she was being chloroformed, but her throat was held in such a way that she could not struggle, could not utter a sound. Quickly she had slipped into unconsciousness, and really remembered nothing more until she had heard the lid being lifted and had seen Langton with the candle looking down at her.

They dared not question Lady Langton too closely, but she declared that a strange nurse had come into her room. She had roused up to find the room in darkness with the nurse bending over her. The nurse must have seen that she recognised that she was a stranger, for she put something over her mouth to prevent her saying anything.

'A queer dream, Lady Langton,' said the doctor. The invalid looked surprised.

'It has made me feel quite ill again and I was really getting better,' Lady Langton said irritably, and the doctor smiled at the success of his ruse.

It was not deemed advisable to tell Lady Langton the truth at present. To inform her that the jewels which she had guarded so carefully, which no one appeared to know she possessed, had gone, might have a very serious effect upon her, the doctor said.

So the police, not knowing of what the jewels consisted, were heavily handicapped; indeed, none of the spoil was recovered, nor the thieves caught. Richard Langton found considerable satisfaction, however, in a letter he received a few days later. It bore the London postmark, and was as follows :

Your little friend the nurse is quite innocent. For my own purposes, and to get the hang of the ways of the house, it was necessary to watch you when you met in the garden, and you are evidently in love. Men in love are deaf as well as blind, I imagine, or you might have noticed something unfamiliar in the voice of the woman who was so anxious that you should make an effort to catch the thieves. You will also understand why it was impossible for me to come down for five minutes and say good-night. I am glad to see by the papers that the nurse woke up all right, and that your grandmother is not much the worse for having slept more soundly than usual. I have treated them as carefully as I could, and I have had experience of this kind of thing before.

The letter was signed 'The Other Nurse.'

And about the same time that Langton got this letter three men were cursing furiously, in a room in Islington, over a communication one of them had received in the same handwriting:

So long as you treated me fairly (it ran), I was content to be a comrade, sharing the danger and the plunder. But because I was a woman you thought I could be cheated.

You undervalued your partner. No doubt you remember discussing this venture one night in the bar of the Red Lion. I overheard the conversation. I knew the place, the night fixed, the time; I understood everything except the exact spot where the jewels were hidden. You had got the information from a discharged servant, but that channel of information was not open to me. I had to work along another line, and have done so rather successfully, I fancy. My actual methods I need not explain— I may want to use them another time. My woman's wit enabled me to make use of you and your companions for my own benefit, and it may be some satisfaction to you to know that your estimate of the value of the find was about correct. I have suddenly developed into a capitalist.

There was no signature to this letter, but the men knew the writer well enough, and, now that it was too late, realised what a valuable confederate they had lost.

When Lady Langton was told of the robbery she took to her bed again, but only remained there two days, and refused to have a nurse. Then she got up and faced the world like a Stoic. She would not speak of the jewels beyond saying that her husband had valued them.

For a long time she hated ill nurses, and could not be persuaded that Clarice Danvers was innocent. It was Dick's determined threat to go and shoot big game in Africa which finally subdued her, and then Clarice came to The Grange again, this time as a visitor.

_________________

12: In the Powder-Box

Scott Campbell

(Frederick W. Davis  1858-1933)

Detective Story Magazine 13 April 1920

THE special officer at the curbing started slightly when he recognized the keen, classic face and tall, lithe figure of Mr. Norman Crane. He was impressive even when alighting from a taxi-cab, this urbane, dignified young man of the United States secret service. He glanced a bit sharply at the officer when the latter banged the door and hurried the chauffeur on, making room for the pressing stream of motor cars, toward the magnificent Hotel Regal during the early hours of the reception; then he quickly straightened up and touched his helmet.

"Ah!" Crane smiled. His eyes had a guizzical light. "I wondered, Hogan, if I was to receive no friendly sign of recognition."

"Sure, sir!' Hogan's beamed quite radiantly. "Faith, Mr. Crane, it's a cure for sore eyes you are. You're a big stranger this way, sir."

"It's two years since I set foot in Boston. It seems good to be in the old home town. You look hale and hearty. How's the missus, Hogan, and all the kiddies ?"

"Foine, sir, like meself.  Whist!' Hogan. banged another door, then leaned nearer and chuckled confidentially, ruddy face red as a beet. "The stork came again last week, sir, and left— whisper! Twins!"

"What!"

Twins!" Norman Crane laughed. "My, my, Hogan, that makes eleven."

"You said something."

"So did Rory O'More. You've heard it. There's luck in odd numbers. Besides, come a 'leven, Hogan, come a 'leven," Crane quizzed him, and then shook hands with him. "Congratulations, Hogan!"

But his clean-cut, aristocratic face turned grave again when he went up the carpeted steps of the fine hotel, the wake of billowing ruffles and fluttering silks and shimmering satins half hidden under gorgeous opera cloaks or veiled with costly lace wraps. It did seem good, indeed, after two years in Washington, to be in the old home town again, but for only one reason. Not a day had passed when he had not thought of Her, had not yearned for Her— and the crushed vain regrets and dead hopes from an aching heart.

Crane brightened up a moment later. He was met in the spacious office by an intimate friend, a chum in college days, who wormed his way almost rudely through the throng of fashionable people in his haste to intercept him.

"You're with me, Norman, right off the reel," he announced after their very friendly greeting. "I must see you alone and away from the crowd. A corner in the grillroom will do. Come, come, I'll not take no for an answer. I've something important to say to you, something very important," he insisted, so gravely that the detective noticed it.

"What's it about, Sanger?" Crane inquired while he accompanied him,

"I'll inform you presently," Sanger told him. "I was waiting in the office for you. I knew you would be here to-night."

"How so? I supposed only one person knew it."

"Your attorney. I met him in the criminal court yesterday morning. He told me you were coming on to sign some papers winding up your father's affairs. Otherwise I would have been tempted to send for you."

"Send for me?" Crane eyed him sharply. ''What do you mean, Sanger? Why?"

"I'll soon come to it," Sanger rejoined as they sat down in a corner of the grillroom. "You're still in the secret service, of course?"

"Yes. I'm told it can't do without me. A fine hand-out, Tom." Crane shrugged his shoulders expressively. "But it keeps me busy and my mind off the past. It was the best offer I had after poor old dad went bankrupt and shot himself. That offer came my way, too, only because I had dug deep into chemistry and criminology while studying abroad."

"That's not the only reason," Sanger said warmly. ''You're one man in a million, Crane, and I'm not the only one who knows it."

"You should know, too, that I detest flattery."

"It's nothing of the kind."

"Nor is it the very important matter you mentioned," Crane said dryly. "Come to the point. What's it about?"

"Well, to begin with, Norman, it's about a certain young lady of whom you once were so fond that you—"

"Don't!" Crane went white. "Don't speak of it like that, Sanger, or of her," he protested. "I did what I felt was right. I did—"

"Oh, I know!" Sanger lurched nearer to him over the small table between them. "I know what you did, Norman, and I'm bound to have my say about it. You did wrong. Your conscientious scruples were not warranted by the unfortunate circumstances. Even though your father was a suicide and lost a million in crazy, secret speculation, you were not to blame for it, nor in any way responsible. What if there were rumors of something shady in his bank accounts? What if there was a grain of truth in them? You were ignorant of the whole business and in no way at fault. But when you returned from Europe, nevertheless, you ended your very friendly relations with the sweetest and prettiest girl in Brookline—'"

"Not entirely," Crane interjected, "We still are good friends. I hear from her occasionally."

"Oh, I know all about it," Sanger told him with increasing feeling. "My sister Minnette and Estella Dalrymple are like hand and glove. You took the lofty stand that a man without a penny, whose father's reputation was smirched, had no right to aspire to the hand of an aristocratic heiress. Her mother, who died a year ago, leaving Stella a couple of millions, was of the same mind, and that did settle it. You broke off your relations with her—"

"It was the proper stand for me to take," Crane again interposed, checking him with a deprecatory gesture. "It was the only honorable position I could take."

"Maybe so!" Sanger shook his head nevertheless, and again leaned nearer the table. "But let me tell you something," he said pointedly. "That was more than two years ago, and Stella Dalrymple could have her pick of all marriageable men in town; but she's still single and wants none of them!" Sanger emphasized it with a bang of his hand on the table, but it brought no change to the drawn, white face of his hearer.

"I think I know, Tom, what becomes of a man," Crane gravely told him. "Please say no more about it. I would have heard as much only from you, Sanger," he fondly added. "Surely you would not have been tempted to send for me only for this. What did you mean by that? Why send for me?"

"I'll tell you why," Sanger said earnestly. "Because Stella Dalrymple is dying by inches."

"Dying!" Crane's brows knit quickly. "What do you mean? What's the trouble?"

"I don't know. Nobody knows," Sanger forcibly asserted. "It may be a broken heart—"

Crane's voice hardened ominously. "Tell me just what you mean, just what you know about the case. How long has she been ill?"

"It's been coming on gradually for two months," Sanger said gravely. "Before then she was apparently in perfect health. No cause for the change can be discovered. Her physicians are all in the dark. Specialists are mystified and baffled. The radiograph revealed nothing wrong. Blood tests, analyses of food, nothing that has been done, has supplied the slightest clew to the cause of her disorder. But she is fading away. She's going out by slow degrees, as the flame of a lamp expires when the oil runs low. You remember what a strong and wholesome girl she was. Now she is wasted and as white as chalk. You'll hardly recognize her, Norman, when you see her."

"When I see her?" Crane echoed inquiringly.

"She is not confined to the house," Sanger explained. "She is here this evening, and I felt it was up to me to say all this to you before you should meet her. That's why I was waiting for you in the office. This is why, too, I would have been tempted to send for you."

"I see." Crane eyed him more intently. "You imply that you suspect something wrong— foul play, perhaps?"

"I'm a lawyer," said Sanger dryly. "Lawyers are always suspicious of abnormal conditions and mystifying circumstances. I can see no legitimate reason why a strong and rugged girl has gone into a sudden rapid decline. If there is anything wrong— well, Norman, you are the one man who, in my opinion, would be sure to ferret it out."

"Have you any definite suspicion?"

"None. I have told you all I know about the case."

Crane appeared very serious. "Is Miss Dalrymple living at home?" he asked abruptly.

"Yes. Her cousin, Celia Hoyt, still lives with her. They are all that remain of the family. She's an unattractive girl, but very devoted to Stella. She was left without means when a child and was given a home by the Dalrymples. She now expects to marry, however, and have a home of her own."

"Marry whom?" Crane's eyes narrowed slightly. "I recall her distinctly."

"Professor Oscar Waldmere," Sanger told him. "He's a private tutor and has classes in physics and chemistry, mathematics, and the languages. He rents a house in Laurel Road, not far from Stella's home. He is here with both girls this evening."

"I may meet him. I certainly must see Miss Dalrymple. Dying by inches, eh?" Crane arose quite abruptly. "Not a word about this interview, Sanger, nor comments upon any steps I may take," he added impressively.

"Then you intend—"

"I have no definite intentions. I first must talk with Miss Dalrymple."

Crane found her seated in a recess of the crowded ballroom. He was dis mayed when he saw her. She was frail and wasted. Her large blue eyes were abnormally bright, the pupils widely dilated. Her dead-white pallor was like that of an opium fiend, save for the tint of rouge with which she was fain to hide it, and he noticed a dainty silk vanity bag hung on her wrist when she held out her hand to greet him.

"What an unexpected pleasure," said warmly. "TI had no idea, Norman, that you were in Boston."

"I have been here only a few hours," Crane told her while she made room for him on the cushioned seat. "Tom Sanger told me you were here. I've been looking for you."

"No doubt, too, he told you all about my strange illness."

"He did," Crane admitted, "also how completely your physicians are mystified."

"So mystified that I am quite discouraged. Not one agrees with another," said Stella. "Let them tell it, Norman, and I have all the ills flesh is heir to," she declared, laughing nervously. "But I'm not giving up," she added. "I have a fighting chance, you know, as long as I'm on my feet."

"Surely!" Crane hid his emotion. Her pathetic smile and forced levity cut him like a knife. "I admire your courage," he told her.

"Oh, I just won't be discouraged," sne replied. "And if the worst must come and I must drain the cup— ah, well, we all must go some day." She smiled again and laid her hand on his. "There is Celia. You remember her. She is dancing with Professor Waldmere. They're as good as engaged, though she'll not leave me while I'm ill. She's a devoted cousin."

Crane gazed at her while the nearer in the whirl of dancers. She was a thin, sallow girl of twenty-five, with a pinched, narrow face, very thin lips, and mottled gray eyes. She was so unattractive personally that Crane wondered at the fancy of her quite striking companion. He was an erect, stalwart man of forty, with a large, finely poised head and bristling red hair, cut pompadour fashion. His features were strong, his complexion very light, and Crane detected two small, hardly perceptible scars on his left cheek, and noticed that his dress suit was a bit worn and shiny. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he glanced again at Miss Dalrymple's strangely pallid face.

"I don't recall Professor Waldmere," he observed. "Has he lived long in Brookline?"

"About a year," Stella told him. "He rents the old Morgan residence, where he has a laboratory and prepares private pupils for college. He has no family, and employs only a housekeeper, an elderly woman. I'm very glad, Norman, to see you once more," she digressed, smiling a bit fondly.

"I'm glad to see you, too. " Crane's voice quavered slightly. "I wish I could do something for you."

"Do something?  Ah, yes, I wish you could."

"Will you let me try?"

"Let you try? Just what do you mean?"

"One must turn to others when physicians fail," Crane said earnestly. "A keen and careful observer might possibly discover something they have overlooked," he explained, without directly suggesting a detective. "I'll  shall be in Boston about a week. Let me be your guest for a few days?"

Miss Dalrymple's eyes lighted. "Let you! I will be more than pleased!"

"Good enough!" Crane laughed softly. "I will come with my suitcase to-morrow."

"No, no, l'll not wait till to-morrow," Stella quickly objected. "Make it tonight.  We will drive to your hotel for the suit case."

"Very well. Let it be to-night then."

"I will tell Celia and the professor that you hope to discover something wholly unsuspected, and that—"

"Wait! I may not discover any, thing," Crane interposed. "My visit must appear strictly conventional and with no such motive in evidence. Otherwise, owing to my being in the secret service, it may give rise to erroneous impressions and undesirable rumors," he pointedly added. "Tell them only that we met by chance and that I accepted an invitation to visit you."

"You may be right." Miss Dalrymple gazed more sharply at him but detected no sign of covert suspicion. "I will assume that you are, at all events, and— But they are coming. The dance has ended."

Crane felt that somehow it had only just begun.

"I HOPE to see more of you during my brief visit," he told Professor Waldmere late that evening, while Celia Hoyt was assisting Stella in her bed room. "I  may be here several days."

"I hope so, too." Waldmere bowed and smiled, running his fingers through his pompadour. The two men then were seated in Miss Dalrymple's elegant library. "You must call at my home, Mr. Crane. It's the fifth house west from here."

"I'll try to do so," Crane blandly assured him.

"I will show you around and let you inspect my laboratory. You may find it interesting, if you know anything about physics and chemistry."

"Only a very little," Crane said a bit dryly. "My stay will depend upon Miss Dalrymple's condition. I am glad to talk with you alone about her. What do you make of her strange illness?"

"You should consult her physicians." Waldmere smiled again, but his steely blue eyes took on a sudden subtle, searching gleam. "Why do you question me or suppose I know anything about it?"

"Only because you are a professional man and have had opportunities to study the very singular case," Crane suavely told him.

"But I am not a pathologist, and I know very little about medicine."

"You might, nevertheless, have formed some opinion."

"My opinion, if you really think it worthy of any consideration, is that Miss Dalrymple has some organic disorder which her physicians have failed to discover, or even suspect." Professor Waldmere drew up his stalwart figure a bit impatiently. "Really, sir, that is my only opinion of the case."

"You may be right," Crane allowed. "Otherwise, there must, of course, be some extraneous cause," he pointedly added.

"Extraneous cause!" Waldmere echoed. "What do you mean by that? I don't understand you."

"I mean some outside cause, professor, entirely foreign to any ordinary disease or organic disorder," Crane explained blandly.

"Possibly." Waldmere's brows knit slightly. "I do not, however, think it at all probable," he quickly added. "I can conceive of no extraneous cause, as you term it. Her physicians would surely have detected it, or some symptoms of it, at least."

"I see," Crane told him indifferently.

"Don't be surprised at that, professor, though I have no idea what you are discussing." Celia Hoyt entered while the detective was speaking. "But Mr. Crane has marvelous discernment and is specially trained to see things," she said quickly, with a laugh that denoted she spoke only in jest. "He is in the government secret service."

"Oh, indeed!" Waldmere said unctuously, smiling broadly. "I was not aware of it."

Crane glanced a bit sharply at the girl, She was quite pale, and her narrow gray eyes had a gleam he did not fancy. She laughed again and quickly added:

"Your room is ready, Mr. Crane. It is the one directly over this. We live very simply here during Stella's illness and have let the butler go. Your suit case is in the room, and I have switched on the light for you."

Crane smiled and thanked her, then arose and shook hands with Professor Waldmere while he bade him good night.

Norman Crane went to his room, but not to bed. He stole out of the house at one o'clock that night, locking the rear door and taking the key. He was not speculating entirely at random. He did not believe that Stella Dalrymple's sudden rapid decline was due to natural causes. He knew that physicians and specialists are not easily so completely mystified.

On the other hand, however, Crane keenly realized that a theory he had formed would not stand that positive evidence must be found, or the extraneous cause, if one really existed, But what it was, where to seek it, and how to find it were questions not easily answered, and to begin with he wanted, if possible, to make an immediate inspection of Professor Waldmere's lab oratory.

The starless, blustering night seemed favorable. Crane felt reasonably sure that Waldmere would be abed. He was a bit surprised, therefore, upon ap proaching the gloomy old-stone mansion rented by the private tutor, to discover a brightly lighted window on the ground floor of a west wing. The top sash was lowered a little for ventilation, also the roller shade, the fixture being at the bottom.

"By Jove,he's still up," Crane muttered, pausing. "He must be at work on something. Or am I right, indeed, and is he the genius back of the deviltry? Is he now destroying all evidence of it, apprehending trouble from a secret service man? Had Celia Hoyt some covert reason for so quickly warning him when she heard us discussing her cousin?"

Crane demurred only briefly. He stole to the window, the stone sill of which was only two feet from the ground. Quietly placing one foot on it, he gripped the outer casing and drew himself up to peer cautiously over the top of the sash.

Detective Crane gazed into a well equipped laboratory. One shelved wall was filled with countless bottles and phials, glass jars, and small stone pots, each neatly labeled. A zinc-covered table near by was littered with flasks, tunnels, and litmus paper, test tubes and blow pipes, and with numerous other articles required in a chemical laboratory. In the midst of all these a Bunsen burner was in operation, in the blue flame of which was a small retort supported with a metal tripod, a glass tube connecting it with a rubber bag on the table.

The bag was slowly expanding.

Professor Waldmere was watching it intently. He stood near the table, wearing a faded gray suit and a long leather apron. On the latter were several smudges of fine white powder, a small quantity of which evidently had been spilled on the table. Most remarkable, however, was the protection completely covering the chemist's face, yet through it his strong, hard-set features could be seen distinctly, and above it his bristling pompadour glowed fiery red in the glare of light from a pendant electric bulb.

Waldmere was wearing a glass mask.

Detective Crane watched him for several minutes. He could see the rubber bag expanding more rapidly. He knew that some kind of gas was being generated, the deadly poison of which necessitated a protection against inhaling. What the substance heating in the retort was, however, or for what use a bag of such poisonous gas was designed, Crane could not then determine. His features hardened ominously, and he dropped quickly to the ground when Waldmere suddenly extinguished the flame of the burner and turned to close the window.

Crane lingered briefly. He felt sure he had not been seen. He decided that his design then was impracticable, however, when Waldmere locked the window and drew up the roller shade, yet still remained in the lighted laboratory. Crane returned to his room and went to bed.

EIGHT O'CLOCK the next morning found him listening cautiously at his bedroom door. He had heard Stella Dalrymple leave her room and go down the side stairs, followed almost immediately by quick, stealthy steps in the hall.

Peering out cautiously, Crane saw the edge of a pale blue skirt and a bit of white lingerie vanish quickly into Stella's room. He suspected that the wearer was Celia Hoyt. Scarce a minute had passed when, by listening intently, he heard her return and hurry to her own room.

"Now what the deuce was her mission, that could be accomplished within a minute?" Crane asked himself. "Something off color, surely, or what is the need for haste and caution? She must have known that Stella has gone down. What did she want that could be obtained or done only when her cousin was absent? Did fear I might search that room? Has she removed something she thought I might possibly discover? If so—"

His cogitations ended abruptly. He heard Celia leave her room again and go down for breakfast. Stepping into the hall he made sure no servant was on that floor, and then he stole into Miss Dalrymple's charmingly furnished chamber. It was in disorder. Some of the garments worn the previous night had not been put away. Her hat and veil, her gloves, and her dainty vanity bag were laying on the table. Other articles had been left on her chiffonier and dressing stand.

Crane glanced sharply at them and around the room, but there seemed to be nothing explaining Celia Hoyt's stealthy visit. There appeared to be nothing missing. On a rug in front of the dressing stand, however, he presently discovered a small quantity of white powder, hardly enough to catch his eye, which evidently had been spilled inadvertantly from some container and entirely overlooked. It reminded him of that seen in Waldmere's laboratory the night before. He crouched and examined it briefly, rubbing a little between his thumb and finger, and then he scattered it with his handkerchief to preclude later observation.

Only five minutes had passed when Detective Crane stole out of the room and went to the library. Both girls were waiting for him to go to breakfast. He detected a searching gleam in Miss Hoyt's gray eyes, but there was no sign of suspicion in his own smiling countenance. At eleven o'clock, nevertheless, Crane sauntered to a near-by drug store and telephoned to Tom Sanger, giving him some very precise instructions, and just before noon he again approached the home of Professor Oscar Waldmere and rang the bell.

The housekeeper answered it. She was a florid, robust woman of middle age, who told him that the professor was busy in his laboratory. He had no class that day— a fact of which the detective already had been informed casually by Celia Hoyt.

"He's not too busy to see me," Crane blandly told her, with an ingratiating smile. "You'll find I'm right. He expects me to call on him."

"Very well, sir, in that case." The housekeeper blushed a little. "I'll show you the way."

Crane entered the deep hall. The furnishings were old and threadbare. It was dim and dusty. It reminded him of the private tutor's worn and shiny dress suit. He followed the woman through a side passage to the west wing and the door of the laboratory, into which she ushered him,

Professor Waldmere started slightly, but at once arose from a table at which he was writing. He shot one swift, searching glance at the serene face of the secret-service man while approaching to greet him, but there was no other sign of covert misgivings or existing apprehension.

"Welcome!" he exclaimed, hand extended. "You are as good as your word, Mr. Crane; a man of my own heart. I'm very glad indeed to meet you in my own home," he declared with a cordiality that ordinarily would have dispelled distrust.

"I was taking a walk and thought I would keep my promise," Crane told him, smiling. "I hope my call is not untimely."

"Quite the contrary," Waldmere said warmly, placing a chair for him near his own. "I was only correcting the work of one of my classes. I reccive no pupils to-day. Shall we sit here, or go to the library?"

"It's very pleasant here," Crane replied.

He glanced around while speaking. The paraphernalia seen the previous night, the bag of poisonous gas, the retort and tripod, the glass mask and leather apron, even the last vestige of white powder— all had disappeared. A door in the end wall of the wing, unobserved in the darkness of the night before, now was wide open, admitting the midday sunlight and revealing a small section of the side grounds.

