PAST MASTERS

EIGHTY-TWO

13 June 2022

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: A Tricycle Made For Two / W. L. Alden

2: The Signed Masterpiece / Frederick Irving Anderson

3: Canon Alberic's Scrap Book / M. R. James

4: The Brigand of Kairouin the Holy / Charles J. Mansford

5: The City of the Scarlet Scarabeus / Charles J. Mansford

6: The Man in Moccasins / James Barr

7: Expert Interference / W. Pett Ridge

8: The First Class Passenger / Evelyn Everett Green

9: Heritage of Lucille Rivers / Alice and Claude Askew

10: The Intruder / Chris Sewell

11: The Green-eyed Remedy / K. R. G. Browne

12: The Phantom Drug / A. W. Kapfer

13: The Cruise of the Vega / Lieutenant Edgar Gardiner

14: The Warburton Mystery / Clarence Herbert New

15: The Devils Ransom / Albert Richard Wetjen

16: Not Down on the Bill / J. U. Giesy

17: A Cancelled Sale / Arthur Somers Roche

18: A Question of Rights / Sumner Locke

19: Intimate Enemies / Evelyn Everett-Green

20: The Grey Lady of Lakeside / E. Everett Green

Cumulative Index #61-82

__________________

1: A Tricycle Made For Two

W. L. Alden

1837-1908

Short Stories, June 1894

The Colonel, a teller of tall tales, appears in two volumes of W. L. Alden's many short stories: "Told by the Colonel", 1893; and "Van Wagener's Ways", 1898. The books are hard to find, but both volumes are now e-books at MobiRead in epub and Kindle formats.

A STREET ORGAN was playing "A Bicycle Made For Two," and as we listened sadly, and wondered how long England would be permitted to be the refuge of Anarchists and organ-grinders, the Colonel remarked to no one in particular, "A bicycle made for two may do well enough in this country, but if you Britishers had ever seen Professor Van Wagener's tricycle made for two, you would never think of singing about any kind of bicycle."

"I think I was telling you the other day," continued the Colonel, "about Professor Van Wagener, the great electrical sharp, who used to live next door to me in New Berlinopolisville. A mighty clever man he was in many other directions than that of electricity. He was always inventing something. I have known that man to get up at four o'clock on a winter's morning and invent straight along till noon. Show him a piece of machinery, I don't care what it might be, and he would instantly go to work to improve it.

"I had a reaping-machine in my field, and one day the Professor happened to see it. Nothing would satisfy him but to put an attachment to that machine so that it would gather the straw into bundles, and tie them neatly around the middle with ropes which were to be twisted out of straw by a second attachment to the machine. He worked at that idea for several months, until he got it to suit him. Then he built a brand new machine with his two attachments, and took it into my field to exhibit it. He was so proud of it that he sent out written invitations to about all his acquaintances to come and see it, and he told me that this time he had made an invention that was going to make his fortune and give him a reputation that would lie over any other man's, except, perhaps, George Washington's.

"The machine was a big, clumsy-looking affair, and was run by a horse that had a sort of stall in about the middle of it, where he couldn't play any tricks, and where the machine couldn't play any tricks on him. The Professor had his wife with him and his wife's cousin, who was a very pretty girl, though I don't believe Van Wagener ever noticed that anything was pretty unless it was some sort of scientific apparatus. The horse was started up, and the machine began to reap and to tie up bundles of straw, just as the Professor had said it would do. His wife's cousin wanted to see just how the thing worked, so he took her alongside of the machine, and before they fairly knew what was the matter the machine had tied the Professor and the girl into a bundle, and tied them so tight that they could hardly breathe. Naturally the people who had been invited to see the machine work, rushed up to help the Professor and the young woman, and presently that machine had most of the leading citizens of New Berlinopolisville tied up in neat bundles, and lying around on the ground calling for help, except such of them as had been wrapped round with straw, and were too nearly suffocated to speak. The machine kept on its way, seeking for more citizens and more straw, until some man had sense enough to stop the horse, and so put an end to the performance. There isn't any manner of doubt that it was a talented machine, but when the leading citizens had been set free, they seemed very much prejudiced against it. Some of them were for killing the Professor, and some of them were for killing the horse, but they finally compromised, and arranged their differences by smashing the machine into scrap iron, and informing the Professor that if he ever calculated to build another one, he had better dig his grave first, and sit close to the edge of it. I can't say that I blame them very much, for when a man is violently tied up with some other man whom he don't particularly like, or with some other man's wife, knowing all the time that the woman's husband is spry with his weapons and unwilling as a general rule to argue a matter until after he has got through shooting, it stands to reason that he won't feel particularly friendly to the machine that has done the tying. I never heard any more about that machine from the Professor, and it's my belief that when his wife got him home she let him know that he couldn't be tied up in the same bundle with a good-looking cousin without inviting the just indignation of a virtuous and devoted wife.