"Very good. We'll remain here, then." Waldmere waved the waiting housekeeper from the room, then resumed his seat near the table. "I told you, I believe, that I would let you inspect my laboratory."

"You did," Crane said, nodding. "I'm quite interested in it," he acknowledged a bit dryly.

"How is Miss Dalrymple this morning? No worse, I hope, for last night's dissipation?"

"She appears about the same. She is courageous and cheerful most of the time. I fear, nevertheless, that she is dangerously ill."

"You have not hit upon the extraneous cause, I suppose." Waldmere's smiling eyes narrowed slightly.

"Hardly!" Crane smiled, too, though he detected a taunting inflection in the other's tone. "A layman would not be likely to solve in a few hours the mystery that has baffled physicians and specialists for weeks."

"True," Waldmere  complacently agreed, with a laugh that smacked of secret assurance, "I begin to fear it may never be found," he added more seriously.  "But you, Mr. Crane, are not quite a layman. You have studied abroad, both in the French and German universities, Miss Hoyt informed me last evening."

"Only briefly," Crane said carelessly. "I was called home by the sudden death of my father." He drew up a little, adding with singular suavity: "I judge that you, professor, were once a student at Heidelberg."

Waldmere flushed quickly. The two faint scars in his left cheek appeared white and more conspicuous in the deepening wave of red. He frowned for a moment and hesitated, glancing involuntarily at the table drawer, and then he shook his broad and laughed again, though it appeared a bit forced.

"You are right, Mr. Crane, perfectly right," he admitted affably. "I graduated at Heidelberg. Dueling was not dead in those days. As you observe, of course, I bear tokens of it."

"In that you're not alone, Waldmere," Crane told him familiarly. "There are many others who carry the nick of the steel. Pardon me, however, for being so personal. I did not mean to be offensive," he blandly apologized, glancing at his watch.

It was precisely noon.

"Nonsense!" Waldmere exclaimed. "I know you meant nothing, nor am I sensitive to trifles. Don't think of going yet. Stay and lunch with me. My housekeeper shall cook us some—" He stopped short, turning quickly, when she again entered the room.

"It's the telephone, sir," she hurriedly explained.

"Who wants me?"

"He did not mention his name, sir, but said he was going south to-day and must talk with you at once. It's about two lads. He said he wants to place them here for board and instruction while he's away. That's all he told me."

Waldmere glanced at the detective.

"Don't let me detain you," Crane said blandly, without a change of countenance. "There may be something in it for you," he carelessly added, taking out his cigarette case.

"Excuse me, then, and wait till I return." Waldmere arose abruptly. "I'll not be long."

"Take your time. I'll indulge in a bad habit while waiting," Crane told him, lighting a match. "Now hold him five minutes, Sanger, and I'll wager I can find what I want," he added to himself as Waldmere hurried the housekeeper from the room and closed the door.

Detective Crane emitted a ring of smoke, but he made no other move for half a minute. He knew to what base use a keyhole may be put. Presently, however, he arose indifferently and sauntered that way, then crouched at one side and peered through it. There was no eye at the opposite opening. The narrow passage was deserted.

Crane turned like a flash and darted quietly to the shelved wall, to that part of it where, on an upper shelf, he had seen the night before about a score of bottles and jars bearing the bright red labels with which poisons are com- monly designated. He touched none of them. Instead, using a lens, he quickly examined the shelf itself, on which considerable dust had collected around each jar and bottle. The dust in front of only one had been disturbed recently. He could see that plainly; he had reasoned keenly that poisonous packages are not often used in such a laboratory, and that the evidence he wanted could thus be found. He paused only to read the label.

Then he returned to his seat near the table. He was disposing of the end of his cigarette when Professor Waldmere hurried into the room about a minute later. He was smiling broadly and vigorously rubbing his hands.

"There may be something in it, Crane, as you said," he declared with some enthusiasm while resuming his seat. "The man is a stranger to me, but is a friend of Miss Dalrymple, to whom he referred me. I'll go with you and ask her about him when you return."

"By all means," Crane approved. "I'm sure she'll be very glad to inform you about him."

"Yes, yes, surely. I have no doubt of that."

"I've been thinking about and her strange illness, Waldmere, while sitting here in your laboratory." Crane's suave voice underwent no perceptible change.

"Still seeking that extraneous cause, eh?" Waldmere grinned expressively.

"Exactly," Crane told him. "These surroundings reminded me of an equally singular case which I read about while abroad. The mysterious symptoms were almost identical. The victim died, and an autopsy failed to reveal the cause."

"These surroundings reminded you of it?" Waldmere's grin had suddenly vanished. "Why so, Mr. Crane? Why so?" he asked a bit brusquely.

"Only because the woman's husband, who was suspected of having killed his wife for her small fortune, and who fled and still is wanted by the German authorities, was a government chemist employed in a chemical plant near Essen. His name, if I remember it correctly, is Otto Vedder," Crane bluntly added, hooking his thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest and gazing at his hearer, as imperturbably as if blind to his rapidly increasing paleness.

"Otto Vedder," Waldmere repeated. "I never have heard that name, Mr. Crane, nor read of the case. What about it? Why do you bring it up at this time?"

"Only because these surroundings reminded me of it, as I have said, and because the symptoms in the case of Vedder's wife so precisely resemble those of Miss Dalrymple's singular illness," Crane explained. "The pallid skin, the nervous depression, the imperfect heart action and difficult respiration, Waldmere, seem to indicate that she has been gradually absorbing some deadly poison. I've been thinking while sitting alone here what it might be, or how it could be taken unconsciously into her system."

"Well, what do you think about it?" Waldmere inquired. Though his voice was steady, it sounded strained and unnatural, and there was a gleam deep down in his dilated eyes that would have daunted some men. "Have you arrived at any conclusion?"

"A theory, at least, if not a conclusion,' Crane rejoined.

"Indeed! What theory?"

"Well, I quite naturally asked myself, of course, what poison Otto Vedder might have used, if guilty, and what he could most easily have obtained," Crane proceeded. "That was easy to determine. Fulminic acid, a compound of cyanogen, as you know, is combined with various metals to form fulminates. That, as well as cyanogen, could have been easily obtained by Otto Vedder."

"That is your theory, eh?" Waldmere queried. There was a sneer on his lips. They had faded to a dull gray and were twitching nervously at intervals.

"Part of it." Crane's voice hardened slightly. "Cyanogen, as you may also know, is an indirect combination of nitrogen and carbon," he went on. "This very dangerous gas, which retains the deadly qualities of hydrocyanic acid, is a potent poison. All of the lower organisms are very susceptible to its action, while in the higher animals it soon depresses and finally paralyzes all forms of nerve tissue. It interferes with respiration. It ultimately kills by its paralyzing effect on the heart and on the respiratory organs."

"I know all that," Waldmere declared, with an ominous growl. "Why tell it to me?"

"Note the significance of Miss Dalrymple's symptoms." Crane ignored the question. "Cyanogen may be easily obtained, also, by heating dry cyanide of mercury in a hard glass tube or a retort. No doubt, Waldmere, you have some cyanide of mercury among the poisons on yonder shelf."

Waldmere went livid for a moment. He had been sitting bolt upright in his chair, as rigid as if turned to stone. But there now was no mistaking the purpose of the secret-service man, the significance of his words, his steadfast scrutiny, the sinister incisiveness of his voice, and Waldmere lurched forward with his hands clenched and a fierce, threatening gleam in his frowning eyes.

"I certainly have," he said defiantly. "But what do you infer from that? Are you attacking me with foul aspersions?" he demanded. "Cyanogen could not have been given to Stella Dalrymple, or to Otto Vedder's wife. It would have killed them instantly."

"You're wrong," Crane said curtly. "Vedder was a very keen and clever chemist. He discovered some process by which he could impregnate face powder with cyanogen, and at the same time expunge its peculiar odor, a very common article which his wife was freely using each day."

"You mean—"

"Briefly and bluntly stated, Waldmere, he found way to so artfully poison his wife's face powder that the deadly cyanogen, or those fatal qualities imparted to the powder, gradually absorbed through the pores of her skin. That, Waldmere, is the extraneous cause," Crane sternly added. "That's what has been slowly stealing away Stella Dalrymple's life. It now is up to you, Waldmere, to reveal the chemical process by which face can be so artfully poisoned."

"You devil!" Waldmere gasped. His drawn, ghastly face had gone strangely tense. "Do you mean to say—"

"I mean just what I say," Crane cut in with increasing severity. "You are the miscreant responsible for her illness.  At two o'clock this morning you were generating cyanogen and collecting it in a rubber bag. On your leather apron and zinc covered table were white smudges of face powder. I know it now, though I did not then suspect—"

Crane broke off abruptly.

A shadow, falling across the floor caught his eye. He turned like a flash toward the open end door to the side grounds and saw Celia Hoyt hurriedly entering. Her agitation, her hueless face and staring eyes, showed plainly that she had been listening outside for some time.

"Don't believe him! Don't believe him," she cried, addressing Waldmere and approaching with frantic haste. "He doesn't know it, Oscar. He's lying. He's trying to make you confess. In no possible way could he have learned that it was face powder," she confidently asserted, glaring at the detective.

"Are you sure of it?" Waldmere cried quickly. "How do you know?"

"Because I emptied Stella's powder box this morning and substituted some of my own powder," Celia hurriedly explained. "I came here to tell you. I feared this man, as I told you last evening. Don't believe him. He doesn't know it was face powder. He cannot convict you. He has no witness to what we are saying, no proof that we—"

"You're wrong about that," Crane sharply interrupted, checking her with a quick, commanding gesture. "You did remove the poisoned powder from Stella's powder box, where your own treacherous hands had put it, but you very lamely overlooked— her vanity bag! That's right. Shrink, and cover your horrified face. I emptied the contents of the vanity bag into my specie purse this morning. It still is there. I mixed a little with water and put it on the tongue of a kitten. The animal died in convulsions in two minutes. No proof, indeed!  I have proof enough to convict you both of attemped murder, and to send this man—"

Crane broke off again as he swung round in his chair and faced him. Waaldmere had seized a revolver from the table drawer. He was aiming it at point-blank range at the detective's breast.

The light of one ready for murder, indeed, was in his scowling eyes, and on his lips a sneer of mingled contempt and defiance.

"You won't use the evidence you possess. You won't expose us," he said deliberately. 'You won't send me or this girl anywhere, Crane."

"Won't I?" Crane eyed him coldly. "On the contrary, Waldmere, I shall send you back to Germany to pay the penalty for your crime. You are the fugitive from Essen. Your true name is Otto Vedder. The published descriptions of him at the time of the crime stated that he had on his left cheek two scars resulting from a duel while at Heidelberg. I recalled it when meeting you last evening. It established a connecting link between the two crimes, and there remained for me only to discover how the foul work was done. I now have solved the mystery, and I'm going to send you, Otto Vedder, back to Essen!"

The criminal in the opposite chair had not stirred.

"No, you're not," he retorted, lips twitching. "I'm going to do the sending— and you're the one that's going to be sent."

"You intend to shoot me, eh?"

"Presently. I'm going to kill you, Crane, and claim it was an accident. This girl will testify to it. Her word and mine will be sufficent. I'm going to take the only safe way— and do away with you!"

"On the contrary, Vedder, I shall arrest you, immediately," Crane said sternly, and he drew from his coat pocket a pair of handcuffs.

Waldmere, so called, did not hesitate an instant. He pressed the trigger of the leveled weapon again and again— but the falling hammer brought no explosion. It brought only a frightful oath from the astonished man.

Detective Crane laughed icily.

"I saw you glance at that drawer when I first mentioned Otto Vedder," he said curtly. "I suspected it contained a revolver. I broke the gun open and removed the cartridges while you were at the telephone. You were talking only with a man whom I had call you from the laboratory, so that I might find the evidence I wanted. There are detectives from the local station, too, within hearing of my whistle. I thought I might need them. You are under arrest Vedder, and you're going back to Essen!"

Waldmere leaped up, venting a furious snarl, and started toward the shelf of poisons. But Detective Crane had anticipated the move and intercepted him. Only one blow was struck— and when the criminal revived, his wrists were locked to those of two plain-clothes men.

NORMAN CRANE'S prediction proved true. Vedder went back to Essen and paid the penalty for his crime. Celia Hoyt, whom Stella refused to prosecute, who had yielded to Waldmere's avowals of love and his scheme for her to inherit her cousin's fortune, spent the remainder of her life in settlement work.

Crane did not return to Washington, nor remain in the secret service. He remained in the home of Stella Dalrymple till she had fully recovered from the foul attempt upon her life, and until— their wedding day.

_________________

13: What He Taught Best

Roy W. Hinds

(Roy Wesley Hinds, 1887-1930)

Detective Story Magazine 3 Sep 1921

IN his slow walk down the Bowery Simon Trapp paused at the corner of Broome Street, in which was situated his cluttered pawnshop. He decided to buy a newspaper. As the matter involved an expenditure of money, he plucked thoughtfully at his beard. But there was hardly any other chance of getting the paper; so, with an air of benefaction, he approached a very small and very smudgy newsboy.

The old gentleman waited patiently for change of a nickel, which the boy made a great fuss about digging up. Perhaps the boy thought that his customer would be in a hurry to be off and reckon the passing moments of more value than the pennies— but in that he was mistaken. Mr. Trapp, sensing the urchin's game, extended his palm and waited grimly until the last copper had been reluctantly dropped in it.

Then he walked to his pawnshop. He found "Puggie" Rooks safely in charge of the business. Whereupon the old man went to his living room in the rear to enjoy the newspaper.

Ere many minutes had elapsed Simon Trapp decided that the newspaper was perhaps the best investment he had made in a long time. A small item on the third page caught and held his attention to the exclusion of everything else. He read the item over and over. Presently he hurled the paper aside and cried:

"Puggie!"

Puggie Rooks, the young assistant in pawnbroking and other transactions even less worthy, responded at once.

"Lock up the shop," the pawnbroker ordered.

The young man hastened to obey, not at all put out by the sharpness of Mr. Trapp, which he attributed to extraordinary excitement. Soon they were quartered without fear of interruption in the living room.

"Listen," the old man enjoined in a softer voice. "I got a job that you should do."

Puggie's face lengthened. There were some "jobs" assigned him by Mr. Trapp which were far from attractive.

"Up there?" he demanded glumly.

"No," the pawnbroker assured him; "not up there this time. This man that you should see has already left there. You don't have to go up there this time."

"I'm glad of that. I hate that place."

"You should hate it more if you had to stay there. Listen now, I want you to see a man by the name of Adolph Peters. He—"

"Who— Smoke Peters?"

"That's what they call him— Smoke Peters—"

"Is he out?"

"Yes, he's out," Mr. Trapp replied gladly. "And you ain't no more surprised than me. Never did I see five years go so quick! It seems just like last week that they took him away for five years, and now here he is back again— just like that!"

The old man snapped his fingers. Puggie grinned.

"Maybe," the latter suggested, "it don't seem 'just like that' to Adolph Peters."

"No— that's right— it ain't been no short time to Adolph Peters. Last year, I bet, seems a long ways back to him. But he ain't been there five years— only about four; good time off. I tell you the truth, Smoke Peters got all his good time, I bet, as never did I see a finer behaved man. Nothing noisy about him—no loud talking. He's just a fine, quiet man— and I like him. Listen, Puggie, I should like to do some-hing for him. He's sick— it reads in the paper there about him being sick. They printed a lot about him when they took him away— a master burglar they called him; but now, when he's out, and sick, and maybe needs help, they print a little item no bigger than if they was writing about a dog fight. But maybe that suits Smoke Peters— him so quiet and nice."

Mr. Trapp peered intently into Puggie's face and added:

"You shouldn't want to make a mistake in picking out Adolph Peters to talk to. You know him— eh?"

"Sure, I know him," the young man returned. "I seen him here, didn't I, when I was a kid?"

"I didn't remember if you did or not. He's a plumpish man

"I bet he ain't plumpish now. They don't come out of that place very fat— none that I ever seen."

"Well, his face is the main thing for you to remember. His eyes, steady and cool— you never should forget his eyes."

"I'll know him all right."

"Good! Now, Adolph Peters, as it reads in the paper, is putting up at Tony George's mission. You know Tony— the old crook that got religion and turned into a kind of a preacher, with a mission in Bayard Street. Tony's all right— only he's got religion. He'll beat you up if he finds out who you be and what you want with Adolph Peters. So— be easy, and don't let Tony know you're there. He won't remember you, anyway—you was a little boy when Tony George used to come to see me.

"Only don't let Tony know that you're trying to get Adolph Peters to come and see me. That's one thing that sets Tony to fighting— if he thinks somebody is trying to take a man away from his place. It reads in the paper that Adolph Peters come to Tony's mission, sick and tired after them four years up there. I guess Tony told some reporter about it. Them reporters like to hang around Tony's place— looking for what they call 'characters.' But Tony won't let 'em write a man up too much, and they're afraid of Tony. Religion didn't turn Tony's fists soft — no indeed! He lays down the law in his place, and everybody minds what he says, or gets out. But he likes to get the name of his place in the paper once in a while— and wants everybody to know it when a man reforms."

A puzzled frown gathered on Mr. Rooks' sophisticated face.

"What if Adolph Peters has reformed?" he ventured.

"Listen," the pawnbroker returned scornfully, "don't be foolish! He went there because he's sick, that's all. Him and Tony is old friends. I hope Adolph he ain't sick abed. You couldn't get to see him— and it wouldn't do no good to see him— if he's sick abed. I guess he's just wore out and tired after them four years and wants to rest and eat good food. Anyhow, you go down there. Hang around till you get a good chance to tell him that he should hurry up and come to see me on very important business."

Puggie Rooks departed. Whereupon Mr. Trapp, his shop unlocked again, resumed the less colorful business of pawnbroking; meanwhile speculating hopefully upon the prospects that had been awakened by the insignificant news item.

The Star of Hope Mission, which was a result of the conversion of the notorious Tony George, was open to the general public throughout the day and most of the night. No one ever doubted the sincerity of Tony George. He was a natural leader of men. As a criminal he had been a leader. As an expounder of the great faith that had been awakened within him, he was vigorous and crude, but effective. He extended his efforts for the most part to that unfortunate class of men who were handicapped by police and prison records. There was nothing "slushy" about his work. He pointed out the practical advantages of sobriety and honest industry and gave a practical helping hanid in opening the way to jobs.

Puggie Rooks encountered no difficulties. He sauntered into the place casually; many a loiterer drifted in from the streets, and sat down in the reading room. There were enough other men there to render him inconspicous.

Within an hour Adolph Peters wandered into the reading room. He undoubtedly came from up from his room. Tony George was not in sight— if he were in the mission, he would hardly be found in the reading room. Puggie Rooks recognized Adolph Peters. The lean face and whitened hair did not conceal the identity of the man. He walked slowly, though he was far from being an invalid. The deductions of Simon Trapp apparently were correct. Smoke Peters was tired and wanted to rest and eat wholesome food.

Puggie surveyed the stiff prison suit worn by Adolph Peters. It was new and coarse, and there were two or three other such suits in the reading room. Puggie observed the difference between these men and the frowzy down-and- outers who frequent the average mission. Here was cleanliness of person, at least. He wondered what they were thinking about. He wondered how many of them were notorious criminals and was seized by admiration— especially for Adolph Peters, who had achieved about all there was to achieve in his line.

But Mr. Rooks also knew that these men were not plying their trades now. Tony George wouldn't stand for that; and there were various reasons why a crook wouldn't take advantage of his hospitality. Most of these men had reformed or were thinking seyiously about going straight— and young Mr. Rooks, reared in an atmosphere of crime, felt his admiration melting into disgust.

As soon as he could safely do so Puggie Rooks winked significantly at Adolph Peters. The man so recently from prison studied the young man thoughtfully, undecided whether he was drunk or his wink had a deeper meaning.

Puggie lifted his eyebrows and batted his eyes in an effort to convince Mr Peters that he wished to talk with him.

Finally he won an answering wink from the object of his attentions.

It was not long before they had edged together with a great show of indifference in a quiet corner of the room.

"Simon Trapp sent me here," Puggie Rooks muttered through his motionless lips. "He wants to see you on very important business."

Adolph Peters meditated. Swiftly he took in the aspects of the young  man; and perhaps recognized in him the boy he had seen around Simon Trapp's years before.

At least he didn't hesitate to answer frankly :

"It won't do Simon any good to see me. Tell him I'm much obliged, but I've got other things to think about."

"He says it's important."

"It won't do him any good to see me," Peters reiterated, and he eyed Puggie in such fashion that the young man did not press the issue.

Mr. Rooks presently withdrew, without having made further overtures to Adolph Peters. He reported faithfully to Simon Trapp.

The pawnbroker frowned,

"It ain't possible," he declared, "that Smoke Peters has reformed. What did he say, eh? That it wouldn't do me no good to see him? That was it, eh? Well, that looks bad— but it ain't possible that he's reformed. It can't be. I need him too bad. But maybe he just don't want to do anything while he's putting up at Tony George's. That's it! Now listen— you go back, and tell him that it ain't nothing crooked that I want to see him for. Make him understand that. It's something that he should like— and it ain't crooked."

Puggie Rooks, with that argument, at length induced Adolph Peters to call upon Simon Trapp.

Peters came in the evening after the pawnshop had been closed. Simon Trapp welcomed him effusively. He rattled volley upon volley of happy words and solicitations, rubbed his hands, and tugged at his beard, until Mr. Peters directly lost his patience.

"What d'you want of me, Simon?" the caller demanded curtly.

Mr. Trapp's face drooped gravely.

"I'm in a bad fix," he explained. "I got a young man that comes here to see me, and he wants something that I can't give him. You should be able to help me out, if—"

"What does he want?"

"It ain't nothing crooked; I mean, exactly—"

"Well, what is it?"

"I mean it ain't nothing crooked for you," the old man hastened to assure Adolph Peters. "It ain't crooked to be a teacher, is it?"

"A teacher of what?"

The old man shrugged his shoulders.

"Well," he rejoined, "what is it that you could teach best?"

Mr. Peters gazed at his host's grinning countenance without emotion— a level gaze of understanding, and perhaps contempt.

"You're training some young fellow, eh?" he inquired.

"Many kinds of people come to see me," the pawnbroker suggested.

Peters jerked his head toward the door through which Puggie Rooks had disappeared a few minutes earlier.

"Him?" he demanded.

"No— not Puggie Rooks. He ain't exactly the kind of a man to learn your business. He's got nerve enough— but Puggie's cut out for something softer— and easier. But I got a young fellow coming here that should make a good man, if he gets with the right people. He's smart, and he's got a good education. He knows something about business and business places. Puggie got acquainted with him at a prize fight. He come here one day to see Puggie, and I got to talking to him. 'That boy ain't no fool,' I says to myself. And sure enough he ain't. I led him along and found out he had ideas about making money— and knows several places he can make it, if he should learn a trick or two. I was thinking of him when I read in the paper about you being out and down to Tony George's place, and all of a sudden I get an idea."

The pawnbroker paused, a trifle disconcerted by the steady gaze of his visitor, but he recalled that Adolph Peters always had had such a gaze; an eye for which he was remembered by all who knew him.

"I got an idea," Mr. Trapp pursued. "Here, thinks I to myself, is Adolph Peters, just come back to life. The way the paper reads, he's sick, and maybe he don't feel like working. Maybe he'd sooner take things easy for a few weeks; and have somebody bring in the money while he's resting up. You can't beat that— eh?"