"Another time the Professor was taking a drive with me in my buggy, and it struck him as a bright idea that the bit and reins ought to be superseded by electricity. So he goes to work and invents a new way of driving a horse by pressing buttons instead of pulling on the reins. He had wires running from the seat of his wagon to different parts of the horse. You pressed one button, and the horse got a shock on the right side of his face that made him turn to the left. You pressed another button, and a shock on the left cheek turned him to the right. A wire connecting with his tail was used to stir him up instead of a whip, and a strong current sent into his forelegs was expected to make him stop dead still whenever it was turned on. All these currents came from a battery under the seat of the wagon, and the buttons that turned them on were let into the seat on either side of the driver.

"Van Wagener took his wife out to drive in this new style of wagon as soon as he got it perfected, and to all appearances it worked very well. He stopped in front of Dr. Smith's drug store, which was our leading drug store at the time, though afterwards the proprietor was crusaded by the Women's Christian Temperance Union, who smashed all his whiskey bottles and knocked out the heads of his whiskey barrels, and left nothing in his establishment except a few medicine bottles and a little perfumery. Well, as I was saying, the Professor stopped in front of the drug store, and Mrs. Van Wagener climbed down and bought some mustard-plasters, or something of the sort, and then climbed into the wagon again. She was a middling heavy woman, which was a little strange, considering how strict she was in matters of morality and religion, for your strict woman is nearly always more or less bony, and she sat down on the seat with considerable force, and directly on the top of about half the electric buttons, she having forgot all about them. The horse couldn't quite understand the signals, but when he felt a current setting up his spine and another in his left cheek, and another in his right cheek, he saw that as a matter of self-respect he ought to kick that wagon to flinders, and accordingly he started in to do it. The Professor yelled to him to whoa, and he turned on all his electricity at once, hoping to shock the horse into some sort of paralysis, but it didn't work. The horse just kicked the whole front of the wagon into smithereens, and when he struck the battery and spilt the acids over his legs, he remembered that he had an engagement in the next county, and he started to keep it at a pace of about thirty miles an hour. It didn't much matter to the Professor and his wife, who had been scattered all over the neighborhood when the horse's heels first struck the seat, but when they came to, and Smith had plastered them up with brown paper and arnica, Van Wagener remarked that, in his opinion, horses were played out, and that in this age electricity ought to be made to take the place of such a grossly unscientific animal."

The Colonel paused, and pulled his hat down over his eyes as was his custom when he had finished speaking and desired to smoke in silence. He was reminded by Thompson that, however interesting his reminiscences of Professor Van Wagener might be, they had not yet included the promised account of the tricycle made for two.

"Beg your pardon, gentlemen," said the Colonel. "I clean forgot about that. The truth is, when I get to remembering about the Professor's inventions there are so many of them that I generally forget the particular one I started out to tell about. It's the same way with this hyer village of London. I've started out half a dozen times to go to see the Tower, and I strike so many things that interest me that I have never yet got there. Take your cigar shops, for instance. Why, they are fifty years behind the age, and when I go into one I get talking with the proprietor, and trying to show him the error of his ways, till first I know it's too late to go anywhere.

"But about this hyer tricycle. When bicycles and tricycles came to New Berlinopolisville, the Professor was mightily interested in them. Not that he admired them, but because, as he said, they were unscientific. He demonstrated with not more than half a slateful of figures that it took more exertion to drive a bicycle a mile than it would take to run that mile with a man's own legs. There was no getting around his figures. They proved that a man weighing a hundred and forty pounds and driving an ordinary bicycle at the rate of ten miles an hour consumed, say, five hundred foot pounds of energy— if anybody knows what that means, and I don't much believe anybody does. Well, the same man could run a mile with the consumption of only four hundred pounds, leaving a surplus of a hundred pounds for the benefit of the poor. 'If these young fellows that I see on bicycles had any sense,' said Van Wagener, 'they would drive their machines by electricity, and avoid the awful consumption of energy.' No sooner had this idea struck him than he proceeded to invent an electric engine for bicycles, and in the course of the summer he had his invention worked out to his own satisfaction.