But Mr. Peters did not go into ecstasies over Mr. Trapp's idea. He kept a discreet silence; and the old man rambled on:

"This young fellow can do the work and pay you for learning him how. Right this minute he's got half a dozen places that he could work in if he knew what to do when he got inside. It's a great chance, Adolph, for a man in your fix. You take absolutely no chances— and you know what that ineans when you're just coming out from that place. Don't the whole police force know that Adolph Peters is out again? Ain't they expecting something? Ain't they ready to pick you off at the first chance? You know all them things, Adolph.

"It ain't no easy job for a man to swing into his work again, with everybody watching him; and maybe shadowing him— we don't know. But what can they do to you if they don't see you leave your room hardly, They know you're at Tony George's, and they got an idea that maybe you will reform. Well, they see you sticking around there—"

"I won't lift my hand to anything as long's I'm at Tony George's," Peters interjected.

"Well— why don't you move away from there?"

"Because Tony wants me to stick."

"Sure, he wants you to stick. He wants you to reform. Well, Tony is a good fellow, but everybody don't want to reform. There ain't enough money  in it these days. But listen, Adolph, you wouldn't be doing nothing crooked, if you just give this young fellow a word of advice now and then. You wouldn't be lifting your hand in a crooked way. And what a fine thing it would be for you. Pretty soon the police would say, 'Look at Adolph Peters. He's went and  reformed. Day after day-and week after week he lives there at Tony George's and don't make a move to steal anything. He's reformed!' That's what the police would say. And then your heels would be clean again. You could go where you wanted to, and they wouldn't be chasing. And all the time— listen, Adolph— you would be getting a cut from this young fellow's work. Something like tuition, eh? He'd be paying you for a course in— in burglary.'

"Who is this young fellow?" Adolph Peters asked.

The old man dropped his voice to an exultant whisper:

"From one of the finest families in town— that's who this young fellow is! One of the finest, but not the richest— any more. Spencer is his name, Wilbur Spencer. I tell you the truth, one time his father was a business man in Wall Street ; but I think he went broke. Anyway, the old man is dead, and young Wilbur don't like this business of working in an office for a living. He don't get enough out of it. Maybe he's got a girl that wants a good time; I don't know—but anyway he wants more money quick. He's a fly young man, a fancy dresser, and all that— and nerve! Say, that young fellow will be a wonder if he's trained right.

"Puggie Rooks says he'll fight at a drop of the hat. He got to hanging around these East. Side prize fights and mixed up with some pretty tough fellows. All the time, I guess, he was looking for somebody who could learn him how to get money quick. Do you know, Adolph, I think that fellow ured me out. He ain't got nothing on me— I was careful about that; but I think he has his suspicions. And that's why he likes me. He thinks I can give him what he wants.

"Well, maybe I can— if you'll help me. A fellow in his position could get into a lot of fancy places, Adolph, offices and homes even. We could have him bringing in a steady stream of money. He'd just work for us—you know how them things are— while he's serving his apprenticeship. He'd be willing to pay, and why not? A man can't learn to be a first-class burglar for nothing these days! And that's what he wants to be. I asked him why he didn't turn a few big confidence games, and he says: 'Say, I don't want to do anything that I show up in.' That's it. He wants to work in the dark and, anyway, that's the safest, ain't it? He ain't a fool, that fellow ain't! He wants to work fast and furious for a couple of years maybe and make a clean-up. Then I suppose he'll settle down and turn his money loose in some kind of a business. But what do we care about that? We'll string him along and keep him coming back to us with his tuition, eh?

"And look what it is to you, Adolph! Don't you see? Never was there such a fine chance for a man just out from up there. Not a thing do you have to do, just instruction, that's all. It ain't like the regular jobs of burglary. This fellow, with his inside stand, can work all alone in offices that he can steal keys to. He's got friends in lots of offices and business places. He can get inside easy, but don't know what to do next. Listen, Adolph, you're a pretty fancy man with safes and things like that. You don't always rip 'em open, do you? I should say not! You have a trick or two that's much nicer than that. his boy would be just the man for you to take into a partnership. He'll keep his mouth shut. And he's got the standing that should get him into the very places that hundreds of men would give half their lives to get into. What more do you want?"

It was an alluring picture undoubtedly to a man fresh from prison— a man beset by the constant fear of the ex-convict; fear that he is watched. The man just out of prison is weak physically. His nerves are not steady enough for the delicate and exacting tasks of burglary. He fears to step out with his old-time boldness. For years he has unconsciously shrunk from human contact. He has dodged guards and prison officials, and, outside, these instincts cling for a time. Gradually he recovers his equilibrium and wonders why he was so shaky.

But shaky he is at first. Adolph Peters was shaky. It is the best time in his life for the reformers to catch a crook. It is only when the ex-convict fails to get a decent job, after sufficient time has passed for the shakiness of sudden freedom to wane, that he definitely decides to go back again to crime.

Adolph Peters had thought of going straight in self-defense. He had come into contact again with Tony George; and found Tony a powerful advocate of an honest life. But now he had met Simon Trapp.

Adolph Peters meditated. For the most part, having submitted his argu- ment, Mr. Trapp kept silence, although he dropped an alluring word now and then; afterthoughts designed to touch with bright colors the picture he had painted.

"I'll meet this fellow," Peters announced finally, "and see what he looks like. But he mustn't know who I am; and he mustn't know that I'm meeting him on purpose. Just have him here when I accidentally drop in; maybe to- morrow evening, about this time."

The pawnbroker chuckled inwardly.

"To-morrow evening— sure?" he queried.

"Yes— sure."

Adolph Peters walked slowly down the Bowery to Bayard Street, thinking deeply. He wondered just how much money could come to him if he went through with Simon Trapp's proposal. Quite a sum, no doubt.

Then his mind dwelt upon Simon Trapp. Simon Trapp had not changed. He was still the same shrewd, scheming old man. Presently his wandering thoughts shaped themselves, and he found that in his mind he was drawing a contrast between Tony George and Simon Trapp.

Adolph Peters met the budding young crook, Wilbur Spencer and found him all that Simon Trapp had described. The youth was intelligent, educated, but exceedingly restless. They met apparently by accident, but Spencer was not averse to airing his ideas.

"There isn't anything in business any more," he declared, "unless a man has capital. I can work and save for twenty years and maybe get the capital, but I want it quicker than that. I want it now."

"How do you aim to get it?" Adolph Peters asked quietly.

The youth gazed at him sharply.

"There's more than one way to get money," he replied significantly.

"Do you mean— stealing ?"

"Some people might call it that."

"But they put people in prison. for stealing."

"If they catch 'em."

"They catch 'em— finally."

"Sure," the young fellow admitted; "but a man doesn't have to keep it up. I wouldn't want to make a business of tealing, and I wouldn't want to steal from people who couldn't afford to lose, and I'd quit it after I got my capital. Other people stole from my father; that's what makes me poor now. I don't see why I shouldn't take back what he would have left me, if he hadn't been robbed."

Thus the talk drifted on. Adolph Peters found that Wilbur Spencer had definite ideas as to just where he would steal. There was nothing rattle- brained about his plans. He convinced himself that the young fellow was sincere; that he was not a "line" thrown into the underworld by a detective.

"Do you know who I am?" Peters inquired at length.

"You told me your Forbes."

"My name isn't Forbes— my name is Peters."

"I've heard that name before," Spencer admitted, searching his com- panion's face. "Peters—"

"l'm Adolph Peters. Maybe you read about me four or five years ago. I was in the papers quite a bit."

Wilbur gazed unbelievingly. thing dawned upon him.

"Are you the man that riddled several big banks?" he demanded.

"They said I did."

"And finally got sent up for possessing stolen goods— the Peters that was too clever for the police; the man they couldn't convict of burglary, though they were sure he was guilty? Are you that man?"

"They sent me up on a technicality— or rather on a mistake on my part. | had some of the goods on me, though I'm not saying where I picked 'em up."

Young Spencer thrust out his hand.

"I read about you at the time," he said simply "and wished I could do the things that you can."

Simon Trapp drifted into the room then, and swiftly his old eyes told him that things were going well. Presently all pretense was cast aside. The three men talked plainly.

Adolphe Peters took Wilbur Spence away with him,

"I'll make something out of him, assured Simon Trapp; "but he's got to do what I want him to do and just exactly as I say. It's a business that can't be fooled with. I can't take any chances,"

"I'll do just as you say," young Spencer promised.

"Good!" ejaculated the pawnbroker; and he let them out the door.

The old man rubbed his hands softly and crept into bed that night very well satisfied.

Eight days later, at night, Wilbur Spencer returned to the establishment of Simon Trapp. The pawnbroker led him into his living room, and Puggie Rooks joined them.

Spencer had undergone a change. He was thinner. His fingers fluttered nervously when he lighted a cigarette. He was unshaven; and the old man felt a tremor of misgiving at the young man's woebegone aspect.

"Well," he asked softly with an effort at jollity, "are you a burglar by this time?"

"I don't know whether I am or not," Spencer replied sourly. "I think I'm a fool, but I'm not sure about that either. They sent me to you to find out."

"Who sent you to me?"

"Adolph Peters, and a fellow by the name of Jacks."

"Jacks?" Mr. Trapp mused. "I used to know a man by the name of Jacks, and he was a very clever man; almost as good as Peters."

The young fellow brightened.

"Was he?" he said. "Well, maybe things are all right then. But I've been through such foolish stunts that I hardly know whether I'm being kidded or not. This burglar business— well, it's a funny business."

"Yes, indeed!" Mr. Trapp agreed. "There's a lot of mysterious things in it. I don't know much about it myself but a successful burglar is a genius, and maybe a little odd. But tell me, what have you learned?"

"Well, I've learned several things. To-night they led me away, and Peters said, 'You go up to Simon Trapp's place and tell him just what course we put you through. He'll know whether you're entitled to a diploma or not. And do a lot of thinking,' Peters added. 'Get Simon to help you think.' "

The pawnbroker scowled.

"Them is mysterious words," said he. "Tell me some more."

"Well," the student in burglary explained, "when we went away from here that night, Peters took me down to a mission in Bayard Street. I didn't notice what place it was when we went in, but to-night, when I came out, I saw the sign on the window. 'The Star of Hope Mission,' it read. I—"

"Is to-night the first time you been away?"

"Absolutely the first time!"

"That's funny. Tell me some more."

"That night Peters took me to a little room no bigger than a piano box. There was a cot and a little bit of a window high up. The room was in the garret of that old building. He called in Jacks.

" 'Jacks,' Peters said, 'this is a friend of mine, and he wants to learn the business. What do you think of him?'

" 'At first sight,' said Jacks, 'I'd say he's too fleshy. Not fat, you know, but just a little too stout.'

"Peters squinted his eyes, and sized me up.

" 'Maybe you're right, Jacks,' he agreed, 'but we can whittle some of that flesh off.'

" 'He ain't springy enough on his feet with all that flesh,' Jacks went on. And then he said to me, 'A burglar, my boy, has to be in training—tlike a prize fighter.'

" 'Well,' I said, 'train me.'

" 'But it's a different kind of training,' he went on. 'It's a special routine he has to go through. How are your nerves?"

" 'Fine!? I told him,

" 'That's bad,' he said. Hold out your hand.'

"I stuck out my hand.

" 'Your nerves are too steady,' said Jacks. 'Your fingers don't twitch a bit. We'll have to fix that. You see, my boy, if you're going to work on safes and locks, your nerves are the main thing. They must be awful touchy. Just now your nerves are not sensitive enough. Especially the nerves in your fingers— they must be keyed up to a tight pitch. They must be fixed:so that they flicker at the slightest sensation.'

" 'Well,' I said, 'fix 'em.'

"Then they left me in that room. They unscrewed the bulb in the light socket and took it away with 'em. They locked the door behind 'em. I was in there all night in the dark. I didn't sleep much. But I knew these fellows knew their business, and I was willing to go through with the game.

"In the morning Peters and Jacks took me down to some kind of an office, and I telephoned my office that I was called out of town for ten days or two weeks. It would take that long, Peters said, for me to learn to be a burglar. It was all right at the office— I got a leave of absense for two weeks.

"Then they took me to another room, one flight below the garret. They fed me— fried salt pork, bread, margarine, and black coffee with no sugar in it,

" 'Everything we do,' said Peters, 'is to get you in physical shape. Don't complain. It won't last long— and in a few days you'll be able to put the fancy work on the combination of some safe. Listen,' he whispered, 'Jacks has taken a liking to you. He says you're the goods, and he wants to make an A-one man out of you. No rough stuff for yours! Fancy burglary, flipping safes open with your finger tips. Just hurry up and get, your nerves in shape.

"After I ate, they led me down the hall to another room. In one corner was a low bench, with a box of tools in front of it.

" 'The diet that we put you on,' Jacks explained, 'and the work we lay out for you, is all part of the game. You'll understand it later on. Just mind what we say and don't complain. You can't quit now. We don't take a man into our game until we decide he'll stick— and we make him stick.'

"I had an idea what he meant by that, and I decided it was best for me to stick.

"Well, they put me to work. They brought in strips of leather. They showed me how to make shoemaker's wax thread. I made thread, rolling and rolling it on my leg. Look at my hands! It'll be a month before I get that wax off. And I stitched leather. I didn't make anything— no shoes or anything like that. Just stitch, stitch, stitch— all day long. They kept me supplied with fresh strips of leather, and I punched row after row of thread into 'em.

"At noon they led me down the hall into that other room and fed me—  beans, mostly beans. Fat salt pork— ugh! Then they led me back to the stitching room, and I worked until evening. Then they fed me again— dried apples or peaches and bread and tea. Then they marched me upstairs to the garret, give me an old magazine or an old paper to read until about nine o'clock, when they took the light bulb out— and left me locked in the dark.

"Day after day that thing went on. I certainly lost flesh, and my nerves certainly got touchy. Beans! I never want to see another bean as long as | live! And salt pork— ugh! Every day it was the same— pork, leather, beans, wax ends. That would drive a man crazy after—"

"Do you know where you been?" Simon Trapp interrupted,

Puggie Rooks burst into a cackling laugh, and wrath broke out on the pawnbroker's face.

"Shut up!" he cried; and Puggie shut up. "It's bad enough for all of us to be made fools of— without you laughing like a jackass. Listen, Spencer; you been in prison."

Wilbur Spencer stared.

"That's it," Mr. Trapp declared. "You been in Tony George's jail. I heard about that a long time ago. Tony George tries to reform crooks. Sometimes he does reform 'em— but when one of his converts gets shaky and shows signs of slipping, he puts him in that jail of his; and that makes him think of what he's running into.

"But they had no business to do that to you. Never again will I mix up with a man that stays in a mission! Adolph Peters and Jacks can reform if they want to, but what right should they have to make a fool out of me— and you? Never mind, I'll find some other man—"

"That is like a prison, isn't it?" young Spencer remarked wonderingly.

For some time he mused, unmindful of Simon Trapp rattling on about what he was going to do along the lines of making a burglar of Wilbur Spencer.

Presently Spencer got to his feet.

"Where you going?" Simon Trapp inquired.

"Down to that mission," the youth replied, "and thank Adolph Peters and that man Jacks— and Tony George, if I can find him. None of that prison stuff for mine! Just think of years of that!" He was appalled by the prospect, and hastened to add: "And in the morning I'm going to work. It isn't quite so profitable all at once, maybe; but it's certainly easier on the nerves!"

___________________

14: The Fixing of Mrs. Farwell

W. Pett Ridge

1859-1930

World's News (Sydney) 4 Nov 1931

MR. FARWELL, usually a man with a genial nod for all in the munition works, and highly celebrated for his tact in settling disputes, came through the gates after the dinner hour, showing on his features anxiety coupled with apprehension. The young women, in their yellow overalls and yellow caps, glanced at him surprisedly.

"That testimonial affair," he announced, "that you young ladies were kindly arranging for me, is off. Cancelled. Struck out. Done in."

"But we've collected the sixpences," protested one, "and we've given the order, and the article is already on the way. Expected here at any moment."

"I do not wish to disguise the fact," he declared earnestly, "that when I 'eard about it I felt as pleased as Punch. I considered it very nice of you all to mark my birthday in such a manner. Jest for the moment I left out of sight the circumstance that my wife is the owner, and the life-long possessor, of a jealous disposition."

"But surely she can't be jealous of a ailver tea-pot I"

"She can be Jealous of the girls what are offering it to me."

They began to talk at once, vivaciously and with a certain indignation. The nonsense of such an idea! The utter stupidity of the notion! The ridiculous absurdity of a woman imagining for a single instant—!

"Can't allow you to say nothing against my missus," interrupted Mr. Farwell stolidly. "We've been married, me an' her, for over twenty years, and there's never been a mis-word between us. 'Ceptin'," he added, "on occasions like this, when female parties have took the trouble to show me a slight attention. I remember once at Broadstairs, in '18—"

The bell rang. The double line of girls began to move.

"She's coming here this afternoon," said Mr. Farwell, in going, "to make inquiries."

"She won't be able to get past the gatekeeper."

"You don't know her," he remarked, "as well as I do. Likely enough she'll pretend to be somebody else."

The news went later from benoh to bench, creating at first incredulity, which gave way to keen resentment. Here were they, girls earning good money, and reckoning themselves entitled to disburse it as they pleased, and here, too, was Mr Farwell, the best foreman in an establishment renowned for excellence of its foremen. What more natural than, on hearing of a coming anniversary, the leading girls, after deliberating, should resolve to have a whip-round, and make a presentation, flattering to the recipient, and, as they thought, complimentary to his wife? The annoying detail of the affair was that as the gift would be engraved with a special inscription, it could hot be returned or devoted to any other objective.

"If she comes here this afternoon," said one of the head girls, "we must simply—" It appeared that the suggestion was not yet fully planned.

"We'll leave it all to you, Bessie Walters," agreed the others. Apart, it was said of Bessie that she had a head on her superior to most, but that no one envied her the present job,

A stern-visaged lady, plainly dressed, appeared at the doorway at three o'clock, Mr. Farwell was away; an official from the Ministry of Munitions had oalled, and had taken him off to the rooms occupied by the partners of the firm. The lady visitor found in her brown attaché case a slip of paper, and was studying it as Miss Walters advanced to meet her.

"I wanted to see someone of importance," announced the caller patronisingly, "but I daresay you will do,"

"Many thanks," said Miss Walters, "for the pleasing nature of your remarks."

"I wish to make some inquiries in regard to the deportment taken up by the males set in authority in an establishment of this nature. Is their conduct open to criticism?"

"In a general way, no,"

"That answer won't do for me," said the visitor firmly. "If there is an exception to the rule, let me have the particulars."

Miss Walters looked around her carefully, before calling up her powers of invention.

"You won't let what I'm going to tell you go no further," she pleaded. The other declined to make any promise. "It's Mr Farwell," whispered the girl. "He's the only one we have to complain about." The lady took a pencil and prepared to write. "So off-hand in his talk to us. Never a friendly word, sometimes goes the whole day and doesn't speak unless to grumble, And when he finds fault—my goodness, but you ought to hear him. Enough to take your hair out of curl."

"But why haven't you reported him to the authorities?"

"We've done a cleverer thing than that," said Miss Walters, increasing her confidential manner. "We're going to try and see first what can be done by kindness. Although he 'ates us, and we 'ate him, we're going to give him a sort of testimonial in order to find out whether there's any softness in his 'eart. It'll be an interesting experiment, and we're eager to see what 'appens."

The lady, affected to the edge of tears, took a pocket handkerchief from the brown case. "The person I feel sorry for," she said, "is his wife. She, poor soul, sits at home all day, with the prospect of this brute returning to her in the evening— Oh, what a pity women don't make up their minds, unanimously and determinedly, never to get married!"

"The idea hadn't occurred to me," said Miss Walters, "but no doubt there's something in it. But we can't discuss the matter now, because we're bush, and If you don't mind pushing off, ma'am—"

"Quite so," remarked the visitor. "I have all the information I want. Perhaps it may Interest you to hear that I've known Mr. Farwell for many years." The girl affected surprise. "And what you. have told me throws an entirely new light upon his character."

"Men," said Miss Walters, "can never be trusted."

The young women, when the caller had gone, complained that much of the discussion had not reached their ears, and Miss Walters provided a version of it that proved how neatly she contrived to regularise matters. They were congratulating her on the adroitness in speech, when Mr. Farwell returned, still in the company of the official. In passing through, he asked Miss Walters whether his missus had, in his absence, made a call. "Been and gone," was the answer. "And we've made it all right with her." Mr. Farwell, greatly occupied with business, seemed relieved to have escaped the encounter.

The lady visitor appeared again at tea-time, bearing a sheet of foolscap paper, on which paragraph had been entered by her, and letter, respectively, A to C. She requested Miss Walters to prepare them carefully, and then append her signature, and obtain the signature of three other girls,

"Look here, Mrs. Farwell," said Miss Walters impetuously,

"I beg your pardon."

"Oh, I've blurted it out," admitted the young woman, "and it's a pity, but it can't be helped. But as a matter of fact, we know who you are, and you mustn't come bothering us continually like this, because there's a war on, and if we're, interrupted...."

"I am the secretary," announced the other, "of the newly-formed Munition Workers' Aid Association. Our plan and our desire is to look after the girls."

"So far as we are concerned, we can look after ourselves. Apart from that we were quite under the impression that you were Mr. Farwell's wife."

"I cannot make that ambitious claim," said the lady, with some haughtiness. "Here is my card."

"You'd have saved a lot of trouble," said the perturbed Miss Walters, "if you'd shown me that at the start. And as to the statements I made this afternoon, you can take it from me there's nothing in 'em."

"You are, I am sure, not doing Justice to yourself."

"Girls," said Miss Walters eagerly, "come here!" She nodded to them in a manner that conveyed instructions. "Is it my 'abit to tell the truth?"

"It is not," they chorused.

"Wasn't the information I gave this good lady all a make-up from start to finish?"

"It was!"

"Isn't Mr. Farwell the most popular gentleman in the whole show?"

"He is that!"

"And aren't we going to give him a present as a sign of our respect for him?"

"We are!"

Miss Walters turned to the lady with a look of triumph.

"I am sorry," said the lady in a precise way, "that it is the duty imposed upon me to make a selection of the evidence that has been furnished. I am bound to come to the conclusion that the particulars furnished when you didn't know who I was are apt to be more exact and reliable than those given when you knew my official position."

"You're a Nosy Parker," cried Miss Walters with vehemence. "And you don't get our names on that sheet, and if you do anything to injure our Mr. Farwell ."

"Evidently," said the lady, "the man exercises a terrible power over you. My duty is to put an end to such a deplorable system.

"Girls who were in the habit of taking sugar in their tea omitted to put sugar in their tea; and those who generally abstained took three lumps. Consternation was shown on every feature, and not until the happy thought came of placing the responsibility on the shoulders of Miss Walters, did anything like composure return. That young woman pleaded that she had acted throughout with the best motives; they brushed the excuse aside as inadequate. She argued that these external associations had no real power in regard to the procedure and working of a munition factory and its staff; the girls retorted that the harm a busybody was capable of causing could not be measured or estimated. Little encouragement to cheerfulness was gained when later a wooden box was found on the bench, addressed to Miss Walters, and containing a handsome specimen of the silversmith's art, with the inscription. A bill enclosed showed a balance due of six shillings. The fear generally hinted at was that Mr. Farwell, on being placed in possession of all the circumstances, would refuse to accept the teapot.

"Our tanners wasted," said the girls regretfully, "and all your fault, Bessie Walters."

The situation was additionally complicated by the absence of the foreman. The most hopeful young women threw out a suggestion that the meddlesome lady had lost no time in getting to work; that Mr. Farwell was already being cross-examined by the heads of the firm, and defending himself to the best of his ability. Half a dozen men from another department came through, and, noting the anxious looks of the girls, rallied them. Particulars givlen, the brightest and shrewdest (reported to be desirous of marrying Miss Walters's widowed mother) said at once that the wrong steps had been taken. What ought to have been done, in view of Mrs. Farwell's Jealous nature, was to make the testimonial a gift, not from the women workers only, but from the men and women together. No wife could possibly take any objection to this.

'"Easy enough," commented Miss Walters, "to be wise after the event."

"It isn't too late," declared the adviser. He placed a shilling on the bench. "Chaps," he said to his companions, "be kind enough to follow suit."

The worst suspicions seemed to be confirmed when, just as the day hands were preparing to go off duty, Mr. Farwell arrived, accompanied by the heads of the firm. The girls looked at Miss Walters, and clicked their tongues in a reproachful way. A moment, later, and a woman arrived accompanied by a messenger, who presented her to Mr. Farwell, and seemed Inclined to ask for a receipt. Mr. Farwell introduced the partners to her, and they shook hands, and appeared to be offering compliments.

"Girls," said the senior partner. There was an appeal for silence. "Before you go to-night I have an announcement to make, that you will accept, I think, with mingled feelings. Our friend, Farwell, is leaving us."

Miss Walters turned pale. The young women near, becoming sympathetic, urged her not to give way.

"He is leaving us at rather short notice, and for that reason I have invited Mrs. Farwell to be present. An official from the headquarters has been here to-day, and by his instructions Farwell is to be transferred to another place where his high abilities will be useful. But my colleagues and myself feel that we cannot let him go without expressing our thanks to him for the past, and our good wishes for the future. I may add that we have just received an anonymous letter concerning him, and we have treated it as we treat all communications of the kind, and more especially when coals are dear. Farwell, we know you better than any outside busybody does. Good luck to you!" The speaker cleared his throat, and indicated by preparing to beat time that he was about to lead a "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" chorus.

The singing finished. Miss Walters, flushed with nervousness and excitement, took the silver teapot, and asked leave to make the presentation. "From the lady members of the staff," she said. "And," glancing at Mrs. Farwell, "also the gentlemen members of the staff."

The foreman's wife beckoned to Miss Walters, and the girl, with some apprehensiveness, went forward.

"I'm a fool, sometimes," said the foreman's wife, "but not now. Let me give you a kiss, my love."

_____________________

15: Stabbed in the Back

C. L. Edholm

(Charlton Lawrence Edholm, 1879-1945)

World's News (Sydney) 30 Dec 1931 and Jan 6 1932

THE body of John Gregg lay where it had fallen. It was sprawled upon the reading table in his bedroom. The old man's face was pressed against the mahogany. In his neck was buried the blade which had served the murderer, an oddly-shaped knife, with a round handle that resembled silver.

The weapon was dabbled with blood, as was the collar and shirt of the aged financier. His sparse grey beard was streaked with red, but his hands, extended in a convulsive gesture to each aide, were unstained.

That is how Winter, the valet, had found his master when he entered the bedroom that November morning.

Terrified and speechless, he had regarded the corpse for a few minutes, then he ran to inform the butler with hysterical gasps that murder had been done while they slept.

It was Harris, the elderly butler, who called up Headquarters, after one horrified glance at the body.

"Don't touch it— don't touch anything, Winter," he directed, with authority. "There may be finger-prints, burnt matches, all sorts of clues that the detectives will find. Don't disturb so much as a scrap of paper!"

"And what about Master Cyril?" quavered Winter. "Who is going to break it to him that his uncle is dead?"

Harris, at the 'phone, motioned the valet to be silent. After he had secured the police station, and told what had happened in a few crisp sentences, he hung up, and then answered Winter's frightened question.

"The detective will break it to Master Cyril," he said. "But first he'll have to shake and shout at the young scapegrace. It was striking three when I heard him come in this morning, and it's seldom he wakes up before mid-day, as you know."

Winter shook his head, and passed a limp hand over his brow. "I know. He's sleeping in there— dreaming of cards or roulette most likely— while his uncle lies in the next room— murdered. It's like a bad dream. I can't believe what my eyes saw!"

The valet was a picture of misery and terror as he stood there trembling and staring with dilated eyes. He was such a weedy, insignificant fellow, with his thin body and skinny limbs, that Harris viewed him with contemptuous tolerance from his six feet of beef and brawn.

"Well, it's most unfortunate," remarked the butler in his detached manner. "I was fond of the old gentleman, in spite of his odd ways. And to think of him being murdered like this— in the same house with me! It's shocking! Extremely shocking!"

"Who could have done it?" whispered Winter. "Who is the murderer?"

"How should I know? That's for the police to find out."

"It couldn't have been a burglar— at least, it doesn't seem possible," Winter continued. "Everything is locked and bolted. Even his window was shut tight."

"Was it now? The master usually slept with his window open."

"Yes. But as he hadn't retired— you see, he was sitting there reading when he was stabbed— the window was still bolted. Nothing has been disturbed."

"The safe was closed. I saw that much," answered Harris. "A burglar wouldn't have stopped to close the safe, if he had rifled it. Well, I don't pretend to be . a "detective. I'll wait for the law to apprehend the criminal."

"How can you be so cold-blooded?" cried Winter. "To hear you talk, one would think that it was nothing to you that your master was stabbed while we were asleep."

They were interrupted by a sharp, imperative ring of the doorbell. Harris opened it to Detective Tom King and two constables.

King was a tall, reserved-looking fellow, rather mild than otherwise in his manner, and looked more like a High School teacher than one of the best men in the Force. He was fair-haired, blue-eyed, and dressed with inconspicuous neatness. The keen expression of his eyes was tempered by a pair of rimless spectacles, and his lips masked their determination by an easy-going smile.

Harris told him quickly what had happened.

King's first move was to station the constables at.the front and back of the house, to see that no one entered unobserved. No one was to leave under any pretext.

Then the detective went to the bedroom on the second floor, accompanied by Winter and Harris, and inspected the body of John Gregg.

What the detective saw as he examined the wound gave him an odd feeling of perplexity. The knife had been driven into the back of the neck with unusual force. Death had been instantaneous, for the blade had pierced a joint in the spinal column, and severed the spinal cord.

To strike such a blow required a hand of enormous force and skill.

The victim had never known what struck him, as he sat there reading. The book had fallen from his nerveless hands, the body had crumpled forward, he had made one clutching movement with his fingers— that was all.

The detective examined the hilt of the knife as if he expected to see the print of bloody fingers. He sniffed as an expected odor reached his nostrils, then touched the knife-hilt gingerly with his handkerchief, and smelled the cloth. "Odd! Very odd!" he murmured.

Then King 'phoned Headquarters for a finger-print expert. The police surgeon had already been notified, and was due any minute.

Before the doctor came, the detective learned all that Winter and Harris had to tell him. The old man had retired from active business, and was Interested only in his investments and his collection of antique weapons that were hung all over the house. He was supposed to be very rich. Following his usual custom, he had been reading in his chamber before going to bed. Gregg preferred that cosy room to the library, and the reading table was covered with books and periodicals. It was in the bedroom, too, that the small safe stood, for the old man had a feeling that his property was safer in the same room than in the library.

"Did Mr. Gregg keep much money in the safe?" asked King

The two servants could not answer this.

"I never saw it open," said Winter. "Mr. Gregg was a great one to keep his affairs to himself."

"And you don't know whether there were jewels or negotiable bonds or other valuables to tempt a burglar?"

"No, sir," replied Harris. "I can't say. When Mrs. Gregg was living she kept her jewels in this safe, but she died eight years ago. The old gentleman might have put them in his bank."

"Has he had any money in the house? Did he ever close any deals here that would involve money payments?"

"Well, sir, there was a gentleman here a week ago, a Mr. Farmer, who spent a couple of hours with the master one evening."

"Was that Bruce Farmer? The jewel expert from Bond Street?"

Winter replied slowly. "Yes, I think Bruce was the name. Bruce Farmer, that was the way the card read that he gave me. He may have been doing business. I don't know, of course."

"You may go now," said King. "Send up the other servants. The cook and a maid, you say? Very well, have them here, and then call in the nephew."

As soon as he was alone, King made a careful survey of the room. He noticed the bolted windows opening on to the broad street below. He observed the door leading to the bathroom, and another door led into the bedroom beyond for the bathroom was shared by Cyril and his uncle. King noticed also the door to the hall with the transom open to let in the air. He opened this door, and on the hall carpet saw a little white fragment. King picked it up, and examined it. It was Just a bit of surgical cotton that had been soaked in something. King sniffed it, then wrapped it in a scrap of paper, and put it in his pocket.

Anna, the maid, and Mrs. McGrew, the cook, tip-toed into the room a few minutes later, as he was completing his investigation.

"Don't be frightened," said the detective. "He won't hurt you, and I won't hurt you either. Just tell me whether you heard any suspicious sounds last night, or saw anything that might throw light on this crime."

Mrs. McGrew was almost hysterical. Her flabby body shook with sobs, and she seemed overcome with grief at the tragic fate of her master. King could get nothing out of her.

The cook spent her life below stairs. On account of her weight, she preferred the bedroom in the basement to the airier servants' quarters on the top floor. She had seen and heard nothing suspicious.

But Anna had seen the victim the night of the murder. Going to her room at eleven o'clock, she had seen him reading in his easy chair.

"How's that! You saw him? Was the door open?"

"No, sir, but from the upper landing I could see the light from his room. Looking through the transom, I saw him sitting there with his back to the door. He was reading. He didn't move."

"You're sure he was reading? You could see that he was sitting up? Not fallen forward as he Is now?"

"Oh, no, sir. You can see quite plain from the top of the stairs. He was all right when I saw him."

The detective jotted down the replies of the two women. After a few other questions, he was prepared to dismiss them, when the door from the bathroom was flung open, and a pale, haggard face appeared above a purple dressing gown.

"My uncle! What has happened to Uncle John?" cried Cyril, and the next moment he was bending over the dead man. At the sight of the knife, buried deep in the neck of the corpse, he started back in horror.

"My knife! How did my knife come here?" he shouted.

He confronted the detective with terror written on his pallid features. "Who are you? Who has done this?"

"I am from Police Headquarters. King is my name. And I am here to find the man who murdered your uncle."

Cyril pulled himself together with a great effort. "This is awful," he muttered again and again. "When did this happen? To think that my uncle was stabbed while I was asleep in the next room! Awful!" He buried his face in his hands.

The detective eyed him coldly. Cyril was a tall, muscular young man, with big, capable hands, but his rumpled hair and his pale complexion made him look like a nervous wreck at that moment.

"You say this knife is yours?" demanded the detective.

"Yes. It's mine. But I don't know how it came here. It was in the bottom of my trunk when I saw it last."

"What time did you get home last night?"

"I don't know. Yes, I remember now. It was three o'clock. I heard the clock strike."

"Were you quite— quite yourself?"

"You mean— did I know what I was doing? Yes, I— I think so!"

"Where were you out so late?"

"With some friends. Playing cards."

"Will you give me their names— your friends?"

"Yes— no, I would prefer to keep them out of this."

"We'll let that go for the present," said the detective. "You were playing cards, you say?"

"Yes, a friendly little game."

"Did you lose much?"

Cyril laughed shamefacedly. "I was cleaned out," he said. "Had to borrow the taxi fare to get home."

"So you lost all your money? Are you usually so unlucky at cards?"

"I'm afraid so. I haven't kept track of my losses. But I lose more than I win. That's sure!"

"Where did you get the money to gamble? Prom your uncle?"

The young man straightened indignantly.

"Perhaps you'll tell me what is the Idea of this third degree? Are you trying to pin this on to me? Do you think I murdered my own uncle?" He glared at the detective.

Tom King eyed him gravely. "I don't think you are guilty!" he replied significantly.

"You mean you know I'm guilty? Why, man, you're mad! Why should I kill him?"

"You might have quarrelled over money. He refused to give you more."

"I tell you, I'm not dependent on his charity. I have an income from my mother's estate."

"Exactly. But you lose at cards more than your income. Also you are the chief beneficiary under your uncle's will."

"How do you know that?" asked Cyril, astonished.

"I judged as much. Now, look here, young man, you are in a tight hole. Here's the case: The knife that killed John Gregg is your property. There is no trace of robbery, so it can't be the work of a burglar who happened to flt.il your knife. In fact, you say that the weapon was kept in the bottom of your trunk. You lost all your money at cards.

You would Inherit under his will. Then your money troubles would be over. It looks like an open and shut case— so far."

"All circumstantial evidence!" sneered Cyril.

"Many a man has gone to the scaffold on circumstantial evidence." retorted King.

"And many an innocent man has been legally murdered!" shouted Cyril, springing to his feet. He started for his room, but King interposed his stalwart form, and barred the exit.

"Curse you! Get out of the way!" cried Cyril. "Give me a chance to dress."

"Not yet! I'm going to examine your clothes first— and look over your room before you go back to it."

The young man tensed his muscles, and grappled with the detective. Strong as he was, Cyril found that he had met his match. The young man was flung back into the room, and stood there gasping, with his fists clenched to make a second rush.

Tom King tapped his pocket. "Don't tackle a man with a gun, my boy. It's senseless!" he observed. "Now you sit here quietly while I look over your room."

"No! I won't stand for that!" King touched a buzzer.

Almost instantly Winter opened the door. King eyed the valet thoughtfully.

"Remarkably prompt service," he commented. "Winter, go down to the front and tell Constable O'Grady to come here. I want him to keep an eye on this prisoner."

Winter started at the word "prisoner." His face showed an odd mixture of obedience and hesitation. He waited for the command to be repeated.

Cyril was dumbfounded. "You mean that! am arrested!" he exclaimed.

"You are under suspicion," retorted King. "You are the man who owned the murder weapon. You are the only one who would profit by your uncle's death. And you had access to his room from your own through the bathroom."

"Don't arrest me!" The young man's voice was desperate. "It is not for my sake alone. There are others who would be disgraced by this. Give me a chance first to prove my innocence."

"You mean that there is some
girl you are fond of who would feel disgraced?"

Cyril nodded assent, and King replied: "If I don't arrest you, will you give me your word of honor not to interfere with my search of your room? And not to try to escape?"

"On my honor!" The young man's voice was gloomy.

"All right. You stay here. Winter, crane with me. You will be a witness to what we unearth."

The valet followed with alacrity.

"Here's the suit he wore last night," said Winter. "Do you want to turn out the pockets?"

King went through them with dispatch, and put in a little heap the cigarette case, wallet, small change, thin gold watch, and a flat leather case, containing the photograph of a young girl who smiled into the detective's eyes as he stared at it.

"What a beautiful girl!" exclaimed King, with as much respect as admiration in his voice.

He opened the wallet, and found nothing. The young man had been cleaned out as he said. King turned to the dresser to examine the contents of the drawers, when Winter suggested:—

"Look at the back of the photograph in that case, sir. He may have a letter or something there."

King removed the photograph, and what he saw puzzled him. It was a hundred-pound note, crisp and new.

The detective showed it to Winter, who wagged his head knowingly. "Mr. Cyril is a deep one, sir," remarked the valet.

King said nothing, but dropped the case into his pocket, then continued to inspect the garments the young man had worn. He examined the dress shirt, with its white cuffs, with particular interest, also the beeves of the coat.

"It might be a good idea to look in the bathroom," said Winter. "I heard him splashing water last night."

"You did?" asked the detective. "Then you were up at three o'clock when the young man got home?"

"Well, not exactly. I was in bed in my room on the top floor. I heard the water being turned on."

King followed the advice, and saw that the bath had been used the night before. There were damp towels in the corner, and as Winter got on his knees to look under the bath, the detective saw his face light up with triumph.

King brought a cane from Cyril's room, fished under the bath with it, and dragged out a towel, damp and crumpled.

"This seems to clinch it," said King. "If circumstantial evidence ever sent a man to the scaffold justly— this is it."

On one end of the towel was a faint smear of red. It was unmistakably blood.

"Oh, the poor young man!" sighed Winter. "Who would have thought it of him?" He wagged his head in commiseration.

Voices in the hall told of the arrival of the police surgeon and Shadwell, the finger-print expert. They had arrived at the same time by chance.

It did not take long to complete the surgeon's examination. He merely put into legal phrases and medical terms the facts already known, that John Gregg had come to his death by a murderous blow with a knife. He had been struck down some time after midnight.

Meanwhile Cyril had been allowed to go to his room and dress. King said nothing to the young man of finding the towel. He showed Cyril the photograph case, but did not explain why he was retaining it.

"Can't you keep her out of this beastly mess?" demanded the young man hotly. "You detectives seem to take a delight in bringing disgrace on persons who have nothing to do with a crime."

"Take it easy, lad," admonished King. "I may not have to get the lady's name from you, if you behave sensibly. Who is she?"

"It's the woman I'm engaged to. The only woman in the world, as far as I'm concerned. But you'll never get her name from me."

"Is she one of your bridge-playing friends?"

"No. She won't touch cards— not since she saw what a fool I was over them. She wanted me to cease gambling. I was mad not to follow her advice."

"Why didn't you?"

"Just mule-headed stubbornness. Well, I've finished cards from now on."

"You certainly have," replied King, significantly.

The detective had a long conference with the finger-print expert, directing Shadwell to bring out and photograph the prints on the knife-hilt, the safe, the window, door knobs, and the surface of the table.

A search of the murdered man's memorandum book disclosed cryptic figures, which proved to be the combination of the safe. It was opened, and found to contain no money or negotiable papers, filing told Shadwell to be careful to get prints from the interior of the safe. He gave him the photograph case and the mysterious hundred-pound note. Also he told Shadwell to take finger-prints of everyone in the house.

While this was being done, Tom King got the address of Bruce Farmer from the 'phone book, and half an hour later was talking to the jeweller in his office in Bond Street.

Farmer was a heavy-set, black-bearded man, with red lips and protruding eyes.

"It's like this. Mr. King," he said. "The business With Mr. Gregg was confidential. Even a cheque from me he didn't want, for he was selling those jewels on the quiet."

"You mean that you paid cash to John Gregg for jewels?"

"Yes, that's what I'm telling you. Twenty thousand pounds. It was all in bank notes. I suppose the old man had to get some cash quick to protect his credit. Also, it wouldn't help his credit if people knew that he sold his dead wife's emeralds to get it."

"I see. So you visited John Gregg one night a week ago?"

"That's right. Wednesday night it was."

"And you paid him twenty thousand pounds in currency, and took away the jewels?"

"That's it."

"Were they new notes, that you could trace?"

"Oh, yes. The sum was in thousand and hundred-pound notes. I got new currency from the bank, and took down the numbers."

"Let me copy those numbers," said King.

Farmer felt in his pocket for a wallet, but found no trace of the memorandum.

"I must have lost it, after all," he said. "What a careless thing to do, copy the numbers, and then lose the list!"

Then King shot a sudden question. "Have you been in that house since?"

"Me? I should say not! Do you think I'd be going back there?"

King pondered this reply for a moment, and it seemed to give him something to think about.

"Did any of your acquaintances know that Gregg had received all this money?"

"Nobody gets any information from me. Don't worry about that."

"That's the best policy in business, Mr. Farmer." King paused for a moment, then reached for his hat. "By the way," he asked casually, "who let you into the house that night, Harris or Winter?"

"How should I know the servants' names?" replied Parmer. "It was a big fellow, with side whiskers."

"That would be Harris," said King. "Winter is the little spindly chap. You didn't see him at all?"

"No, I never saw such a man that night," replied Farmer.

Detective King took his leave, but he did not return to the house until the following morning. And when he did so he had studied all the finger-print evidence secured by Shadwell, and had made careful inspection of the knife that the murderer had used. In fact, as he stood chatting with the policemen at the front door, King was carrying in his pocket that unusual blade of steel set in a round.aluminium handle.

"Of course, no one was allowed to leave the house?" he remarked to the constable.

"No, sir! My biggest job was keeping off the reporters, who tried to walk in. I referred them to headquarters, as you said."

"That's the stuff." Then Harris opened the door, and Detective King went inside.

"Any new developments, sir?" asked Harris, respectfully.

"Hard to say, Harris!"

"I do hope, sir, that case against young Master Cyril isn't as bad as it looks."

"You're fond of him, eh?"

"Why, certainly. A kind, civil-spoken young man. A bit larky sometimes, but there's no harm in him."

"That's a loyal spirit, Harris. I like a man who speaks well of his employer. You are like me. You take the character test into account when you look for clues to convict a criminal. Well, I only hope you're right. I thought Cyril was a pretty wild lad. Now I'm going to look round a bit. I want to go over the house."

As he spoke, Tom King glanced at the sheaf of old weapons in the hall, rusty swords, flint-lock muskets, long Arab guns, and Malay daggers.

"What a stunning collection of old weapons," he observed.

"Oh, yes, sir. Mr. Gregg had a mania for such things. He's got 'em hung up everywhere!"

Left to himself, King looked at the weapons again, then made his way upstairs and did not stop until he had reached the servants' quarters.

No one was on the top floor, so he opened one door after another.

In Winter's room, which was scrupulously neat, there was evidence of the valet's hobby in his odd moments. Apparently the man liked to tinker with mechanical things like radio, for there was a little work-bench with vice and lathe and other tools.

The large room in the back of the house was used for storing odds and ends, old furniture, and the like.

And here Tom King spent twenty minutes, sending the rays of a pocket flashlight into the cluttered corners.

During the search he was interrupted. "Is there anything I can help you to find? Are you looking for anything in particular?" asked the voice of Winter.

Tom King wheeled on the man and threw something at his feet that bounced with a metallic clang and lay still.

Winter jumped back and turned pale when he saw it. Hie object was a stiff coiled spring more than a foot long, very powerful, and made of fine steel.

"Yes!" said King curtly. "Help me find the thing that this was used in."

Winter seemed to shrivel up. Then he pulled himself together and exclaimed: "I don't know what you are talking about, sir."

"Oh, yes, you do. And you know all about that hundred-pound note, too."

"What hundred-pound note?"

"The one you planted in young Cyril Gregg's photograph case. You were foxy enough to wear gloves when you opened the sale the day of the murder—  no finger-prints on that or the knife hilt, but when you came to planting that note, you forgot, and handled it without gloves."

Winter stood there licking his lips, and suddenly Tom King seized his left hand, and with a swift movement pulled the sleeve up well beyond the wrist. A tiny patch of court plaster showed on the forearm.

"That's where you got your bloodstain for the towel under Cyril's bath," remarked Tom King carelessly. "You see, Winter, I've got all the facts— by putting two and two together! I had an idea that the knife was shot from a gun, when I smelled the lubricating oil on the round hilt. The murderer stood on the landing where he could shoot through the transom. I was sure that's how it was done when I found a bit of cotton that was wrapped around the hilt to make it fit snugly into the bore of one of those old muskets. I even picked out the old flint-lock in the hall that you tinkered with merely by looking for a trace of oil on the muzzle. Sure enough, there was a little hole bored in the barrel, so that a spring could be driven in with a ramrod and caught with a cotter pin. All you had to do was to slip in the knife and take aim at your victim, then pulling out the pin would send the knife flying like an arrow."

"It's a lie! Even if the old fool was shot instead of stabbed like you say, you can't prove that I did it," snarled Winter, white to the lips, and fearfully defiant.

"There is other evidence as well. Even though you plugged up the pin-hole with wax and hid the spring in the lumber-room, you forgot to get rid of the steel shavings on your work-bench. I have them now. I've even got the bottle of lubricating oil that you used on the knife. Why, man, when it comes to circumstantial evidence, you're drowned in it.

"You've only got one chance to escape the scaffold," said the detective. "Make a clean breast of it before the. other fellow squeals. Tell me where you've hidden that twenty thousand pounds."