"The engine and the storage battery took up a good deal of space, and so the Professor, instead of applying it to a bicycle, built a big tricycle with seats for two, and fitted his engine to that. He calculated that it would drive the machine for twelve hours at a speed of fifteen miles' on a level, and that it would carry two persons weighing in the aggregate 500 lbs. with perfect ease. When the machine was all finished the Professor wheeled it out of the yard and down to a turn in the road, where Mrs. Wagener couldn't see him, and made ready for a start. You see his wife was prejudiced against his inventions, and always said that he should never try experiments with new inventions so long as she could prevent it. Just as the Professor was climbing aboard the tricycle, Widow Dumfries comes along, and, being young and full of spirits, besides being a mighty sociable sort of woman, she told Van Wagener that it looked mighty selfish for him to start out alone, and that if he wanted to be real accommodating he would give her a little ride on his machine. The Professor never could say no, except to another scientific person; and so he told Mrs. Dumfries to get into the front seat and he would take her down to her house, which was about a quarter of a mile down the road.

"The machine went along all right, and the Professor worked his way cautiously along the main street with his brake on most of the time; but as soon as he got in the outskirts of the town he turned on the full current and let her whiz. The widow was delighted, and said that she had never enjoyed anything half so much in all her life. Pretty soon the machine came to a middling steep descent in the road, and the Professor started to shut off the current and put on his brake. But there was something wrong about his levers. He couldn't shut off the current to save his life, and when he put the brake hard on, hoping that it would stop the thing, the brake broke.

"They tell me that the tricycle went down that hill at about sixty miles an hour; that is, after it got well under headway, you understand. Nothing that Van Wagener could do had any effect in slowing it down. The engine was working for all it was worth, and she meant to keep on working according to contract. When the tricycle struck the level ground she slowed down to about eighteen miles an hour, for the Professor had given her rather more power than he had intended to give her. There weren't any hills or any ascents worth mentioning for the machine to climb, for Berlinopolisville is about six hundred feet above the lake, and the road that the Professor had taken keeps descending all the way.

"When the Professor found that he couldn't stop the tricycle, he was a pretty badly frightened man. He couldn't possibly throw himself off without mixing himself all up with the wheels, and breaking most of his bones. Besides, he couldn't desert the widow in any such way as that. You may ask why he didn't turn the machine round, and steer for home. The reason was that he couldn't possibly turn it at the speed it was running at without capsizing the whole concern. The only thing he could possibly do was to keep in the middle of the road, and let the machine run till the power was exhausted, which, if he had made no mistake in his calculation, wouldn't be less than twelve hours.

"Mrs. Dumfries enjoyed the thing at first, but after a little while she suspected that something was wrong. The Professor told her that he was sorry to say that he couldn't stop the tricycle, but that if she sat tight, and they had middling good luck, he calculated that they wouldn't come to any great harm. The widow wasn't easily frightened. She reflected that she had on her best pair of shoes and stockings, and declared that if there was to be an accident she would have to make the best of it. The longer the ride lasted the less chance there seemed to be of running into anything, for the teams that the Professor and Mrs. Dumfries did meet mostly went into the ditch on one side of the road or the other, before the tricycle had a chance to run into them. The Professor, being a kind-hearted man, and disliking profane language, was considerably troubled when he saw a horse and buggy, or, maybe, a pair of horses and loaded wagon, pile up in the ditch, and heard the remarks that the driver made— that is, in those cases where he was in a condition to make remarks; but he couldn't stop to explain or apologize.

"It was about nine o'clock in the morning when the tricycle started, and about two o'clock Mrs. Dumfries was about as tired and as hungry as they make 'em. She called to the Professor and asked him to tell her the truth about the time it would take the machine to run down. He told her that, if he hadn't made any miscalculation, she would run till about nine o'clock that night; but that it was a bright moonlight night, and he thought everything would go well, unless there should happen to be a turnpike gate on the road, and it should happen to be closed. At that the widow broke down, and, leaning back with her head on the Professor's waistcoat, fainted away. All he could do was to hold her tight with one arm, so that she couldn't slip off the machine, and to steer with the other hand. Just then he began to meet friends and acquaintances. He afterwards told me that it seemed as if there was a procession of them coming up the road, and before they went off into the ditch they all recognized the Professor, and he heard several of them say, 'Why, that there ain't Mrs. Van Wagener! Well, I never would have thought it!' or similar remarks, showing a want of confidence in the Professor's motives. He tried to call out to two or three people whom he knew very well that the machine had run away with him, but they mostly misunderstood him, and said, when they got back to town, that Van Wagener had up and told them in so many words that he was running away with the widow.

"Night came along and the moon came up, but the road was lined with trees, and it was fair to middling dark. Mrs. Dumfries had come to long before this; but she had lost her temper, and told the Professor he was a brute, and that her brother would settle with him for his outrageous conduct. Once a man hailed the tricycle and ordered it to stop, and, finding that it would not stop, fired three revolver shots after it, without, however, doing any harm. Once the machine ran into an old woman who was crossing the road, and was either deaf or blind, but there wasn't very much of her, and the tricycle went over her like a horse taking a low fence. If it hadn't been for the excitement of the ride, and the thought of what the consequences would probably be when Mrs. Van Wagener should come to know about it, the Professor would probably have dropped exhausted, for he wasn't a very strong man. However, he held out well, and about nine o'clock, just as the machine was approaching a tavern that stood alongside of the road, the current gave out and the tricycle stopped.