"Part of it is in a package down the chimney," said Winter. "Crane up the roof and I'll show you the loose brick where I hid it."

"And the rest," demanded Tom King.

"The rest is in Bruce Farmer's safe. It was him that put me up to it!"

_________________

15: The Howling Of Dogs

Reginald (Wilfrid) Campbell

1894-1950

World's News (Sydney) 16 March 1932

[The Novel Magazine February 1927]

FROM the village that lay a few hundred yards to the south of my camp there rose the howling of dogs. It was a mournful, eerie sound, that climbed from a deep, hollow murmur to a piercing crescendo, and mocked the stillness of the quiet jungle night.

In spite of the drink that was working freely in his veins, Manton shivered.

"I hate the howling of dogs," he muttered thickly. "Pass us the whisky again, Clavering."

Though I knew he had had all the drink that was good for him, I handed him the bottle, as I realised from the look in his eyes that it was useless to expostulate.

My guest helped himself to a liberal tot, which he drank at a gulp. Then:

"Where's Jameson?" he asked me, as he replaced the empty tumbler on the table beside him.

"Hell be over shortly," I replied. "Ah, here he is!"

NEXT moment the figure of my assistant, whose tent was pitched at the other end of the clearing to mine, came into the clear-cut circle of light that spilled beneath the canvas. At Jameson's heels there trotted, as usual, his tame barking deer, it had been found by him in the iungle eighteen months back, suffering from fright and exhaustion brought on by some unknown cause. He had overcome its fear, carried it into camp, and then had nursed, watched, and tended it into health again, since when the little beast had been his constant companion.

And well I could understand the man's affection for his pet, as it was the tiniest of things, with dark, meek eyes that would have melted the heart of a hardened criminal, and from dainty hoof to dainty head was a dream of sheer beauty to behold.

Its master now sank into a rattan chair beside Manton, while the deer lay down on the ground-sheet between the two men.

"Evening, Manton."

"Evening," gruffly.

"Dogs howling pretty badly to-night."

"The natives say," I observed, turning to Jameson, "that when dogs howl a spirit, spook, or what-not is passing through the village, and only the dogs can see it"

"For God's sake, change the conversation," broke in Manton irritably.

My assistant flashed a swift, questioning glance at me. and I nodded to the unspoken query. You see, we both knew Manton very well indeed, and had no particular cause to love him. He was in charge of the teak forest next to ours, and was in fhe habit of coming into our domain from time to time to visit us and, incidentally, lower considerably the stock of my pre-war whisky.

Now, I don't mind a little cheerfulness myself occasionally, in order to relieve the monotony of living at the back of beyond,
but drink with Manton always caused him to become morose and sullen, and it often seemed to bring cut a latent streak of cruelty in his nature. Still, I could hardly refuse to entertain him when he came, as he was one of the few other Europeans that are scattered through the rolling forest hills of Northern Siam, and we whites are obliged to be friendly to one another, to outward appearance at any rate, in that lonely land.

"Clavering give you a good dinner. Manton?" asked Jameson at length.

There was the touch of a joke in this, since Manton, though a rotten host himself, invariably grumbled at the, quality of the fare provided him by others.

"No," he replied rudely. "Every damned course chicken. Chicken, chicken, chicken. I'm sick of the infernal stuff. And all the time, mind you," his eyes fell on the deer beside him, "there's the material for a devilish good feed right here in your camp."

"What exactly do you mean by that?" inquired Jameson a trifle stiffly.

"Mean? What do you think? I mean that." The speaker aimed a clumsy kick at the little animal.

My assistant flashed to his feet, and I followed his example.

"Now, steady on," I began. "No quarrelling " when I broke off short as a gasp of mingled grief and horror came from the younger man.

And then I glanced down at the barking deer. It was still, very, very still, and its beautiful eyes were staring and glassy, which told me that it had died of sheer fright, for the kick that Manton had given it would scarcely have harmed a puppy. It had always been such a nervous, timid wee thing, and had invariably received the best of care and attention from the man it loved, while now

I turned to Manton, who was by this time also on his feet.

"Go over to your own tent." I said shortly.

He tried to bluff the matter out.

"I— I hardly touched it—" he began. But I interrupted him.

"I said go over to your tent," I repeated.

He saw that I meant what I said, and, with a sullen look on his face, walked away in the direction of his camp, which was situated in a small clearing some fifty yards to the north of my own camp.

When he had disappeared into the gloom outside I touched Jameson's arm.

"Where would you like the body carried?" I asked quietly.

"Into my tent, please. Will you help me?"

To gether we carried the dead body over
the sward to the canvas opposite, where we laid the poor little thing on the ground-sheet close by Jameson's bed.

"Thank you, Clavering," said Jameson dully as I turned to leave him, and I saw that his face was working.

I know that then I wanted to comfort the stricken man, for he had loved that deer as a child, but words seemed to fail me, and I was conscious only of a rising lump in the throat.

I walked back over the clearing. When half-way across X glanced behind me, to see that the poor chap was kneeling over the little lifeless form. My eyes grew misty at the sight, arid, turning my head again, I entered my own tent, where I undressed and flung, myself on to my narrow camp-bed.

For what seemed hours I tossed restlessly from one side to the other beneath my mosquito-net, thinking of the tragedy that had marred the evening. Jameson and Manton had never liked another particularly, I knew that well, and now that Manton had been the cause, however unwittingly, of the death of the other's pet, I was frankly worried.

A little matter, you will say, the death by fright of a tame barking deer. Yes. but to men who lead lonely lives in the wild places of the earth and have none of the distractions of civilisation to take their minds from off the immediate present, little matters are of almost paramount importance.

At last, when the time must have been well past midiiight, sleep claimed ne and I closed my weary eyes.

I WAS awakened by the howling of dogs. On hearing the sound I rose to a sitting posture in bed, to see that the moon had risen and was shedding its pure, cold radiance over the sleeping clearing that stretched before me. In the ghostly half-light I could just make out the glimmering canvas of Jameson's tent at the opposite side of the open space.

I listened intently, and a moment later the horrible noise broke out afresh. And the howling came from the north of my camp, while the village lay well to the south.

My hair began to prickle and my spine to crawl, for the sound was simply ghastly, and was so close that it might have come from Manton's camp some fiftv yards above us.

I was still listening when I heard someone running. Next second Jameson had burst into my tent, and from the back entrance. He paused at the head of my bed, and his breath was coming and going in great gasps that shook the whole of his frame. I sprang through the mosquito-net, with fumbling hands found a box of matches, and lit my hurricane lantern.

Then I turned to him, and I remember that my heart choked in my throat as I saw his face, for his cheeks were the color of ashes, and his eyes were staring, horrible, as the eyes of one who has walked in nightmare.

I swallowed hard, then braced myself. "What is it, Jameson?" I asked, in a tone which I strove to make as calm as I could under the circumstances.

He was silent for a few seconds, as if he dared not speak. The wick in the lantern spluttered. Otherwise there was no sound in the tent, for by now the howling of dogs had died away to the northward.

At last one word, and one word only, same from his lips.

"Dogs," was all he said.

I seized him by the shoulder.

"Pull yourself together, Jameson, pull yourself together. Tell me what has happened?"

"Dogs, man, dogs," he repeated. They're chasing Manton."

"Chasing Manton?" I echoed incredulously.

"Yeg. I— I was woken up by the sound of their howling. As it seemed to come from Manton's tent I went over to see what— what was the matter." He broke off and a deep shudder went through his limbs.

"Out with it, man, out with it," I said sharply.

"I— I found dogs all round his tent Then, just as I was approaching it, he rushed out of the tent and ran away along the path to the north, the dogs after him."

For a second I was speechless with mingled fear and astonishment, as I thought my companion must have taken leave of his senses. He read what was in my mind, however, and his eyes looked fully into mine.

"It's the truth," he almost shouted, "I swear it's the truth. We must follow— follow at once. Get your revolver. I'll go and fetch mine."

Hardly were the words out of his mouth when he was rushing over to his tent. In a fever of haste I seized my own weapon, which was lying under my pillow, and, having satisfied myself that all the chambers were loaded, slipped it on to my belt.

BY the time I had hurriedly donned my jungle kit, Jameson was back again, similarly attired. Then we flung out of the back entrance in the direction of Manton's camp.

A minute later we were standing before his deserted tent. A lamp was still burning within the canvas, and a quick glance round assured me that the occupant had left in a frantic hurry, for the bedclothes were tossed to one side, the mosquito-net torn, and a camp chair knocked over. But what set the blood Jiammering in my temples was that, showing clearly on the white sheets of the bed. were innumerable earthy, paw marks.

I realised that not a minute was to be lost.

"Which way did Manton go?" I cried. For answer my companion pointed to a small path that twisted away to the northward. Even as he did so the faint yet unmistakable howling of distant dogs came to our ears. The howling, however, now held a different note from when I had heard it before. It was deeper, more determined, as if the dogs were hunting a quarry to death.

"God knows what may be happening up there!" I shouted. "We must run, man—run as we've never run before."

Next second we were racing madly along the track in the moon- glittering darkness, a nameless fear lending wings to our feet as we sped through the sweltering night.

I SHANT forget that rush along the path that wound in and out between the towering stems of the forest. The month was March, when the hot weather is at its worst, and we simply gushed perspiration. On, on, on we went, guided by the ghastly sound that every now and then broke out ahead of us.

At last, when our lungs and hearts were close to bursting point, and when our legs were well-nigh foundered, the jungle gave way behind us and we came to the bank of a large, dry river bed.

On seeing the arid stretch of river below us we halted in our stride and gazed wildly to right and left, and then our eyes met a sight such as I never wish to behold again, a sight which even now brings me upright in bed at nights, gasping with terror at the mere recollection of the spectacle.

Over the dry, moon-gleaming sandbars of the watercourse Manton was running for his life. And all round him were dogs; there must have been scores of them. And they were wild dogs, with thick, bushy tails, long, rangy bodies, and the souls of tigers.

For what seemed an eternity, but in reality could not have been more than a minute or two, we watched that awful chase. We tried to move, but could not, for the sheer horror of it all numbed our very senses. We felt like men in a waking dream whom invisible hands held back, and could for the moment only stand and stare at the drama below us.

Manton was running in a curious zigzag course, and was evidently sorely spent, for every now and then he would fall, only to rise again in a second, and on the ghastly pursuit would go. Yet be seemed unharmed, for the dogs were not apparently snapping at him, but at something that was close to him. It was as if they were chasing something that was endeavoring to seek protection from their attacks by hiding behind him.

Eventually they rounded a bend in the river bed and disappeared from sight. Then the spell that held us was broken, and we found ourselves scrambling frantically down the bank on to the soft, yielding sandbars.

Though the going was by now was fearful owing to the soft nature of the sand beneath our feet, we tore round the corner, and then, reeling to a halt, with shaking hands we drew our revolvers.

For Manton had been brought to bay, and was standing, as a cornered deer might have done, knee-deep in a pool of water that gleamed in the very centre of the river bed. The dogs had circled that pool and were squatting on their haunches, their muzzles raised to heaven as they howled mournfully to the moon that rode serenely in the huge purple vault of space above them.

A second later we were in amongst the pack. Our revolvers spat tongues of flame through the night. Three, four, five dogs were rolling in the sand, and the others slunk away, still howling, into the dark fringe of jungle that clothed either bank of the watercourse.

We flung our revolvers on to the sand and rushed into the pool. But, even as we touched Manton, his form went limp, and he sagged, motionless and horrible, in our helping arms.

THREE minutes later he was lying stretched out between us on the sand beside the pool. Though he was absolutely untouched, with not a single mark upon him, yet he was quite dead, and from the terrible look in his eyes we knew that he had died from sheer fright and exhaustion. Manton had been literally hounded to death.

For a while, utterly unstrung, we crouched beside the body, thinking of nameless, unutterable things. At last I raised my head, which I had sunk into my hands, and glanced at my companion.

"We must get back now," I said hoarsely. "The— the coolies must be told to build a stretcher for—"

He nodded; then: "God! Look!" he choked.

My eyes followed the direction of his pointing finger, and my skin tingled and prickled into fear.

There, on all sides of us, were dogs. They had crept out unheard from the forest again and surrounded us. They were watching us terribly, relentlessly, and in silence that was absolute. They were lean, hungry dogs, for the hot weather had made hunting for them more difficult, and they were as fierce as hell. Their eyes shot baneful flashes of fire through the ghastly half-light. Their tongues lolled. Their jaws dripped saliva.

At our feet, a dead man. Then, sand. Then, a circle of dogs. Beyond them, the dark walls of forest that clothed either bank. Overhead, the moon.

And that silence.

It was terrible, ghastly, that silence. It seemed to shiiek, to tear and stab and rend the overstrung nerves.

My companion was the first to speak. "Move— move away from— from Manton," he whispered hoarsely. "That might save us."

We edged a few feet away from the body, then stopped and glanced at the dogs. They were one and all looking at us, not Manton, for they seemed to have lost interest in their former quarry.

Jameson and I picked up our revolvers and then stood back to back. Seconds, then minutes, ticked by, and neither us nor the watchers moved.

"I have only one round left." I became aware that Jameson was speaking to me again.

"And I, also, have only one," I echoed dully.

"As well now as later," he whispered. We fired our last rounds, and two more dogs lay dead. The others took no heed of the noise, however, and scarcely glanced at the ones we had killed. Instead, they moved forward a pace, and the circle became narrower.

Jameson gasped: "I shall go mad in a moment, Clavering. Let's try a break through— together."

THEN something seeiped to snap in my brain, and, as my friend told me afterwards, so did a cord in his, and together we sprang at that horrible, cadaverous circle in one last mad bid lor freedom and life.

Next second I was down, down under a flurry of dogs. I flung up an arm to shield my throat. The leader of the pack was on me. His hot, nauseating breath fanned my cheek. With my free hand I seized his throat. His paws were scratching and ripping at my jungle tunic. Two others were on my shoulders. I felt one of my stout leather boots rip like a ripe orange.

Then suddenly, when my senses were beginning to fail me, from somewhere outside the writhing, gasping, fumbling mass there sounded the howling of a dog.

Simultaneously with that howl the pressure on me ceased abruptly. My aggressors melted away from me, and I was left free. I rubbed the blood out of my eyes and staggered dizzily to my feet. I stared round me, to see that Jameson, a torn, tattered, and blood-flecked Jameson, had regained his.

And Jameson and I were left under the pale rays of the moon, a dead man and seven dead dogs at our feet...

Numbed, dazed, for a while, we stood thus, unable to feel or think, then suddenly Jameson was galvanised into action.

"The pool, the pool," he cried. '"We must wash ourselves before they return. Quick."

I thought for a moment that his brain must have given way under the strain, but he almost forcibly dragged me to the water, into which we plunged.

Having washed ourselves, he then rushed to a yang tree which grew at the edge of the bank, and, tearing off some of the bark, which has a very strong, penetrating odor, he rubbed its juice thoroughly over his face and hands and wrists. This done, he handed me a strip and ordered me to do the same. I obeyed him mechanically, and when I had finished he spoke.

"YOU fool!" he hissed, as he caught the expectant look in my eyes. "The dogs. They were after us when— when it disappeared after Manton's death."

"I— I do not understand," I quavered. "Didn't we lift it into my tent this evening?" he replied. "Didn't I bend over it, caress it? We were both covered with its scent."

"It couldn't have known," he murmured dreamily, as if to himself. "It couldn't have known, when it took its revenge on Manton by seeking refuge with him, that we would follow." Then he addressed me in a louder tone:

"It saved me twice," he said earnestly.

"Twice?" I echoed, aghast.

"Yes. From death now. From something worse than death an hour ago." He shifted his feet to and fro on the sand for a while, as if in doubt as to how to continue. Then at last he spoke again.

I bowed my head and did not answer.

"I went over to Manton's tent before the dogs came," he continued, "with— with a knife. I— I think I must have been mad, but, you see, I loved that deer, God help me!" He broke off as a sob trembled in his throat.

"Go on." I said after a pause. "Tell me all."

"Just— just as I arived at his clearing, the dogs came. Then it— it led them into Manton's tent; it could have been nothing else. Then he fled, and you know the rest."

"Now I understand," I quavered, "why the dogs stopped howling after Manton died. The— the spirit, having taken its revenge, had gone, only to come back again because of our danger."

Jameson nodded his head. Then: "Clavering," he breathed, "had it not been for the deer I should have been a murderer. May God forgive me for it! But I tried, I swear I tried, to make amends afterwards."

We entered the dark gloom of the forest. From the bank behind us there faded away into the dim distance the howling of dogs as they chased the quarry that never would be theirs.

____________________

16: On the 6.15

K. R. G. Browne

(Kenneth Robert Gordon Browne, 1895-1940)

World's News (Sydney) 23 March 1932

[Pan: The Fiction Magazine April 1922]

IT is hard to find a kindly word for Liverpool Street statical, The unbiased observer, viewing it for the first time, gains the impression that it must originally have been constructed by mistake from plans drawn up for a Home lor Lost Souls. It seems incredible that any self-respecting train could ever be induced to enter such a station, or that, having entered, it could be persuaded to remain for more than a minute. One imagines that Liverpool Street has a certain gloomy popularity among reluctant exiles, who wish their last glimpse of London to be one which kills all desire to stay. It is pre-eminently a station to get away from.

Something of this was in the mind of Miss Jane Freeling as she made her way up the long platform, seeking a suitable compartment in the 6.15 to Much Wellingham, and endeavoring at the same time to restrain the exuberance of Master Anthony Latimer, who. having but recently attained the ripe age of six, was finding the world a good and joyous place. To Tony's innocent soul, Liverpool Street seemed a peculiarly enthralling spot, and he was loth to depart with so many of its mysteries yet un pi urn bed. He mentioned as much to Jane.

He continued to mention it after he had been installed in a corner of a third-class compartment, with instructions to sit still and be good.

"Please," said Tony ingratiatingly, "please may I give this to the driver?" He exhibited a fragment of what had once been chocolate, but which, owing to its prolonged harborage in a warm palm, had lost all semblance of its original shape.

"No, Tony," responded Jane, "there's not time. Please sit quiet, there's a good boy."

Jane was reeling depressed; even even Master Anthony's cheerful babble had no power to banish her melancholy.

The profession of governess is not one to be recommended to those in search of a gay and rollicking existence. Jane, flung penniless upon a hard world at the age of twenty-three, had adopted it in the absence of a better. No doubt, she reminded herself, she was fortunate to have secured so soon such a post as that of bear-leader to Master Latimer, who seemed a bright and comparatively tractable youth; but the reminder did not alleviate her depression. She had been engaged in town by Mrs. Latimer, and had not yet beheld her future home, whither she was now bound with Tony, culled from the house of a dour and haughty relative, beneath her wing. The prospect of beginning life anew among strangers of unknown and possibly repellent character cast a cloud over Jane's normally sunny temperament, and induced her present mood of despondency.

Engrossed with these reflections, it was not until the train had departed thankfully from the station, and was slipping rapidly through unlovely suburbs, that she awoke to the fact that Tony was no longer present. Finding the cramped existenc of a third-class traveller too insipid fear his youthful taste, he had presumably wandered forth in quest of one upon whom he might bestow a gift of chocolate.

With a faint sense of anxiety, Jane rose hastily to her feet, and set off in pursuit. Perceiving the corridor to be devoid of life, she embarked upon a rapid inspection of the neighboring compartments. That next to her own contained only an elderly and richly upholstered female, nodding somnolently in a corner. Upon her wide lap reposed an obvious jewel-case of bright purple leather, which, even as Jane prepared to pass on, moved to the jolting of the train, seemed to hesitate for an instant, and slid noiselessly to the floor. Impulsively Jane stepped forward and restored it to its resting-place; its owner half-opened an eye, blinked vaguely, and closed it again.

As she regained the corridor, Jane narrowly avoided a collision with the massive figure of an obese person, tnva very large coat, and a very, small bowler, who was passing the door at the moment of her exit.

" 'Ere, 'old up!" said this gentleman huskily, and regarded her aggrievedly.

"Sorry," said Jane hurriedly.

At this moment there came to her from afar the sound of a familiar and welcome voice. As she started forward with a feeling of deep relief, there hove into view at the far end of the corridor the small shape of Master Anthony Latimer. He was holding forth in a penetrating treble, and he was not alone; behind him loomed a large male figure.

Jane, drawing nearer, observed that the figure was that of a very tall, dark, young man, with a countenance of preternatural solemnity, and a wide humorous mouth.

"Mis' F'eeling," said Master Latimer proudly, "this is Uncle Peter. I've just met him. He's nice."

The solemn young man bowed politely.

"Good afternoon," he remarked gravely. "I have just been adopted I find it a very pleasing sensation. This athletic youth was just about to experiment with an open door and the force of gravity when I found him."

"Oh, thank you!" said Jane gratefully, "I'm ever, so much obliged."

"Don't mention it," returned the tall young man. "I like to do what I can to protect the fellows working on the line." And, without waiting for as invitation, he followed them into their compartment.

"Tony's an awful responsibility," said Jane, resuming her seat, and adhering firmly to the sleeve of her protesting and, indignant charge. Somewhat to her own surprise, she found that she did not in the least resent the intrusion of the solemn young'man; rather did she welcome the prospect of relief from her thoughts, and the monotony of the journey Tony's habit of claiming relationship with utter strangers had already more than once proved embarrassing, but on this occasion he seemed to have chosen wisely. The newcomer nodded.

"He must be. Are you by any chance his aunt?"

Jane started and regarded him with faint indignation.

"Of course not. I'm his governess."

"Sorry," said the young man imperturbably. "Tactless of me, perhaps. I only thought that as I seemed to be accepted as his uncle I ought to find out if I was related to you at all. By the way, do you object to my eating my tea here? I'm frightfully empty. Have some yourself. I can't feed alone. It's not decent." From an Immense pocket he produced, with the air of a successful conjurer, a large parcel of sandwiches, which he unwrapped and set before her. "Eat and be comparatively merry, for to-morrow will be Friday. Ladies first, nephew, ladies first." This to Tony, who worshipped food as others worship pagan gods, and made no secret of his passion.

Jane was about to speak when there occurred an interruption.

"Tickets, please," observed a voice from the doorway, and the figure of a ticket-inspector loomed before them. Abandoning Tony to his own devices, Jane sought, found, and tendered her tickets, which received the official approval of the company. The solemn Uncle Peter, however, was not to escape so easily.

"This," said the inspector, in the voice of one who stumbles by good fortune upon evidence of some ghastly crime, "is a first-class ticket."

"You must have an eye like a hawk," responded Uncle Peter, with open admiration. "As a matter of fact, I don't mind admitting that you're perfectly right. I like the color of them so much better."

The inspector regarded him with faint hostility. He was quite a young inspector, and of a tender dignity; this levity seemed to him to be in poorish taste.

"This is a third-class carriage," he pointed out haughtily

"You know, you're an absolute sleuth," said Uncle Peter. "I feel exactly like Dr. Watson. You see, I always have a first-class ticket, because I do so dislike the color of the third-class ones. And I always use a third-class carriage because the first-class are so dreadfully snobbish. Don't you think so— unofficially, of course? Be gentle with my little whims. After all, you ought to be darned glad I don't do it the other way round."

The goaded official glared at him for a moment in a heavy silence, swung abruptly on his heel, and departed in dudgeon.

"Now have a sandwich," said Uncle Peter to the helpless Jane. "Hullo! Where's the infant?"

Tony, seizing instant advantage of his seniors' temporary preoccupation, had in truth once more decamped, taking with him the major portion of the sandwiches as a precaution against possible privation.

"Oh, dear!" said Jane. "I must go after him and find him before he wrecks the train or drives somebody mad."

"I will sally forth at your right hand," volunteered Uncle Peter. "We need a bludgeon and a coil of rope to keep that lad quiet."

There ensued a somewhat arixious five minutes, at the end of which period Master Latimer was run to earth in the guard's van, where he sat devouring sandwiches. and regaling the guard, an elderly, clean-shaven philosopfier, with a variety of shrewd observations upon life in general. His audience in fact, evinced a strong reluctance to part with Master Latimer to his rightful owners.

"Mightn't he bide wi' me awhile, Miss?" said the guard plaintively. "I'll take good care of him. He's doin' me a power o' good with his talk an' all. I know how to deal wi' him. I've eleven nippers myself."

"My heart goes out to you in your great affliction," observed Uncle Peter, with the utmost gravity; he turned to Jane. "What say you, aunt? Shall the lad bide?"

The voice of Tony chose here to add itself to the discussion.

"Can I stop, Mis' F'eeling? He's a nice ole gentleman. He can wiggle his ears and  squint beautifully."

Uncle Peter cast a respectful glance at the confused and blushing guard. "Many a Cabinet Minister," he said, "would covet your accomplishments. You are in good hands, nephew."

"Very well," said Jane, smiling, despite herself, "you may stay for a little while. Tony, if you'll be good and not get in the way. And thank you so much for looking after him." She let loose upon the guard a smile which completed that ancient's subjugation, and turned away. Uncle Peter, pausing only to retrieve the battered remnants of the sandwiches, followed in her wake, eating furtively.

As they progressed down the rocking corridor they became aware of voices, raised apparentlv in argument. One was feminine, high-pitched and insistent, the other masculine, gruff, and soothing. As they advanced, and the voices grew plainer. Jane found that they emanated from the compartment of the elderly female of the jewel-case. As they passed her door they were vouchsafed a fleeting glimpse of her; she seemed to be engaged in heated converse with the ticket-inspector. Only the latter's back was visible, but it was the back of a man in torment.

"Passengers must learn that ticket-inspectors have little or no time for answering riddles or listening to recitations," remarked Uncle Peter, as they entered their compartment. "Hullo! Can such things be in a civilised country?"

It appeared tnat the compartment now housed another wayfarer. In a corner by the window, his massive feet upon the opposite cushions, and his futile bowler tilted over one drowsy eye, sat the stout proletarian whom Jane had encountered in the corridor. This second meeting aroused no joy in her soul but she realised that there is no by-law forbidding passengers a choice in the matter of compartments.

"Well, well," murmured Uncle Peter, "we live in strange times. Do have a sandwich, or some of the sorry wreck that Tony has made of them." He seated himself at her side, and for the first time smiled It was a wide, hilarious and extremely inferctious smile, and Jane found herself involuntarily smiling back.

"So you're a governess," said Uncle Peter, reflectively. "I had one myself some years ago, I believe. Do you like the job?"

"I don't know yet. This is the first time, and I haven't even seen the family. Tony and his mother are the only ones I know. I'm taking him home now. He's a darling, of course, but I'm dreading meeting all the others."

Uncle Peter nodded comprehendingly. "I know. I shouldn't worry, though. Nothing's as bad as one expects. Probably they're innocent, lamb-like souls, shivering in their carpet-slippers at the thought of what you may be like, and wondering if you'll like the kind of soap they use. The mutual relief when you do meet will be so great that tomorrow you'll think you've got a job as instructor in the harp to a flock of angels."

"You're very cheering," said Jane, smiling. "I hope—" Her voice died away as the uniformed figure of the ticket-inspector, in the manner of a pantomime demon, shot suddenly into view in the doorway. Uncle Peter bent upon the interloper a glance of mild surprise.

"YOU can't want to see my ticket again already, Sherlock?" he said gently.

The inspector eyed him coldly.

"Lady next door been robbed," he said tersely. "Have you seen or heard anything?"

Jane, glancing in faint alarm at Uncle Peter, saw a singular change take place in the appearance and manner of that gentleman. His calm, unruffled melancholy fell from him as a cloak; the solemnity of his countenance altered to an air of acute interest.

"Robbed?" he said sharply. "When? What of?"

''Jewel-case. While she was asleep a little time back. Can't fix the time exactly. She's having hysterics now, Have you seen or heard anything at all?"

"Why," said Jane suddenly, "it must have happened within the last quarter of an hour anyway!"

The eyes of the inspector and Uncle Peter switched to her embarrassed countenance, and there remained,

"What do you mean, Miss?" asked the former.

"I was going along the corridor," explained Jane— "not very long before yew looked at our tickets— and the lady next door was asleep then. Just as I passed her I saw the jewel-case slide off her lap on to the floor. So I went in and picked it up, and put it back. That's all."

For a moment there was silence.

"I see," said the inspector finally. "That narrows down the time a bit. That's all you can tell us, then, Miss? Thank you."

"No, it ain't all," said a new voice suddenly— a loud, husky voice, the voice of one well acquainted with the use and abuse of alcohol as a beverage.

The three started and glanced round, to perceive that the interrupter was the obese man in the small bowler. He had hoisted his vast bulk upright in the corner, and now sat surveying them darkly from beneath his hat-brim.

"Not by a long chalk it ain't all she can tell yer," said the obese man.

Uncle Peter bent upon him a cold and unfriendly eye.

"What the devil do you mean?" he

"Wot do I mean?" echoed the obese man. "Why, arsk 'er wot I meah! Aisk 'er if she didn't run kerplunk into me as she come outer nex' door. Then arsk me wot I seen." His globular visage split across in a vast, gap-toothed grin.

"What did you see, or think you saw?"

The voice of Uncle Peter suggested refrigerators and mid-December.

"Wot did I see?" returned the obese man, clinging to his role of echo. "I see the joolcase in the leddy's lap, I did. That's wot I see fust. Then I see this young 'ooman go in quick. Then I see 'er come out quick. An' arter she come out I didn't see no jool-case in the teddy's lap no more. That's wot!"

He nodded triumphantly, his bowler rocking perilously; he wore the air of one who has propounded" an abstruse but incontrovertible truth to a company of sceptics. Jane gave a little gasp."

"Oh! I didn't— what a lie! What a beast—"

The large hand of Uncle Peter descended soothingly upon her arm.

"Gently does it. Of course, the gentleman lies, and when he admits it I shall have much pleasure in making him look like a hospital case. But first we will discover why he lies, for the sake of the poor dame next door."

"That's the idea," agreed the inspector, by this time completely under the spell of Uncle Peter's personality. "You'd better say what you're driving at, my man."

"Ho!" snarled the obese man. "I'm to eggsplain, am I? Ain't I made meself clear? Well, I will make myself clear. I seen other things beside wot I tole yer. Suppose yer lift up thet coat, an' take a look underneath. That'll show yer wot I mean!"

He stabed a finger of the dimensions of a large sausage in the direction of Jane's coat, which she had discarded on entering the train, and which had since lain neglected upon the seat beside her. The others glanced from him to the ooat, and back again at him in blank astonishment.

"Go on!" rasped the obese man. "Look under it! Then maybe yerll listen nex' time I tells yer anythink. See wot I seen."

Before the dazed Jane could utter a word of involuntary protest, the inspector, in the hesitant manner of one who humors a wayward child, stepped forward and lifted the coat. As he did so there broke from Uncle Peter  startled gasp. For there upon the seat, plainly revealed in all its garish expensiveness, lay the purple leather jewel-case.

"Wot did I tell yer?" came the voice of the obese man.

Uncle Peter was the first to recover his poise. Leaning forward quickly, he snatched up the case and snapped open the lid. The case was empty.

"Ah!" said the obese man. "Wot else d'yer expeck? Thrown 'em outer th' winder, I'll lay!"

There followed a short silence, pregnant with meaning. Jane, staring horror-stricken and bewildered at the purple case, felt as if she had just sustained a severe blow on the head from some blunt instrument. Her brain declined to function, and she was conscious of an overpowering giddiness. Uncosciously she clutched the arm of Uncle Peter as a drowning man clutches an oar. The voice of the inspector came to her from a great distance, faint unreal.

"Do you know anything about this, Miss?"

As she strove vainly to achieve speech, Uncle Peter made answer for her.

"Of course she doesnt, man! Talk sense! There's something behind all this. If you—"

At this juncture the ticket-inspector, without warning, abruptly vanished backward as if impelled by a powerful spring." In his place, looking colossal in the dim doorway, appeared the imposing figure of the lady from the next compartment. The victim of the outrage had apparently mastered her hysterics, and, apart from a certain pardonable wildness of the eyes and hair, seemed practically normal

"Have you found them?" she demanded fiercely. "Who are these— why, there it is!" She flung forward and snatched the jewel-case from Uncle Peter. "Empty! They've gone!" Her rolling eyes fell upon the shrinking Jane and she started convulsively. "There she is! That's the girl that did it! That's the one that came in while I was half asleep and took them! Where are they? Where are they?" Her voice rose to a shriek and she advanced ominously. Uncle Peter interposed his lengthy form.

"Calmly, madam, please. We can't do anything in a hurry."

"Take yer time," remarked the obese man with labored sarcasm. He was leaning back in his corner in the attitude of a spectator who is getting his money's worth. "No 'urry, I'm sure. Is yer— 'ell, is that yore kid?" He uttered a strangled expletive and fell  strangely silent.

Round the comer of the door, past the bemused inspector, came Master Anthony Latimer. The layer of crumbs upon his jovial face failed to conceal his friendly grin as he advanced, glancing from one to another with polite interest.

"How do you do?" he observed courteously to the assembly in general. "Mis' Feeling, the guard-man says— oh, there's the gentleman!" He extended a small and grubby finger towards the obese man, who seemed now anxious to retreat through the side of the train.

"Ah!" said Uncle Peter affably. "You know this gentleman, Tony?"

"Oh, yes!" answered Tony brightly. "He was in the passage before I met the guard-man, an' he said 'f I fetched the blue box off the lady's knee he would give me chocklicks out of it. So I fetched it, but he went away at once an' I didn't get—"

The obese man gave a kind of choking snarl and launched himself at Tony. Uncle Peter stepped briskly forward, there was a sound as of a wet sack smitten with a stick, and the obese man reeled back and fell heavily in a mountainous heap. Uncle Peter glanced at his hand and hastily wrapped a handkerchief about it....

"Tony," said Jane, "you're an angel."

Uncle Peter grinned at her.

"Well, I'm Tony's uncle. Really, I mean. You simply took it for granted I wasn't, though he told you I was. I'm staying at Much Wellingham, so I expect we shall get to know each other quite well."

Wherein he spoke truth.

_________________

17: The Opium Smugglers

Carl N. Taylor

(Carl Norman Taylor c.1906-1936)

World's News (Sydney) 6 April 1932

The Wide World Magazine, August 1942

All I an find of this author is in Index to the Fiction Magazines, which has this note: "Born in Indiana; murder victim in Gallup, N.M."

THE Corregidor Bar, in Intramuros, the ancient Walled City of Manila, was crowded with sailors of every nationality— so crowded, in fact, that the only place I could find to drink my beer was at a broken table jammed in an alcove beneath one of the great arches of the old Spanish building. Opposite me a nautical-looking individual sat smoking a rank Philippine cigar and regarding his beer stein mediatively.

As I seated myself, he glanced up asually; the next instant he leaped to lis Jeet and stretched a tattooed arm across the table to shake hands.

"Bill Bright!"

"Carl Taylor!"

I had entered the bar at three o'clock n the afternoon, just after getting up from my siesta. At midnight we were still recounting our adventures, and the story Bill Bright told is worth repeating. Here it is:—

ON MY FIRST trip to Manila, I struck up an acquaintance with an old Norwegian sailor named Peter Johnson. He was a queer character. He had been round the world seventeen times as a sailor, had fought with the British Army in the Boer War, stampeded to Alaska during the gold rush, and later been mixed up with some funny business that took him frequently across the Mexican border during the Villa revolution. Why he finally drifted out to the Philippines I never knew, but I have an idea that he found it expedient to put a long distance between himself and Mexico.

"Well, Pete," I said to him one day, lo you ever regret these days? Don't you sometimes feel the itch to hunt out danger again— to feel a deck under you once more?"

"Oh, I'm not through, not by any means," replied Pete. "I'm building me a boat right now."

"What are you going to do with her?"

"Smuggle opium."

After that I went down to the Pasig River each time we docked at Manila and had a look at the boat, which Pete called the Minnie Johnson. She grew slowly, under the hands of a couple of Japanese ship-carpenters; but even a landsman could have seen that she was going to be an unusual craft. There was something about her long, graceful lines that suggested a fine racehorse. I reflected that she could not fail to be a good boat, designed as she was by a Norwegian sailor and built by Japanese, both nationalities being famous for their knowledge of ships and seamanship.

Each time I visited her, Pete told me a little more about his plans. It developed that he expected to brave the storms of the China Sea in his little craft and bring back a ton or so of opium from Hongkong at each trip.

At the prices then prevailing in Tondo, Binondo, Intramuros, Quiapo, and the other "tough" sections of Manila, one successful trip would pay for the boat, and half a dozen would make Johnson rich.

At last the Minnie Johnson was completed, save for the painting.

Barring the long, speedy lines of her, she was as innocent-looking a craft as you ever laid eyes on. With her one little rag of a sail you would have taken her for a harbor boat, never intended for use outside the bay. I remarked about this, whereupon Pete took me below and showed me a pair of Deisel engines.

"Thirty knots they'll do," he told me, simply. "And der wind never blew that could put a wave aboard her when I'm sailing her."

As we walked back toward Intramuros he made a suggestion that literally bowled me over.

"If you would like to be my partner," he remarked quietly. "I'll be ready for you when you come next time to Manila." ,

Johnson took out a license for inter-island trade, and recruited an evil-locking little Ilocano named Pedro— whose only distinguishing characteristic was a bolo-scar reaching from his mouth to his ear— and a wizened old Jap, who went by the name of Kashio, for our crew. In spite of their uninviting appearance they both proved able sailors: and— what was equally important— they could do surprising things with firearms.

For about a month we hung around Manila Bay, doing enough fishing to knock off the appearance of newness from the Minnie Johnson, and occasionally making a short run with a cargo of abaca in order to familiarise ourselves with the coast of Luzon. Meanwhile Pete completed negotiations for the delivery of our first cargo of opium.

Then, one-fine night in early December, when the authorities had become accustomed to our comings and goings, we put to sea, with old Pete laying a course straight out past the fortified island of Corregidor toward the China coast. I think I learned then why so many fine fellows turned pirates in the old days. A good boat and a fair breeze, a full moon hanging in the sky like a piece of white shell, a palm-fringed coast behind, and the possibility of a fight ahead, not to mention the dangers of sea and wind— who wouldn't be tempted to turn outlaw under such conditions?

Next morning we were well out on the China Sea, which, contrary to its usual reputation, was as smooth as molasses. After breakfast Pete called all hands to test out our firearms. Each man received a Savage .250-.3000 and a .45 Colt's automatic. In addition a couple of shotguns were placed in the cabin for use in case of emergency. With that arsenal it looked as though Pete meant business.

After firing a few rounds apiece at bottles which we threw overside, we cleaned and loaded the guns and put them away. After he had seen what we could do with his beloved weapons Pete's grizzled old face was one big smile.

JUST A WEEK from the day we left Manila we sailed into the harbor at Hongkong and slipped in among the native junks anchored at Kowloon, across the bay from Victoria. No one paid any attention to us, and after a time Pete ahd I went ashore.

"Run along now and haf a good time," he advised as we stepped ashore. "Me, I'm going to talk business mit a old hophead. He don't like strangers."

Thus dismissed, I took the ferry across to Hongkong, though I was itching to go with Pete. But I didn't remain in the city long; I wanted to be back aboard the Minnie Johnson, ready to take part in the adventure of loading her contraband cargo.

Pete had not Teturned when I reached the boat, but he arrived soon afterwards. We had a light supper of rice aqd fids, and then sprawled on deck, smoking our pipes. Darkness came on slowly; the forest-covered hill upon which Hongkong is built gradually withdrew into the night, and the lights of the city began to twinkle like fireflies.

Pete smoked his stubby black pipe until it went out before he said anything. Then he remarked:—

"Der man will come mit der cargo to-night. Den out we get— quick!"

At midnight a junk came drifting along out of the darkness and anchored beside us. Gnome-like little men leaped aboard us, flitting about the deck like shadows as they made the ropes fast. Then a stout board was laid across the space between the two boats, and the strangers began to hustle heavy, round baskets into our hold, while Pete stood by to keep the tally. Once he struck a match and shaded it in his hands while he examined a basket. I saw that it was covered with Chinese characters, and that the word "Eggs" was written corispicuously across the top.

When the last basket had been stowed away Pete withdrew to one side with the man who seemed to be in command of the junk. Money passed between them; then the Chinese jumped aboard their boat and began to work the awkward fish-tail oar at the stern. In the space of a few minutes the ugly craft had disappeared into the darkness, and Pedro and Kashio were busy getting our own sail hoisted.

"One ton of opium and twenty pounds of morphine," Pete whispered to me. "Worth two hundred and fifty thousand pesos in Manila— if we can land it!"

With a stiff breeze behind us we ran across the China Sea to the Lingayen Gulf, on the west coast of Luzon, in a little over two toys. We lay in a little palm-fringed inlet until the next night, and then sneaked down the coast toward Manila. Hitherto the trip had afforded few thrills, with the exception of a tense half-hour while we were taking aboard our contraband cargo and getting out of the harbor at Hongkong; but from the moment we sighted the Philippine coast I had felt a continuous stream of peculiar little quiverings chasing themselves up and down my spine.

When morning broke we were cruising along just within sight of land. I shall never forget that sunrise. The sky in the east first turned white, like a toll of ivory, and then the heavens blushed rose. A moment later the sun
shot up out of the blue mountain haze like a ball cf fire thrown by a catapult. And there before us, not half a mile away, was a large cutter flying the American and Philippine flags! She sighted us at once, and immediately altered }ier course and bore down upon us.

"Shall I go below and start the Deisels?" I questioned, as Pete came alt "Looks as if we'd have to run for it, or else get a ticket for Bilibid Prison."

"What? Waste our gasoline playing hide-and-seek mit 'em?" he bellowed, putting the helm hard over, so that we headed toward the cutter. "No, no! Instead we will go calling upon them."

I had serious misgivings, but Pete was the skipper, so I said nothing.

We could see a Filipino officer gazing it us through binoculars, but he soon put them aside as the boats drew nearer together. When we were within hailing distance the officer yelled across at us, demanding to know who we were.

"The Minnie Johnson, fishing smack, bound for Manila." old Pete bellowed back.

"What's your cargo?"

"Opium!"

Old Pete pronounced the word as innocently as you or I would say "copra." Pedro and Kashio looked at him as though they thought he had gone mad, and I have an idea that my own expression was very similar.

The Filipino officer swore. Then he yelled back: "What are you going to do with it?"

"Smoke it," Peter replied complacently, striking a match on the seat of his pants and lighting his pipe.

By this time the crew of the cutter had lowered a boat and were swarming over the side. Pete stepped to the rail and motioned them back.

"Wait once!" he yelled. "There will be nor boarding. You, captain, can come aboard as my guest and have a whisky and soda; but we don't entertain visiting crews."

The Filipino hesitated; then he ordered his men back on deck, and, descending into the boat, was rowed over to us by one man. Pete led the way to the cabin, nodding to me to follow. Kashio remained on deck; Pedro disappeared into the galley.

Wfe seated ourselves at the little table in tthe cabin, Pete and I on one side and the Filipino opposite us, with his back towards the door. Pedro brought glasses and a whisky bottle, and we had a diink. Then we talked about various things, but though the officer managed to keep his tongue going he was obviously perturbed. He was probably thinking that he had been decoyed into a trap to be murdered, knowing full well that his native crew, without a leader, would do nothing to oppose us.

Finally he smiled politely and began to talk business.

"You have made my task difficult, señor, by your hospitality," he said. "Two days ago there came a cable message from Hongkong describing your boat and advising us to watch for it. You yourself have confessed that you have opium. It is my duty to arrest you, although you have made it harder by your kindness."

His face was pale under his brown skin; it was plain he thought he was in a  tight place. I must confess I was getting rather worried myself.

Pete puffed his pipe a moment before speaking.

"You talked without thinking," he answered. "You have no proof that the boat contains opium— nothing but my word, and I am a great liar. We are on the high seas. We are armed. And I warn you we shall not submit to piracy!"

The astonished officer opened his mouth to speak, evidently thought better of it, and flashed his teeth in a smile instead.

"Victory yours," he said, bowing. "But I shall hang upon your stern and capture you when you venture inside Philippine waters. Perhaps I had better go now."

As he rose the officer gave the table a sudden push, which sent Pete and me to the floor on our backs, with the table on top of us. We looked up into the barrel of a Colt's automatic, with the Filipino smiling at us suavely. But the smile was short-lived, for, standing in the doorway behind him, with a shotgun muzzle within an inch of his officer's belt, was Pedro, his face twisted into a sinister grin.

"Now, my friend," said Pete coldly, "you have proved yourself a skunk. Put your gun down before my man blows you to pieces."

Pedro cocked his gun.  At the sound the officer whirled— to find the shotgun muzzle against his stomach! He dropped his pistol on the floor and stood with his hands above his head. Pedro nodded to him to march, and fell in behind him as he stepped on deck. Then, when the small boat bumped alongside, the Ilocano assisted him into it, none too gently.

Throughout the day that cutter clung to us like a leech. Once or twice we tried dropping down-wind a mile or so, but each time the Government boat was under way almost before we got our sail up. Finally, just as the sun was slipping into the sea, Pete told me to go below and tune up the engines. Five minutes later we were shooting southward with our bows out of water, the Government cutter fast falling behind, and growing smaller every minute.

We made no attempt to enter Manila Bay that night, but hid ourselves in a tiny cove at the southern point of Batangas Province. There we waited a week, until a heavy squall whipped the sea into a frenzy and drove everything afloat into shelter. Then we slipped out into the storm, made up thse coast under bare poles, and fought our way through the seething straits at Corregidor. The bay was rough enough to keep all craft behind the breakwater, so under cover of  darkness we nosed our way into the Pasig River and unloaded our cargo.

Next morning the authorities learned that the Minnie Johnson was in port and immediately boarded us. They found nothing, not even a gun. Pete lit his pipe and laughed at their questions.

________________

18: Chinese Murder

Anonymous

World's News (Sydney) 13 April 1932

IN a hall dimly lighted by a small skylight far up in the roof, a Chinaman, small, middle-aged, with shrewd and cunning eyes, scanned the heavy doors with their diminutive nameplates.

"Attorneys-at-law," he muttered; "nobody knows which is best. All just the same. Attorneys-at-law."

He groped his way about from door to door, feeling in the dim light the innocent glass plates; trying to satisfy himself which was the man he had come to see. They were all of the same size; and to his sensitive touch felt alike.

Suddenly a gleam of sunlight, lost in the vault-like passageway, brightened for a second only with a shining radiance the plain, simple, gilt letters which spelled out the sign:—

FRED G. HARPER,

Attorney-at-law.

A grin of honest delight overspread his wrinkled, yellow face, making it for the moment terribly hideous and fiendish. With a heathenish chuckle of gratification he drew forth a tiny notebook, and wrote slowly and painfully in it.

Replacing it beneath his dark blouse, he assumed quickly his usual imperturbability of demeanor, and knocked at the door of Fred G. Harper. With a simple dignity he bowed himself into the plain, little office, and took the proffered chair.

"Well, what can I do for you, my friend?" asked the young lawyer.

"I tell you. You Mr. Harper?" questioned the Chinaman anxiously.