"There wasn't any other house nearer than four miles, and there was the Professor and Mrs. Dumfries, nearly two hundred miles from New Berlinopolisville, and about as tired, and about as hungry, and about as mad as any two people ever were. Of course they had to stop at the tavern till morning, and it took them two more days to get home, partly by stage coach and partly by rail. When they did get home the Professor found that Mrs. Van Wagener had gone to her mother's, leaving word with a neighbor that she should begin proceedings for a divorce at once, and that the widow's brother had started out with his Winchester rifle, remarking to the Professor's friends that they could make arrangements for the funeral at once, and that he would send the body on to them at their expense, if they so desired.

"The end of it all was that I went to see the widow, and then I hunted up Mrs. Van Wagener, and finally explained things so that the Professor's wife came back again, and the widow's brother allowed that he was satisfied that it was a case which didn't require any shooting. But after that you could never get the Professor to listen to the word tricycle, which was a pity, for in my opinion there was a fortune in that invention of his if it had been properly put on the market. But that's the way with these scientific men. When they make a good invention they don't know it, and when they invent something that is of no earthly use they spend their bottom dollar trying to get people to take an interest in it."

_________________

2: The Signed Masterpiece

Frederick Irving Anderson

1877–1947

McClure's June/July 1921

The Notorious Sophie Lang, the near mythical woman jewel thief, was the star of a series of short stories written by the author of "The Infallible Godahl". Another Sophie Lang story, "The Van Duersen Haze" can be found in Past Masters #50

NUMBER 142, on the south side of the street, was an English basement dwelling of that commodious Van Bibber era of yesterday when Manhattan was still a native island and its inhabitants retained elbow room and a sense of substantial living. Most of the town had taken the hint and moved north, but Number 142 and a few other stalwarts with shiny plate-glass windows, scoured doorsteps and pull-bells still held their ground, with supercilious apartment houses and gilt hotels jostling them on all sides.

Number 142 was occupied by the widow of Amos P. Huntington. The departed, a drab, inoffensive little person, had only once achieved newspaper notoriety, when he blew himself into eternity while compounding synthetic rubber. The relict was a little Dresden china affair; as evidence of her quality she drove a smart plum-coloured brougham drawn by a smarter pair of roached hackneys of a water too luxurious for this day and age; on the box sat a coachman and footman in plum-colour, two stern middle-aged males, close-shaven and showing that curious prison pallor acquired by upper servants who spend most of their days in the semi-obscurity of old-fashioned basements.

This former fashionable section had begun its migration north some years before. One by one the brownstone residences on the north side that faced Number 142 and its few companions had been converted into red-brick stables with sharp roofs, cottage windows, and wide doorways. For a brief period the ancien régime had inhaled the fumes of ammonia and horse liniment and witnessed the capers of a superior class of equines that were led off to the Park afternoons by cockney grooms, to rack and amble for the benefit of the digestions of over-fed masters and mistresses.

Then the superior horses disappeared and in their stead came superior artists who raised north lights over the old hay-lofts, filled the air with the odours of turpentine and wet clay, and for the most part dined unromantically in a pastry-shop around the corner. Then the city, like a rank forest encroaching on a forsaken meadow, wiped the artists and their studios out of the picture, and set up in their place unsightly garages and machine shops for sick motors. The sunny side of the street became slippery with grease from leaky oil pans, the air thick with the odour of gas and rubber. At the curb at all hours of the day and far into the night diseased insides of broken-down automobiles strewed the side-walks, while the begrimed mechanics tinkered and tested. Through all these vicissitudes the old guard hung on grimly, Number 142 and its companions, by protest, seeming to grow more immaculate. Mrs. Huntington, in addition to these aggressions on her domestic peace, had suffered the further indignity of being dragged from her sheltered grief into open court by the insurance guarantors of her departed husband, who maintained that anyone so temerarious as to tamper with synthetic rubber could have but one motive— suicide. Twice the little widow had won the sympathy of the jury, who in two suits had awarded her the full amount of her claim, a quarter of a million dollars.

Directly across the street, in Number 143, was a machine shop which in grime, odour, and noisy clamour differed in no respects from its neighbours. An observant person might have noted, with some stirring of curiosity, that all of its mechanics were young, stood six feet, and weighed 185 pounds. Unknown and unsuspected, Number 143 was of the police; it was one of that series of carefully masked deadfalls which that arch man-hunter, Deputy Parr of Headquarters, had planted in unexpected corners throughout the city. Crime is sporadic; nevertheless it is also regional and vocational. Here through his minions he eavesdropped on the night-birds indigenous to Automobile Alley. In Broad Street he maintained a bucket shop, manned with mammoth messenger boys and clerks; in Maiden Lane a platinum refinery, whose wrinkled old alchemist could tell him at a moment's notice the chemical signature of any batch of platinum in existence; in Fourth Avenue he had a two-by-four office among the brokers of raw silk, a commodity that attracts thieves as honey does flies; and in Central Park West he conducted, under an able lieutenant, a spook parlour for table-tilting and slate-writing, where occasionally a wire got through from the other shore. Many a poor wight languishing behind bars wondered, but would never know, how he had come so summarily to his doom. It was simple enough, merely getting acquainted and being neighbourly.

At ten of an early winter morning a car of some consequence came to a jerking, sputtering stop, sighed, and died at the curb in front of Number 142. The driver, a man of six feet, weighing 185 pounds, got down, opened the hood, and stood regarding his ailing motor with the forlorn look of a medico whose patient had gone beyond his skill. A red-headed mechanic, six feet of height, 185 pounds of weight, came out. He evinced sympathetic interest and put his head under the hood.

"The Chief," said the driver, bending down and speaking in the mechanic's ear, "wants a report on Number 142."

The mechanic re-connected a high-tension wire with a spark plug terminal, thus restoring the consequential motor to its full faculties, should an emergency arise. He tore a blue ticket in two along the line of perforation, handed one half to the driver with the remark, "No tickee—no washee!" and tied the other half by a stout cord to the windshield of the automobile. The chauffeur strolled away to a back-room haunt of chauffeurs and mechanics, and whiled away a few hours getting acquainted. The mechanic pretended to resume tinkering, meantime studying out of the tail of his eye that respectable domicile opposite, Number 142, vaguely speculating on what turn of the weathercock had brought the Dresden china widow under the surveillance of the police.

An hour later Mrs. Amos P. Huntington descended the steps and entered her brougham. She had small feet encased in trim high boots which she displayed by a modishly short skirt; her complexion was very white, her eyes hazel, and her hair of that peculiar shade of mahogany which can be retained only by unremitting attention; she was in full mourning, of a rich correctness that suggested one of those fashionable specialty shops in the next block just off the avenue which devote themselves exclusively to the millinery of grief. Her footman wrapped her in moleskin and mounted the box; her mincing pair moved off in perfect step as if in time to the tinkle of some antique gavotte. At this moment the red-headed mechanic, scratching his auburn thatch with a grim set of fingers, seemed to come to the decision that a trial run was necessary. He started his hypochondriac motor and rolled along in the wake of the plum-coloured brougham, bending a sympathetic ear to catch some symptomatic murmur from the engine.

At Columbus Circle, that eternal whirligig of traffic, the traffic signal fell against the plum-coloured brougham and the horses came to a stop, snorting motors on all sides instantly piling up with the fecundity of a log jam. A man in a brown derby on the sidewalk had his attention arrested by the flapping of the blue ticket of the motor behind the brougham. He halted at the curb, and casually catching the eye of the red-headed mechanic, he took off his brown derby, though it was freezing weather, and mopped his forehead. The red-headed mechanic answered by blowing his nose in a red bandana; and turning, he stared stupidly at the plum-coloured brougham. The traffic sluice was opened, the jam started to move; and the red-headed mechanic now lost interest in the plum-coloured brougham. He turned east and in ten minutes was back at his machine shop.

"Does anyone follow, William?" asked the Dresden china widow in her speaking-tube.

"No, ma'am," responded William the footman, speaking out of the corner of his mouth, without moving his lips, into the receiver at his shoulder. "There was one," he added encouragingly. "The mechanic opposite— but he turned off."

Mrs. Huntington did not permit herself to be lulled by a sense of security. For a long period the gracious lady of Number 142 had never driven out without inquiring sooner or later, "Does anyone follow, William?" It might have intimated a vanity or a fear. There had been occasions which seemed to the capable William to hold forth a promise. But these promises were never fulfilled. Always the particular person or vehicle that had attracted the suspicious scrutiny of William would be lost in the ceaseless traffic of the city streets, much as the red-headed mechanic, who had momentarily aroused William's interest, was now lost.