"Yes."

"All right. I tell you. You see, up in Chinatown, one Chinaman he kill another Chinaman. Say"— he leaned forward in his chair, and laid his hand upon the edge of the desk, watching closely the face of the young American— "how much you charge to defend that Chinaman in big law courts when they take him if they can catch him?"

Fred Harper gasped for breath and stared dumbly at his client.

This was too good luck! Only this morning he had about decided to give it all up, and here this afternoon was a case worth having. That it should be his first!

"Well, how much you charge?" again demanded the client.

"Oh, I'll make it cheap. Say— fifteen hundred dollars. How's that?"

"Too much. Too much!"

"No, sir. That's a pretty serious case. I can't touch it for a cent less."

"All right. I see you by-and-by. Some other day we talk business."

He bowed himself to the door, and left as abruptly as he had come, having asked his question and received his answer.

Fred Harper looked at the door which had closed upon this strange Celestial in dazed fashion. His thoughts, when he was able to formulate thpem, were after this manner:—

"Fear a blundering idiot, Fred Harper, you're the greatest, to let a chance like that slip! You might have done it for sweet charity's sake. It would have kept you busy, at any rate. Fifteen hundred dollars! Prom present appearances, you'll make about that sum in the next 15 years. Heigho, waited three months to make a fool of yourself at the first chance that came along.

"Now, why do you suppose that old Chinaman should turn your head like that? And the only chance at a case you've had! In another month this place, mean as it is, will have to be given up, for the capital is about gone, and what then?"

Disgusted and angry with himself, he banged shut his desk, and hurried to his room in the cheap down-town boarding-house.

IT WAS the second day after the Chinaman's visit that, as Harper sat in solitary state in the dingy office, still waiting for the clients that came not, his solitude was again disturbed. His visitor had returned.

In his hand he held tightly clasped a coin bag, heavy with its weight of geld and in his bearing there was something triumphant, jubilant, which had been entirely lacking on the occasion of his former visit.

"How do you do, Mr. Harper? I come back," he said blandly.

The young man looked at his smiling face in amazement. He had not expected this.

"You said you defend that Chinaman forx 1500 dollars?"

"Yes, that was what I said."

The Chinaman began counting out the gold, bright, shining, 20-dollar pieces. Very carefully he piled them 15 high in four glittering tiers, with a fifth tier of the remaining 200 dollars.

"Him all right?" at length he asked.

The lawyer nodded.

"You take him, then?"

Outwardly indifferent, but inwardly glowing with excitement, Harper pulled open a small drawer of his desk, and carelessly brushed his first fee into

"Now," said he, settling himself back in the desk chair, and placing the tips of his fingers together as he had seen his college professors do, "tell me about it."

"Well, one Chinaman he kill another Chinaman, up there in Chinatown."

"Yes, you told me that the other day. Go on, and tell me the rest. What was the trouble?"

The old man looked astonished.

"They, had a quarrel. The other Chinaman do him very great wrong."

"Who was the Chinaman?"

"Which Chinaman?"

The lawyer laughed.

"The one who did the wrong."

"Wing Loong."

"And what did he do?"

"A very great wrong. No Chinaman do it and live."

"And whom did he do it to?"

"The Chinaman that killed him."

The old man looked at the young one perplexedly. He seemfd to be very slow and stupid.

"But who was the Chinaman that killed him?"

"Me," was the response.

The young man jumped. "You?"

"Yes, me."

The Oriental face was a fine study of proud triumph.

"When?"

"Last night."

The question and answer came sharp and quick, like the ring of metal, the one great difference between them being that, while the one, in asking, was astonished and bewildered, the other, in replying, was triumphant and cunning.

"Last night? Why, you were here day before yesterday, and asked what the fee would be! What was that for?"

"See how much it cost. Then I go get the money. Go kill the man. Then I come back to you. You defend me in the big law courts."

"Do you mean to say that you deliberately engaged my services, went out and killed your man, and came back, expecting me to defend you?"

The heathen nodded.

The young man leaped to his feet. He saw that this was a serious case. It was possible, although he was entirely innocent, to prove him a party to the crime.

He had known it before it had been committed. He had done nothing to prevent it. He had put a price upon the defence.

"Here, what is your name?"

"Louie Ah Sing."

"All right. You make tracks out of this city, and don't you dare come back until I give you leave. You understand? Your money is there in that drawer. I wouldn't touch it for the biggest practice in San Francisco, and, heaven knows, I need it bad enough. Here, get out of here quick, you miserable, old sinner, before I put you cut!"

The Chinaman shrugged his shoulders, and started towards the door with a hurt, innocent air!

"Take your money," shouted the very angry young man, "and hurry up about it."

The Oriental crossed leisurely back to the desk, opened the drawer, and carefully, one by one, dropped the golden coins back into the bag. He kept his eye steadily upon the attorney to see whether any sign of relenting or regret appeared, but the face remained stern and angry.

The last coin was replaced. There was no excuse to linger longer, and the young man seemed very much out of temper. Louie Ah Sing went quietly to the door.

"Good-day, Mr. Harper. I come back no more."

IN THE next morning's paper was a detailed account of the foul murder of Wing Loong. The city was in indignation. and detectives and special policemen were actively trying to find a clue to the real perpetrator of the ghastly deed. None could be found, although suspicion fastened upon the name of Louie Ah Sing. He, however, had suddenly and mysteriously disappeared, and his old haunts knew him no more.

It was all a baffling mystery. Large rewards were offered for information, but none claimed them. Fred Harper, alone, could have told who had done the murder, and where the man was in hiding, but he held his peace, and no man guessed what secret lay behind the white forehead of the shabby young lawyer as each day. mere sadly and despondently, he made his way to and from his silent office.

But there came a day when the silence was broken. It was a little messenger boy who brought the summons:—

"Come to Sacramento.—Ah Sing."

There was just time to catch the evening train, and he decided to go. It was near midnight as Fred Harper made, his way from the train, and was met by a slender, keen-eyed young Mongolian.

"Louie Ah Sing send for you?" he inquired. "Come, then, with me."

He led the way through dark streets and narrow alleys, and finally entered a small, unpretentious house on the river front.

"In there." The boy pointed to a door, and Harper entered.

He found, stretched out on a rough couch, his first visitor, but on his face was the mark of death, although the eyes were as shrewd and cunning as ever. The Chinaman smiled faintly as he saw the young lawyer, and put forth his hand.

"You very good to come. I die soon.

"Bring that box here.  You know they hunt in city for Louie Ah Sing. You know where he was. You want money. You could get big reward. You never tell. Before I kill Wing Loong I make all my money in paper and gold. They tell no tales. It all here. It is yours. Much thanks that I die in peace. I nobody to give it to. It all yours. You rich man.

"Say, you take my money?"

There was a catch in Fred Harper's throat, and he could not answer.

The old man sighed, and leaned back upon his couch.

"I die soon," he murmured. "I die— now."

The eyelids fell; the face whitened, and stiffened, and Ah Sing had kept his word.

The young lawyer stood looking at the still form for a brief space, musing upon the strangeness and accidents of life. Then he picked up the little chest and silently left the room.

__________________

19: Jimmy Cassidy's Picture

George A. Birmingham

(James Owen Hannay, 1865-1950)

World's News (Sydney) 9 Jan 1926

IT would not be right to call old Jimmy Cassidy a dishonest man. It would have been quite impossible to prosecute him in a court of law with any prospect of getting a conviction against him. But there is no doubt at all that he generally got very much the best of a bargain, and the people who had dealings with him often said nasty things about him afterwards.

Old Jimmy did not care what they said so long as he had the satisfaction of seeing his. nioney grow. Hard words break nobody's bones. They did not even bruise Jimmy Cassidy's feeling of self-respect. He was not, and for many years had not been, popular with his neighbors; but there was a steadily growing feeling of admiration for the old man's shrewdness. Every farmer in the parish, every shopkeeper in the neighbouring town of Ballyovie was trying to make money; but it was impossible not to admire old Jimmy, who was more successful than anybody else.

With the admiration, there grew up a kind of legend of Jimmy's immense wealth. Local gossip credited him with the possession of thousands of pounds. Well-informed people said that he could buy up half the county if he wished.

Nevertheless, there was a gasp of surprise when Jimmy bought up Ballyovie House and demesne for £8,000. The price, as prices go now, was not excessive, for there were 200 acres of excellent land and a house which had been "the great house" of the district for a couple of centuries. It might have been the great house for another hundred years if old Sir Richard Strongly had left a direct heir. A distant cousin, who inherited, sold the house and land at once.

This was Jimmy Cassidy's opportunity. He stepped in and bought. But he was far too wise a man to set up as a country gentleman. He had no intention of spending his money in keeping up a staff of servants to look after Ballyovie House for him. He meant to make the land pay. The house might go to ruin for all he cared.

The distant cousin, whose name was not even Strongly, sent several large vans to Ballyovie and carted away all the silver and the best of the furniture and pictures. He left a few tables and chairs, and some odds and ends of rubbish in a lumber-room. These passed to Jimmy Cassidy when he bought the place.

Jimmy Cassidy, though most of his ability went to simple money-making, was not an illiterate man. He read a newspaper every day and took an intelligent, though quite dispassionate, interest in polities. He also read a Sunday paper, which reached him by post on Monday. He was very fond of the   queer items of information which filled a column in it called "Odds and Ends." He liked to read about the American lady who gave a dinner party to the seven husbands whom she had divorced. He liked to know that a necklace of pearls had been sold to an Argentine millionaire's wife for £15,000. These things had no bearing on Jimmy's life or activities, but he felt, that reading about them enlarged his mind.

One Monday evening, very shortly after his purchase of Ballyovie, Jimmy sat reading his favorite column in his Sunday paper. He came on a very curious paragraph, which told of the remarkable good fortune of a certain Joseph Smith, a pawnbroker, in London. In the course of his business, Joseph Smith had made an advance of five shillings on an old picture, without a frame, brought to him by a little girl. The pledge was not redeemed, and in due course Smith exposed the picture in his window for sale. He had no expectation of getting much for it. But when a gentleman walked into the shop and offered him £100 he was quite astute enough to realise that the picture must be worth a great deal more. He refused the £100, and ultimately sold the picture for £1,000. In the opinion of the writer in the Sunday paper, the picture was a genuine Romney,  and worth £2,000.

Old Jimmy Cassidy gasped. He did not believe that any picture could possibly be worth a quarter of that sum. But he knew by long experience that there are many fools in the world, and— well, a fool and his money are easily parted.

Then Jimmy recollected that he had seen an old picture in the lumber-room in Ballyovie House. Like the picture in the story, it had no frame. The front and back of it were almost equally dirty, and there was a small triangular tear in the canvas. Jimmy toyed pleasantly with the idea that this picture, too, might be worth £2,000. But he was no believer in luck, and he had never in his life looked for or received a windfall. He wasted very little time thinking how nice it would be if his picture turned out to be a genuine Romney. But, before he went to bed, he put in an hour's careful thought on a plan by which money— not £2,000, but quite an agreeable sum— might be made out of his picture.

Next morning, he called on Mr. Cahill, the auctioneer, and gave him orders to sell all that was left of the furniture of Ballyovie House.

Then— it was market day— he went round the town and greeted his acquaintances. He did not say a word about his auction, but he told the story about Joseph Smith's picture to a great many people. He told it to farmers, all of them well-to-do men, with money to spend. He told it to shopkeepers, who, since the war gave them their chance, were most of them in a position to keep motor-cars. To everyone who seemed sceptical, he showed the paragraph in the Sunday paper. That carried conviction, for the printed word can scarcely be doubted.

The story was an interesting one in itself, and it had a quality which appealed to the sporting instincts latent in most Irishmen. It was repeated long after old Jimmy Cassidy had stopped telling it. Dr. Quinn heard it, and wished  he had a picture or two to sell. Mr. Torrenson, the solicitor, heard it, and repeated it to his wife and a ne'er-do-well nephew of his, who was stopping with him. It came to be generally felt that old pictures, especially old pictures without frames, were quite promising subjects for speculation, more promising than outsiders in big races at 100 to 1. People actually began to look about for old pictures to buy. Unfortunately, there did not seem to be any in Ballyovie.

Then Mr Cahill's auction catalogue appeared. It made a great display of Sheraton sideboards. Chippendale chairs, valuable assorted lots of china and outdoor effects. It mentioned, in the smallest possible print, at the end of a long list, "an oil painting, slightly damaged no frame."

Everyone hoped that no one else had noticed the oil painting in the list. It was felt that Ballyovie House was just the sort of place in which a valuable old picture might have been lying unnoticed for a hundred years or so.

A good many people asked old Jimmy Cassidy about the picture. They did not, of course, go to him with direct demands for information. They approached the subject obliquely, "drawing it down," as they said themselves, by way of casual references to illustrated papers, and the new year's almanac, presented to his customers by Wylie, the draper. Old Cassidy had no information whatever to give about his picture. He did not know what it was a picture of. He even hinted that Cahill, the auctioneer, must have found it somewhere himself. He seemed to have totally forgotten his own story about Joseph Smith and the valuable . Romney.

This was very satisfactory. Everyone knew that if Jimmy Cassidy had the slightest idea of the value of his picture he would bid for it himself; and, if he did that, no one would have a chance against him.

The day of the auction came, and an immense crowd filled the rooms of Ballyovie House. Cahill, the auctioneer, was very well pleased. Old Jimmy Cassidy stood in a corner, and could be seen smiling with satisfaction.  The Sheraton sideboards and Chippendale chairs fetched prices which would have startled Sheraton and Chippendale almost as much as the furniture which wai called, by their names. China and glass, though cracked, were briskly bidden up. Pots and pans sold as if they had been made of silver.

At last, the old picture was put up. Mr. Cahill seemed to appreciate it.

"An oil painting, ladies and gentlemen," he said, "by an unknown artist. What shall we say for a start? Come now. You mustn't spend all day over the picture. Shall I saylive shillings? Five shillings for this oil painting. The oil alone imist have cost more than that, not to mention the paint."

Someone said ten shillings, making his bid in the tone of a man who conferred a favor on the auctioneer. But no one was deceived by that device. A bid of fifteen shillings followed, and then a man at back of the room suddenly jumped the price up to £2. He seemed to think that the matter was now settled,' and that the picture would be knocked down to him at once. If he thought that, he was mistaken. The bidding went up by ten shillings at a time . to £20. Then it was discovered that the auctioneer's assistant, who was holding the picture aloft for inspection, had all along presented the back of it to the bidders. No one, up to that time, had seen the picture.

Mr. Cahill set the matter right, and called his assistant a fool. Then the bidding began afresh, although the front of the picture looked very like the back. At £80 some timid bidders began to drop off. The picture was, after all, a very speculative purchase. It might realise £2,000, like Joseph Smith's Romney; but cautious people wanted to get the full odds against such an event. At £40 old Jimmy Cassidy rubbed his hands in ecstasy. In his most sanguine moments he had not expected more than £25. He was quite  sure that the picture was worthless, and he congratulated himself on the skill he had shown in spreading the story of the pawn-broker's Romney without giving a hint that he had a picture of his own to sell.

At £50 there were only two bidders left.  The worthless nephew of Torrenson, the solicitor, was one. The other was Johnny Toole, a local publican, who was also a bookmaker, accustomed to offer the current odds against horses entered for great races. Everyone knew that Johnny Toole was a confirmed gambler, and it was generally felt that Torrenson's nephew was little better than half-witted.

At £60 Johnny Toole shook his head instead of nodding, and the picture was knocked down to Torrenson's nephew. There was only one bitter drop in Jimmy Cassidy's cup of happiness. He was not at all sure that the young man had £60 to pay for his purchase. But this point was settled next day. Cahill received a cheque from Torrenson himself, and the nephew walked off with the picture.

Jimmy Cassidy felt that he had added the crowning glory to his career of sharp dealing and hard bargaining. He had tricked the whole neighborhood into offering absurd sums for a very dirty bit of canvas. He had got the better of Torrenson, the solicitor, the only man in Ballyovie whose reputation for shrewdness rivalled his own.

ONE MONDAY evening, six weeks after the auction, Jimmy Cassidy sat down as usual to enjoy his Sunday paper. He opened it at the column of "Odds and Ends." The very first paragraph was headed "Remarkable Find at an Irish Auction." The writer was not strong on Irish topography, for he called the name of the place where the auction had taken place Ballymovie, thinking, no doubt, of his favorite cinema palace. But the details of the "Remarkable Find" were unmistakable. A Mr. Torrenson, nephew of a local solicitor, had bought a much-discolored picture for £60, relying on a knowledge of art picked up while he was a student at the Slade School. The picture, when cleaned, had been declared by experts to be a genuine and very beautiful Gainsborough portrait. It was to be put up for auction at Christie's the following week, and might be expected to realise anything from £3,000 to £10,000.

IT WAS 9 o'clock at night when Jimmy Cassidy read the paragraph; but he put on his boots at once, and walked three miles into the town. He went to Mr. Torrenson's house, and demainded, rather than asked, to see him.

"What's this I hear," he said, angrily, "about that nephew of yours selling my picture for £3,000?"

"He's selling his own picture," said Torrenson.

"I'll be expecting the half of what he gets for it," said Jimmy Cassidy.

"You may expect that if you like, but you're not the least likely to get it."

"If I don't, I'll have the law on you."

"You'll take nothing that way." said Torrenson, "nothing at all. You sold the picture by public auction, and my nephew bought it. He may not be much good at anything else, but he has an eye for a picture."

Jimmy Cassidy, though he was almost unbearably angry, had sense enough to see that he would gain nothing by going to law.

"I'm surprised at, you, Mr. Torrenson," he said, "you that has the name of being a gentleman. I'm surprised, so I am, that you'd take advantage of a poor man that kind of way."

"Considering the number of poor men you've taken advantage of, one way and another," said Torrenson, "I don't see that you've much to complain of."

Most people in Ballvovie, particularly Johnny Toole, felt sorry that they had not plunged more boldly and bid up to a couple of hundred pounds for the picture. But their disappointment was softened by a sense of deep joy in the thought that someone at last got the better of old Jimmy Cassidy.

_______________

20: Two Women in the Case

K. R. G. Browne

World's News (Sydney) 30 Jan 1926

THE little drawing-room of Miss Virginia Farren's flat contained three persons— and a silver tea-service. There were present, in order of importance. Virginia herself, Mr. Walter Devine, the well-known, but still comparatively youthful financier, and Mr. David Brett. Miss Farren and Mr. Devine sat one on  each side of the tea-service; Mr. Brett, being but newly arrived, hesitated in the doorway. ''

"Oh, hullo, David!" said Virginia brightly— much too brightly, thought Mr. Devine. "Come and have some tea. Do you know Mr. Devine?"

David, who did not know Mr. Devine,  and was aware of no urgent craving to repair the omission, endured the introduction. He knew at once that he could never love Mr. Devine. The later was forty, plumpish, tightly tailored, and an audible breather. As a man, he was improbable; as a husband for Virginia, he was incredible. It was David's ingenious habit to assess all men as possible husbands for Virginia. Sometimes he was wrong; usually, as now, he was right.

It was Mr Devine's wish— nay, his intention— to make Virginia his wife. A similar ambition agitated the immaculate waistcoast of Mr. Brett. This coincidence was not remarkable, for Virginia, twenty-three, brown-eyed and wholly charming, was eminently marriageable. Mr. Devine, though he now saw Mr. Brett for the first time, recognised his condition instantly.

When a young man enters a lady's drawing-room with a large bunch of roses and an embarrassed expression, it must be obvious to any one with brains that he has not merely called on behalf of the gas company. And Mr. Devine, whatever other manly qualities he lacked, had brains.

Mr. Devine, inspecting Mr. Brett, saw a tall, young man of twenty-six or seven, unusually slender of build, and quite scandalously good-looking. Confounded young nincompoop, thought Mr. Devine.

"Mr. Brett," said Virginia, "is on the stage. He's awfully clever!"

"Oh. really?" said Mr. Devine, who possessed the average financier's contempt for those who earn their living by honest methods.

"Mr. Devine," said Virginia to David, "is one of those financial magnates you read about. He's frightfully important in the city."

"Yes?"' said David, who shared the belief of the general public that financial magnates are one degree less honest than blackmailers.

"As I was saying, Miss Farren," said Mr. Devine, who believed in striking the first blow, "things have been pretty strenuous lately. Cleared thousands this week, one way and another. Takes it out of a man, you know. I'm running down to my cottage in Sussex to-morrow for a short breather."

"Will you run all the way?" asked David, his clear grey eyes fixed remorselessly on the projection of Mr. Devine's waistcoat.

Mr. Devine frowned, opened his mouth, changed his mind, and coughed.

"I don't quite know how long I shall be awav." he observed to Virginia.

"I should stay a good long time." said David, beaming. "There's nothing like fresh air for making a man of one."

Mr. Devine's countenance took on a purplish tinge.

"Have some more tea," said Virginia hurriedly. Mr. Devine took no notice. He was staring at David with his head on one side, wearing the expression of one who seeks -tounearth something from his memory.

"I know!" he said suddenly. "I've been wondering where I'd seen you before, Mr. Brett. It was at the Savoy, one day last week. You were lunching with a most attractive young person with red hair."

"I was not!" said David indignantly. "Nothing of the kind."

"No?" said Mr. Devine, who knew it. "My mistake." Noting the very slightly raised eyebrows of Miss Farren, he felt entitled to claim the point.

Thereafter, the conversation proceeded spasmodically for some twenty minutes. At the end of that period, Mr. Devine, with some difficulty separating from his person a large gold watch, announced with manifest regret that he must he going. Board meeting. Very important. He rose, nodded distantly to David, and permitted Virginia to escort him to the door.

When Virginia returned, Mr. Brett greeted her with an inquiring expression.

"What is that, exactly?" he asked.

Virginia frowned.

"You shan't be rude to my friends, David. Mr. Devine has been very kind to me."

"Who isn't?" said David. "What is his particular form of crime?"

"David, you're being horrid. Mr. Devine is very clever. He's a big man in the city."

"He'll be bigger still in a few years, if he doesn't take more exercise," said David, nastily. "I don't think he's a nice thing to have about the house, Virginia." Which shows that young Mr. Brett had a lot to learn about women.

Virginia's chin advanced perceptibly.

"That will do, thank you," she said coldly. "When I want you to insult my friends, I'll tell you."

David rose to his feet; and proceeded still further to betray his complete ignorance of that sex which, in the intervals of rocking the cradle, rules the world.

"Virginia,-I don't like that bat-eyed gink. I'd rather you didn't have anything to do with him.  He may be all right, but he doesn't look it."

Virginia's chin was now easily her most notable feature.

"Thank you for the advice, David; but I don't need it. I choose my own friends. If you don't approve of them, it's not my fault."

David, discarding his last remnants of common-sense, discretion, and self-control, put his foot in it well over the knee.

"But, Virginia, you couldn't marry a man like that!"

"I think," said Virginia, in a voice calculated to lower the temperature of an ice factory, "you'd better go. You're behaving rather idiotically, you know. Because Mr. Devine hasn't asked me— yet."

Three minutes later, Mr. David Brett, out in the street, might have been heard— and, indeed, was heard by a couple of startled passers-by— to curse aloud.

"Oh, damn!" said Mr. Brett. And then, "By Jove! He shan't get away with it! Not if I have to kill him first, the slab-sided, over-fed, tea-swilling swindler! David, my boy, we must think this out."