That afternoon two studious young men called at Number 142 to test the electric meter. This task, having to do with slide rules and logarithmic calculations and shiny instruments, was spread out on the basement stairway with the interested servants watching now and then, and obligingly handing the two scientists, by request, tools whose nickel-plated surfaces had been especially prepared for finger-prints. The next day telephone linemen asked for and received permission to pass through the house to the roof to untangle some wires. An inspector for the Water Department, a most entertaining fellow, looked over the taps for leaks. Some dispute having arisen in an obscure quarter as to the encroachment on the building line of this row of houses, a young man must enter and open every window from the inside, to measure the protruding sills with a rule. Once when he was leaning far out of the drawing-room window he asked politely over his shoulder would Mrs. Huntington please pass him his magnifying glass, which the little widow did graciously, picking it up quite unconsciously in the hand which held her lace handkerchief. In departing he offered her his fountain pen to sign his call slip, but not seeing his gesture, she used her own pen instead. There were other callers at the basement door, all civil, and, to the outward eye at least, simple. By the end of the week a complete dossier of Number 142 was in the hands of Mr. Parr. It had to do with the mistress and her ménage, down to microscopic details. If she had nursed a fancied sense of sanctified privacy, she must have been horror-stricken to know how easy it had been for Parr's camera-eyed sleuths to turn Number 142 inside out and upside down. In the preparation of the report, in only one point had they failed—they carried away nothing bearing the imprint of the pink finger-tips of the pathetic widow herself, although her household had been most obliging in this respect. The magnifying glass, when developed in Centre Street Headquarters, yielded only a hazy replica of her dainty kerchief.

ii

"I KNOW it is the fashion," said Deputy Parr, settling himself in his favourite elbow-chair by Oliver Armiston's desk, "to assign us cops the rôle of solid ivory in modern detective drama. A thick cop always makes a hit!" He shot a venomous gleam at Oliver, who, running his fingers through his single grey lock, looked up from his work but did not deign to reply. "Some bright young man," went on Mr. Parr ponderously, "might make a name for himself by endowing one of us with a glimmer of brains." He selected a cigar for himself from the paste-board box by Oliver's elbow. "I realize," he said, nipping off the tip with his finger-nails, "that there is a popular prejudice against it. But it could be done— it could be done." He struck a match with a single magic twist in the air, applied the light, and drew a few meditative puffs, eyeing Oliver through half-closed lids.

Armiston, the extinct author, was merely another phase of Deputy Parr's amazing versatility. For the most part Parr practised logic, not intuition. Through long experience of the habits and resorts of the creatures he hunted, he set his traps in what he knew to be good game country. Then he retired to wait for some prowling creature to spring them. But occasionally his traps yawned empty, not so much as the snap of a dry twig rewarded his longest vigil along well-proved runways. Then, like his prototype, the savage hunter, Parr would withdraw stealthily to consult his Medicine. Armiston occupied this position. Armiston had been a weaver of tall tales, thrillers. On one occasion he had been too realistic; a cunning thief had actually dramatized Oliver's fiction as fact, with murder as its outcome. The ensuing sensation had driven the hectic author into retirement. Here the argus-eyed Deputy found him. If fiction could be done into fact, then why not fact into fiction? So reasoned the deputy of police.

His method was direct but subtle. An insoluble mystery or a hesitating dénouement aroused the dormant faculties of the extinct author as the clang of a gong revives the pensioned fire horse. Parr would dress the stage for Oliver with characters and scenery, ring up the curtain on a frozen plot—and in his most ingratiating manner invite Armiston to "go to it." The results had occasionally been startling. They always, to the matter-of-fact policeman, bordered on the mystic. Oliver's imagination, once touched off, had an uncanny fecundity.

Now the deputy, with the sigh of too much girth, picked up his left foot encased in a Number 12 boot, and deposited it on his right knee; he tapped the sole significantly, it was a new sole, a very slab of a sole, spiked into place, designed for wear, not stealth.

"It cost me two seventy-five," he said lugubriously. "It used to cost fifty cents. Even the price of detecting crime has gone up. Sole leather!" he exclaimed with some vehemence, "that's what achieves results in my business. Whenever I take on a new man, I look at his feet, not his head."

He paused. Oliver by continued silence seemed to reserve judgment.

"As a matter of fact," said Parr confidentially, "we don't detect crime. Crime detects itself."

"It's too bad the perpetrators aren't so obliging," put in Oliver.

"But, my dear fellow, they are! That's just the point!" said Parr expansively.

"They detect themselves?"

"Oh, absolutely, inevitably. That is— eventually. The element of time enters, of course. We simply wait," explained the policeman blandly. "Sooner or later every crook revisits his usual haunts. I have a man sitting on the doorstep waiting for him." Parr smiled childishly.

"You must admit it, it requires some intelligence on your part to pick the right doorstep," said Armiston.

"Not at all!" retorted Parr. "That's the least of our worries. They give us the address!" He chuckled. Armiston returned to his ciphering. He had the hurt air of a too credulous child who has been imposed on.

"Every dog has its flea," said Parr, nodding solemnly at the fat Buddha in the corner of the study. "Every crook has his squealer. I have never known it fail, Oliver. If I ever caught up with the squeals that fall on my desk every morning I would close shop and call it a day." He added gruffly: "I haven't had a day off in twenty years. Failures? We have no failures. Unfinished business, yes. Sooner or later somebody blabs— blabs to me! That's what I am here for." He jabbed his chest fiercely. "Let me illustrate," he went on gravely. "Did you ever hear of Sophie Lang? I suspect not." He smiled oddly. "The public never hears of successful crooks. It is only when they fail, when we catch them, that they become notorious. Sophie has yet to stub her toe."

Armiston shook his head; the name meant nothing to him. But it had a tang, either in its accidental combination of letters, or in the way Parr pronounced it, that suggested inherent possibilities. The man-hunter became mellow in a reminiscent mood.

"We used to have a habit of assigning our bright young men to the Sophie Lang case. It was like sending a machinist's apprentice for a left-handed monkey wrench, or a quart of auger holes." He laughed. "So far as my bright young men are concerned, she was only a rumour."

"Oh, a legendary crook! I say, that's beautiful!" exclaimed Armiston.

"Legendary is right," assented the deputy, snapping his jaws shut. "None of us ever saw her. We knew her only by her works. When we came a cropper we'd say 'That's Sophie.' When something particularly slick was turned, Sophie again! We used to say that Sophie signed her serious work, like any other artist. Well, finally," said Parr, thrusting his hands into his pockets and stretching luxuriously, "we filed Sophie away as 'unfinished business.' "

He fixed his fierce little eyes on Armiston and waited. Oliver too waited.

"Sophie has turned up," said Parr softly.

"In bracelets?" ejaculated Armiston.

"Not yet. But soon!"

"A squeal?"

"Certainly! What else? Haven't I been telling you?"

"But who— who squealed?"

Parr assumed a hurt look.

" 'Who?' " he replied. "How the devil do I know? What the devil do I care? An anonymous letter," he grunted. "They drop on my desk like the gentle dew from heaven. If they stopped coming I'd be out of a job. As it is," he added, with a queer smile, "I am assigning myself, in my old age, to the Sophie Lang case. Do you get the humour of that, Oliver? But this time she is more than a rumour. Sophie is"— he paused for effect— "Sophie is Mrs. Huntington."

"The widow— the insurance widow?"

Parr nodded slowly, his eyes gleaming.

Armiston eased himself back in his chair and said disgustedly: "You don't believe that, Parr?"

"I am certain of it."

"I've been meeting her around for several years, among the very best people. She's— she's eminently respectable," protested Oliver.

"Sophie would be," said Parr, chuckling.

Armiston found Parr's complacency irritating.

"Is there anything definite to suggest Sophie?" he demanded.

"There is that quarter of a million dollars," chuckled Parr.

"Forget your feet, Parr," said Oliver sarcastically. Then suddenly, with sudden inspiration: "Has she signed it? You say, she does, or did."

"There isn't a flaw in her case," said Parr. "That's her usual signature. Limpid. She has beaten the insurance company twice, your sheltered little widow. They put the burden of proof on her. It wasn't any burden— for Sophie!" He guffawed. "She hasn't got the boodle yet—they are marking time for another appeal. They will only get themselves disliked, for picking on a poor helpless female. Helpless female is good!" and Parr fairly shook with mirth.

"Have you looked her up?" demanded Armiston.

"Naturally. Everybody has looked her up. Clean slate! Too clean! That's Sophie. Sophie doesn't react to the ordinary methods," the deputy said. "That's why I have come to you. I thought maybe you would like to undertake a little psychic research."

Lowering his voice instinctively with a cautious look around for eavesdroppers, the deputy explained how he had been prying into the sanctified privacy of the insurance widow during the past week— with no results. Except for the one negative fact that the pathetic widow had avoided leaving the imprints of her pink finger-tips on his carefully prepared instruments, the record was blank. Parr volunteered the further information that he had just entered a new line of business— window cleaning. One of his best operatives was weekly polishing Number 142. Then there was the red-headed mechanic, and— unknown to the latter—two casual loafers haunting the block. Sophie's time was pretty well accounted for.

"What's her line, Parr?" asked Armiston when Parr finished.

"Anything. Sophie isn't squeamish," said Parr. He added with a vacant stare: "I've got a paper-weight in my museum collection with some human hair on it— and some finger-marks. I have always thought I would like to see Sophie's finger-prints."

He arose and began buttoning his coat, looking down on Armiston, smiling.

"There are a certain number of obvious things I might point out to you," he said. "But I won't. They might obstruct the psychic machinery." He had his little laugh.