And so home.

ii

MR. DEVINE, as he had announced, ran down to his cottage in Sussex. He performed this feat of athleticism in little over an hour, for it was his custom to do most of his running in a Rolls-Royce. Mr. Devine, indeed, was somewhat addicted to these euphemisms. His cottage, for example, was never described as such, by the local rating authorities. It was, as a matter of fact, a mansion, and, having been more or less designed by Mr. Devine himself, resembled a cross between a workhouse and a Palais de Danse. Mr. Devine loved it. It was his custom, when in residence, to spend some time each morning upon the cliff before his door, whence, with the assistance of a telescope, he could keep abreast of affairs in the Channel. The Channel, being used to this sort of thing, let him do it.

Let us come at Mr. Devine on the second morning after his arrival, as he stood, telescoped and white-trousered, scanning the surrounding landscape in a manner suggesting that he had just paid cash for it. The Channel at the moment was empty of life. The coast itself was not much more vivacious. Mr. Devine was on the point of returning within doors for a sherry and biscuit when he perceived, advancing towards him along the cliff-top, a feminine figure.

Mr. Devine, who war something of a connoisseur in these matters, saw that the newcomer was young and of a graceful habit; almost certainly she was attractively featured. She carried a parasol, which she was twirling this way and that, in the manner of one afflicted with ennui. Mr. Devine, inspecting her as she drew near, failed to recognise in her a local inhabitant, and put her down as a visitor from some more worldly sphere. Providence, getting smartly off the mark at this juncture, offered him an opportunity to test this conclusion

A gust of wind swept abruptly down upon the young lady. The parasol, twitched deftly from her grasp, rose in the air, described a neat parabola, and came gently to rest at Mr. Devine's feet. Mr. Devine, stooping rather more swiftly than was his custom, retrieved it.

"Pardon me," he said, stepping forward. "Yours, I think."

"Oh, thank you so much," said the young lady. "How silly of me!"

She was, Mr. Devine observed, with a sense of gratitude to Boreas, a most comely young person. Her eyes were large and grey, her figure admirable;''her hair-auburn, and most luxuriant. She was arrayed in a manner denoting both an excellent taste and a tolerable income. When, as at this moment, she was smiling, the effect was dazzling. Mr. Devine hoped devoutly that the wind, while rendering him this service, had not disarranged his hair.

"It is sometimes a little breezy on the top of the cliff," he remarked, chattily.

"I love it," said the young lady. Conversation drooped while Mr. Devine selected one of his many good openings for such occasions. He fell back upon an old and tried friend.

"Pardon me," he said, courteously, "but surely I have met you before, somewhere?"

The young lady accepted this hoary cliche in complete good faith.

"Oh, I don't think so. I should hardly have forgotten it."

"Strange," said Mr. Devine, much flattered. "I could have sworn— however, it doesn't matter. We have met now, have we not?" He chuckled heartily at the quaint conceit. This, he reflected, was really an exceptionally charming young lady.

It will be noted that Mr. Devine, though theoretically belonging to that school of thought which holds that absence makes the heart grow fonder, declined to be ruled by any convention regarding the person upon whom the said fondness was to be bestowed. The ftict that he was immovably resolved to espouse Miss Virginia Farren did not, In his opinion, debar him from extracting consolation in Miss Farren's absence from the nearest available substitute. And the substitute offered by fate on the piesent occasion seemed to him almost worthy, as it were, of a place in the team.

"You are staying down here?" he queried, politely.

"For a few days," answered the young lady. "It's a delightful little place, isn't it?"

"It is, indeed. You must see all our beauty spots and curiosities before you leave. Have you seen the Whistling Sand yet?"

"No," siaid the young lady, with a pretty interest. "What is that?"

"A stretch of sand which actually whistles when the tide is at a certain level," explained Mr. Devine, thankful for the wayward impulse which had once led him to glance at the local guide-book. "It is barely half a mile from here. Perhaps, if you are continuing your walk in that direction. I might be permitted to show it to you."

"Thank you very much," said the young lady. "It's very kind of you."

"Not at all," said Mr. Devine, falling into step at her side. "By the way— allow me— my name is Devine. Rather an informal introduction, no doubt. But I think, in these rural surroundings, we may dispense with the business of calling and leaving cards, and all the rest of it"

"Thank you," acknowledged the young lady, gracefully. "My name is Anderson. As for calling, we should be delighted to see you, but I'm staving with my aunt, who is an invalid, and strangers upset her You don't mind?"'

"Not a bit," said Mr. Devine, who desired no interviews with aunts. "I trust her health will improve."

Together, they descended the path to the beach, and took their way along by the water's edge.

"Do you live here, then?"' asked Miss Anderson, shvly.

"Oh. no," responded her escort. "I just run down for a few days now and then. That is my little place back on the cliff there. As a rule, I'm too busy in the city to get away as much as I should like."

"O-o-o-oh!" cried the young lady, suddently. "Are you the Mr. Devine— Mr. Walter Devine?"

"That's my name, certainly," said Mr. Devine, swelling inwardly.

"Fancy that! I've often heard father speak of you. He's in the city, too— in quite a small way, though."

"Really?" said Mr. Devine, hoping uneasily that Anderson pere was not one of the many who had cause to speak of him with bitterness. He made haste to change the subject. "Ah, now you can see the Whistling Sand. There, do you hear?"

When, an hour later, Mr. Devine parted from Miss Anderson, at her request, at the top of the cliff-path, he betook himself indoors with marked jauntiness. Beyond all doubt, he had made a hit. Really, thought Mr. Devine, a most remarkable girl. Perfectly charming, Not a patch on Virginia, of course, but still— Ah, that reminded him. Speaking of Virginia, there ought to be some message from Hicks about that young whippersnapper— what was his name?— Brett

There was. Upon his desk Mr. Devine discovered a letter from the man Hicks, who occupied the slightly perilous position of his private secretary. The letter was businesslike and to the point:—

...As you instructed me before you left town, I have made inquiries concerning David Brett. I found that he was employed by Mr. Joseph Elkenheim, in the revue. 'What's Up?' I therefore, approached Mr. Elkenheim, and stated your views concerning Mr. Brett. Mr. Elkenheim at once expressed his willingness to oblige you, and, as a result. Mr. Brett is now out of employment. No reason has been given to him...

Mr. Devine put the letter down, and smiled kindly at the ceiling.

"Good old Joe," he murmured. "Willing to oblige, eh? He knows darned well it doesn't pay to cross me. and that what I say goes. Well, you know it. too, now, Mr. Brett. Interfere with my arrangements, eh— you little matinee idol?"

Really, a remarkable man, our Mr. Devine.

iii

ELEVEN o'clock of the following morning saw Mr. Devine, wonderfully arrayed, and looking every inch the country gentleman— when viewed, that is to say, from the back— making his way briskly along the beach towards the Fisherman's Rock, where a rendezvous had been arranged with Miss Anderson, in order that yet more of the local exhibits might be laid bare to her admiring gaze. Mr. Devine was in the highest of spirits. He hummed as he walked and gaily swung his cane. He was thinking— for such was the singular nature of the man— that now young Brett had been put out of business in so deft a manner. Virginia must inevitably surrender. Which, of course, had been ordained from the beginning, for it was Mr. Devine's frequent boast that the thing upon which his heart was set invariably became his. The impending surrender of Miss Farren, however, was no excuse for the present neglect of Miss Anderson, and, descrying the latter damsel in the middle distance, he waved his hand, youthfully, and hurried forward.

"Good morning," said Miss Anderson, charmingly. "How punctual you are! But I suppose all successful business men must be. What a glorious day! I've brought my camera, in case we see anything worth taking."

"Capital!" said Mr. Devine, his affable smile masking an inward qualm, for experience had taught him that in incipient affairs of the heart the two things most earnestly to be shunned are photographs and signed letters. But he cheered himself with the reflection that Miss Anderson was not that sort of girl.

"Where," he asked gaily, "shall.we go first?"

"Please," said Miss Anderson,. "I want to climb out on that rock." She pointed to where the flat-topped pile of the Fisherman's Rock reared its bulk above the tide.

"All right," said Mr. Devine, indulgently. "But we haven't much time, because the tide's coming in, and when it's full, there's three feet of water between the rock and the shore."

"That," declared Miss Anderson, childishly, "makes it all the more exciting!"

Five minutes later, the pair sat in the sunshine upon the top of the rock, at peace with all creation. Miss Anderson, after a moment of pretty hesitation, removed nut" hat. and permitted the sun to riot in her auburn hair. Mr. Devine, wise in his generation, retained his hat upon his head, being aware that by removing it very little would be disclosed for any sun to riot in.

"This is heavenly!" sighed Miss Anderson. "Don't you find it awfully restful, after the strain of the city?"

Mr. Devine indulged himself in a glance as ardent as he deemed wise at this juncture.

"Yes, I do. You've no idea. Miss Anderson, how finance takes it out of a man. Why—"

"Oh, I am sure of it," said Miss Anderson, all sympathy. "I'm so interested in all that sort of thing. Please, Mr. Devine, tell me all about your work! I think it's so wonderful."

Mr. Devine told her all about his work, or as much of it as was fit for delicate ears. Telling people about his work was his favorite hobby, whose attraction never palled. On the present occasion, the edition which he issued was expurgated and slightly colored to suit its public, but adhered broadly to the truth. Miss Anderson listened with an enthralled expression.

"How wonderful!" she murmured, at last. "You can't imagine how I admire— Oh, look at the sea!"

Mr. Devine, coming to with a start, looked at the sea to perceive that while he had been relating the story of his busy life the tide had not only come in, but had interposed a shining stretch of itself between them and the beach. They were marooned.

"Confound it!" said Mr. Devine. "That's my fault. There's only one thing for it, I'm afraid Miss Anderson. If it's too deep for you to wade, I must carry you."

It is distressing to have to state that Miss Anderson giggled.

"How thrilling!" she cried, and began rapidly to remove her shoes and stockings.

Experiment proved that it was indeed too deep for her to wade. Mr. Devine, therefore, feeling like Sir Walter Raleigh or one of those fellows, proceeded gallantly to carry her ashore. Arrived at the beach, he set her down rather hastily and breathed hard, for Miss Anderson was a well-grown young person, and Mr. Devine not in first-class condition.

"Well " he began.

"Oh, dear!" cried Miss Anderson. "I am a little idiot! I've left my hat and shoes and stockings on the Rock!"

"Tut-tut!" said Mr. Devine, playfully. "Careless, careless!" Forthwith he plunged back into the Channel, gained the Rock, retrieved the errant articles, and waded back. As he drew near again Miss Anderson gave him a smile that rocked him on his feet.

"You are kind! I'm sure there aren't many men like you." She paused suddenly, and surveyed him with her head on one side, while Mr. Devine felt twenty years drop from his age.

"You know," she said, abrupty, "I believe you'd have made an awfully handsome woman, Mr. Devine. Put my hat on."

"Eh!" said the startled Mr. Devine.

"Please put my hat on. I want to see how you look. To please me!"

Did Mr. Devine, the well-known financial magnate, put the hat on? He did. Ours not to reason why, or to find excuses for his conduct. It is for us to state facts, not advance conjectures. It may have been the balmy air, it may have been Miss Anderson's earthshaking smile, it may have been merely that he was feeling twenty years, younger.

We do not know; our business is with the effects, not causes. He put the hat on. It is true that he took it off again, sheepishly, almost at once, but not before there sounded close at hand a faint click.

"Got you!" cried Miss Anderson, triumphantly. "That'll be a gorgeous photo!"

Mr. Devine recoiled. The realisation that this irresponsible female now possessed a photograph depicting him with his trousers rolled above the knees, a pair of feminine stockings in his hand, and a large picture hat upon his head, filled him with a vague alarm. If ever it got about—

"My dear young lady," he said, earnestly, "please— you must not— please give me that film. It's not at all—"

"It's only a joke," said Miss Anderson, plaintively. "You shall have it when I've developed it, of course—" She glanced at her watch. "Gracious, it's one o'clock! I must fly! My shoes, please."

Mr. Devine thrust the problem of the photograph to one side for solution at a more opportune moment.

"I'm very sorry," he said, "I was just going to tell you. One of your shoes has vanished.  A wave must have carried it away."

"Oh, dear!" wailed Miss Anderson. "However am I to get home? If I could only get up the cliff path.I should be all right, because I left my bicycle at the top. But I can't walk over those horrid stories without a shoe, can I?" She broke off and regarded him demurely,

"Do you know," she said, slowly, "once, when I sprained my ankle, father carried me over a mile, and all up-hill. But then, he is exceptionally strong for fifty-two. I suppose I must just try to hobble' along."

She had touched the spot. Like all men of his type, Mr. Devine was at once acutely conscious of the advancing years, and resolutely determined to ignore them. On the question of his age he was extremely touchy. Almost any other insult he would swallow if it suited him to dp so, but a slighting reference, however, oblique, to his physical condition acted upon him as a match upon gunpowder. There are many men like that. Miss Anderson's remark drove from his mind all recollection of his dignity, of the heat of the sun, and of the fact that once already he had received proof of her not inconsiderable weight. He knew only that aspersions had been cast upon his endurance.

"As a matter of fact.'' he said briskly, "I was just going to suggest that. If you're willing, I'll get you up there in no time,"

"You are awfully strong," murmured Miss Anderson, admiringly, and clinched the matter with another epoch-marking smile.

Two minutes later, however, Mr. Devine was beginning to regret his hasty impulse. The cliff path, though quite short, was steep, and his burden seemed to gain in weight with every step. Her merry prattle did not lessen his difficulties.

"You're quite as strong as father, Mr. Devine. I think it's wonderful of you. You're almost as strong as my cousin Dav— Oh, that reminds me! You know a cousin of mine, Mr. Devine— David Brett— Gracious, you nearly dropped me then!"

Mr. Devine, in very truth, had nearly dropped her. Mention of David Brett was unexpected and unwelcome. He began to fear lest perchance he had been a trifle indiscreet. He opened his mouth to speak, but found that he had no breath to spare. Miss Anderson babbled on.

"How funny that I should only just have remembered! David was so pleased to meet you the other day. He says you must be an awfully clever man. to do the things you do. David's on the stage, you know— or, rather, he was. But he wants to get married, and he's been trying to get a job in the city. He had one offered to him a month ago, but he was afraid he'd have to refuse it, because he couldn't get out of his contract. But I heard from him this morning; and it's all right. He's arranged things somehow, and he's starting work to-morrow. Isn't he lucky?"

"Oh!"

Mr. Devine had really dropped her this time. Fortunately, they were now at the cliff top. and he dropped her gently. He felt that he had to do something, for this information concerning Mr. Brett had shaken him severely.

"What did you say?" he demanded, panting. "Is that true— about your cousin?"

"Oh, yes," said Miss Anderson, blithely. "Quite. Lucky, isn't he? But David always falls on his feet. Now I must rush. Thank you so much for being so kind. I do hope we shall meet again soon. Good-bye."

And before the staggered Mr. Devine could collect enough breath to stay her with further questions, she had mounted her machine and was pedalling away. As she reached and turned the corner, she slowed, glanced back, and deliberately blew him a kiss. Bemused as he was, Mr. Devine still retained sufficient gallantry and presence of mind to return it. But there was something mechanical about his action.

"David Brett!" he muttered, turning away. "Well. I'm—" Then he halted, as if brought tip short by a bullet, and stood, mouth open and eyes protruding, dumbly staring. Ten feet away was a rustic bench, hitherto secluded from his view by an intervening shrub. Upon this bench, and regarding him with a hostile eye, sat Miss Virginia Farren.

"Virginia!" said Mr. Devine dazedly. With an immense effort he achieved an ingratiating smile. "Well, this is a surprise!"

"I can believe that," said Miss Farren, frigidly.

"Have— have you been here long?"

"Quite long enough,"  said Virginia.

"How— er— what are you doing here?"

"Waiting for Mr. Brett. He asked me to come down for the day and meet him here this morning. I'm glad I did. I've learned quite a lot."

Even as the staggered financier groped for words adequate to the occasion, there arose behind him a voice. A cheerful, hated voice.

"What ho, Virginia! Hullo— if it isn't Mr. Devine! Well, this is a bit of luck! Ripping day, Mr. Devine, isn't it?"

And Mr. David Brett, beaming blandly, stood before the pair.

"Come along, David," said Virginia crisply. "We mustn't take up Mr. Devine's time. He's busy! Good morning, Mr. Devine."

Mr. Devine, watching moodily as they sauntered away, recovered sufficiently to emit a heart-felt malediction.

"Damn!" said Mr. Devine, turning sombrely homewards.

Ten minutes later he said it again, and more also. He was then seated at his desk, staring in a hypnotised manner at a letter before him. It was a short letter, but full of interest. Thus:—

Dear Mr. Devine.

I feel I must thank you for your kind intervention, which has enabled me to give up the stage and accept a position which I badly wanted, but which I must otherwise have refused. Only your influence could have induced Mr. Elkenheim to release me from my contract. By the way, I understand you have recently met my cousin, Miss Delilah Anderson. She asks me to say that she took the liberty this morning of discarding her outer garments in your shrubbery while you were conversing with Miss Farren. She desires you to accept the said garments as a token of her admiration for your weight-lifting ability. She adds that, as you know, the hat has been proved to suit you admirably. She wishes me to say that your photograph will be one of her most cherished possessions, and one from which she will never part, unless forced by circumstances to do so, in which lamentable event the daily papers would no doubt be interested in it.

Yours very sincerely.

David Brett.

The glazed eye of Mr. Devine, roaming feebly from this epistle, fell upon a visiting card which had apparently accompanied it. The card bore but two lines of neat print.

MR. DAVID BRETT

Female Impersonator

Beneath was inscribed in ink the words: "Positively his last appearance."

Mr. Devine moaned slightly, and cast the card from him savagely.

________________

Index to Past Masters Nos 61-80

The "Author Index" to Issues 1-60 has been uploaded separately.

Achmed Abdullah

The Mystery of the Talking Idols 63

George Ade

Making the Grade 78

"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

The St. Bernard Myth 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

Armistice  78

A Barrack Ghost Story 76

Beauty in Flight 76

Chinese Murder  80

A Detective Adventure  80

The Diamond Necklace 62

The Great Auk's Egg Affair 61

Fool Proof  75

The Hat Trick 71

Haunted  78

Jacobs and Gale, Tobacconists 70

Local Color 75

An Old Norman-French Story 76

A Railway Murder 70

Remorse 76

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 (as by "S.S.")  75

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

Straight Griggs 78

F. Britten Austin

Into the Blue 79

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

Breakfast at the Savoy 79

Death Gave Him His Chance  63

Not Upon the Sleeve  79

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

George A. Birmingham

Jimmy Cassidy's Picture  80

Algernon Blackwood

The Kit-Bag 76

M. McDonnell Bodkin

The Will and the Man 79

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

The Corner of John Street 80

Her Ransom 80

The Ghost of the Cabinet 80

Lady Langton's Jewels 80

A Literary Secret  66

Scarsley Moor Mystery  66

Coutts Brisbane

Without Fear 76

George Bronson-Howard

The Prophetic War Correspondent 79

K. R. G. Browne

On the 6.15  80

Two Women in the Case   80

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

The Inexorable Tooth 79

Just Like a Cat 71

Mr. Wellaway's Host 77

The Ninety And Nine  69

Something for the Kid 77

Blackmail Broadcast, Unlimited  80

Thomas Byrne

Prima Donna's Diamonds  80

Sir Gilbert Campbell

The Mystery of the Essex Stairs 62

Scott Campbell

In the Powder-Box 80

The Point of Contact 70

The Price of Perfidy 78

A Study in Green 73

Under the Crown 70

Without Air 73

Reginald Campbell

The Howling Of Dogs 80

Agnes and Egerton Castle

The Great Todescan's Secret Thrust 70

Robert W. Chambers

The Princess Zimbazim 79

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

Captain Henry Curties

Redeeming Flames 79

Norbert Davis

You Bet Your Life 77

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

Howard Fitzalan

The Red Hand 78

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

J. S. Fletcher

Ex-Officio 76

Homer Eon Flint

The Planeteer  77

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

F. A. J. Godfrey

Not Proven 76

Dahlia Graham

Her Fatal Gift 79

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

Uncle Ned's Teeth 76

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

Roy L. Hinds

The Murder Master 80

Roy W. Hinds

What He Taught Best  80

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

Edgar Jepson

The Infernal Machine 79

Madderson's Mascot 79

A Troublesome Widow 79

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

Henry Leverage

Over the Wall   76

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

Fred MacIsaac

The Abominable Test 76

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

Richard Marsh

A Silent Witness  77

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

Ward Muir

Detective Tempest Faces the Music  80

Talbot Mundy

Bengal Rebellion 69

Edith M Nesbit

In the Dark 64

Man-Size in Marble  65

Number 17    61

Clarence Herbert New

The Passing of an Angel 79

Where There Ain't No Ten Commandments ("Culpeper Zandtt") 79

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

The Cotton Stopper 79

Doctor Grimes Awaits Probate (as by Arthur Mallory)  73

Expert Testimony 74

Inside the Limousine 78

To Professional Services— $100,000   70

Melville Davisson Post

The Laughing Woman 79

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

W. Pett Ridge

The Fixing of Mrs. Farwell  80

Walter Ripperger

The Cardboard Clue 62

School For Murder 69

Morley Roberts

The Egregious Goat 73

Arthur Somers Roche (novelette)

In the Money 67

Michael Romain

Genesis   76

Anthony M Rud

The Invisible "Blinker" 73

Duncan Campbell Scott

The Witching of Elspie 78

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

Georges Surdez

Charles the Bold 76

Spite Corner 76

Carl N. Taylor

The Opium Smugglers  80

Emile C Tepperman

Coffin Cache 63

E. Temple Thurston

A Cameo 69

Roger Torrey

Black Murder 78

Dice and No Dice 77

Murder By Accident 77

Ticket to Death (as by John Ryan)  77

Edward W Townsend

A Deal in Mines and Morals 77

H. D. Umbstaetter (as by Barnes MacGreggor)

The Great Star Ruby  80

E Charles Vivian

How the Girl Came to Bentley's 62

Cyril G. Wates

The Visitation 76

Edgar Wallace

The New Doctor  76

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

Raid on Jigger's Reef 76

Harvey Wickham

The Man With the Painted Nose 75

Ethel Lina White

An Unlocked Window  78

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

Bothon 78

The Chadbourne Episode 75

The Door 71

Passing of a God 75

The People of Pan 77

Sea-Tiger  78

The Shut Room 75

Sweet Grass 76

The Wonderful Thing  70

Raoul Whitfield

The Great Black 65

The Next-to-Last Laugh 79

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

E. F. Ziska

Man of Ages 78

__________________

Table of Contents

- 1: While on Remand / Valentine Gregory
- 2: The Great Star Ruby / Barnes MacGreggor
- 3: The Murder Master / Roy L. Hinds

- 4: Blackmail Broadcast, Unlimited / Ellis Parker Butler

- 5: The Prima Donna's Diamonds / Thomas Byrne

- 6: A Detective Adventure / Anonymous

- 7: Detective Tempest Faces the Music / Ward Muir

- 8: The Corner of John Street / Percy James Brebner

- 9: Her Ransom / Percy James Brebner

- 10: The Ghost of the Cabinet / Percy James Brebner

- 11: Lady Langton's Jewels / Percy James Brebner

- 12: In the Powder-Box / Scott Campbell

- 13: What He Taught Best / Roy W. Hinds

- 14: The Fixing of Mrs. Farwell / W. Pett Ridge

- 15: The Howling Of Dogs / Reginald Campbell
- 16: On the 6.15 / K. R. G. Browne
- 17: The Opium Smugglers / Carl N. Taylor
- 18: Chinese Murder / Anonymous

- 19: Jimmy Cassidy's Picture / George A. Birmingham

- 20: Two Women in the Case / K. R. G. Browne

- Cumulative Index # 61-80