There was a full silence. The fire crackled on the hearth, the grandfather clock at the head of the room was emphasizing the passage of time, with dull sedate thuds. Suddenly, as if to recall the two men, it began to intone the hour. Towards the end of its count of noon, a little gilt magpie of a clock on the mantel woke up and joined in briskly. The deputy looked at his watch; and from his watch to Armiston, whom he regarded with a pleased smile. Oliver was brushing his white lock with contemplative fingers. Helping himself to a fresh cigar, the deputy took his departure.

iii

"DOES ANYONE follow, William?"

The sheltered widow smiled almost wistfully as she whispered the inquiry through the speaking-tube.

"The mechanic from across the street, ma'am," replied William out of the corner of his mouth without moving his lips. The faithful sentry added that the red-headed mechanic was on foot this time. "Now he passes under the red cigar sign."

"Drive slowly," commanded the bereaved woman. "Don't hurry him."

But the red-headed mechanic, who of course had no suspicion that he was the object of so much thoughtfulness on the part of his widow, straightway began to lag; he discovered an interest in window shopping, particularly in those windows displaying tires of renovated rubber, of which there were many in this neighbourhood. Shortly he seemed to find what he sought, for he entered a shop— and that was the last of him for this time. But that same afternoon when she was about to turn into the avenue— at that misty hour of winter twilight when the street lamps awake with sickly blinks, and gorgeous limousines, whose interiors present charming Rodney groups of women and children, moved hub to hub in opposing tides—she picked him up again in her busybody mirror. Mrs. Huntington's pair had come to a prancing stop at the avenue corner ready for their cue to join the ceremonial procession, when the red-headed mechanic, exercising another sick car, pulled up behind, his bumper grazing milady's wheel felloes. In the mirror the cut of his jib fairly screamed his origin and purpose to the experienced eyes of the widow. Police? No doubt of it! Now, abruptly, the avenue stream broke in two at the traffic signal, opening the sluices for the cross current. William whirled his whip, his stylish pair danced on their tender toes and slowly wheeled into their place in the parade. The flutter of the motor sounded behind.

"Careful, William— pocket him!" cautioned the lady.

"He's gone, ma'am— gone 'cross town," said the disconsolate William.

Now suddenly Sophie Lang became all alert. Like a wily fox that has been idly scratching fleas waiting for the hunt to come within mouthing distance again, Sophie instinctively gathered her faculties, aware of a pleasing thrill. Figuratively she nosed the air to catch the tell-tale taint; figuratively she cocked an ear for the distant song of the pack. It had been a long wait, this last one, for the bay of the hounds, years of ennui and respectability, shared with a colourless husband. Husbands merely as such did not appeal to Sophie.

"Did you see him pass the 'office,' William?"

William had not detected anything.

Undoubtedly the "office"— she had unconsciously dropped into the argot of her craft— had been passed. It was not coincidence that her red-headed mechanic had found an errand to take him in her direction whenever she drove out these last few days; nor had it been coincidence that he lost interest in her before they had gone half a mile through the teeming streets. They were hunting her in relays! Sophie preened herself. This was genuine subtlety on the part of the police. It was her due; her dignity demanded it. She laughed softly, almost the first genuine revelation of amusement she had permitted herself since her widowhood. Instantly she closed her pretty lips over her pretty teeth again. Out of the corners of her long eyes she examined her neighbours in the procession. Among them she knew must be one tied to her heels like a noonday shadow. But the faces she looked into were blankly anonymous. She tried her bag of tricks one by one; like the wily fox, doubling, back-tracking, side-stepping, taking to earth, to water, to fallen timber. But with no results—except certainty! When finally that afternoon she returned to her domicile by devious ways, her red-headed mechanic was tinkering with still another sick motor at the curb in front of his shop; he did not even raise his eyes when her brougham drove up and drove away.

From that moment Mrs. Amos P. Huntington gradually faded out of the picture. The outer semblance of that quondam widow remained— her clothes, her speech, her aspect of grief; but beneath it all was Sophie. She watched with bead-like eyes. For several days she devoted her talents to catching her red-headed mechanic in the act of passing her bodily to the tender mercies of his relay. But never did she surprise the actual moment. This was finesse. Maybe it was the great Parr himself! She thrilled for an instant on this note. Then she decided on a stroke wholly characteristic.

When William had tucked her in among her moleskins he crossed to the red-headed man and, with that curious condescension upper servants bestow on mere artizans, informed him that his mistress would have speech with him.

"What is your name?" she asked, when the red-headed man stood respectfully, cap in hand, at her carriage door.

"Hanrahan, ma'am— John Hanrahan," he replied.

"I have had my eyes on you for some time, John, without your suspecting it," said she kindly. She had her eyes on him at that moment; and as he met them he had the startling impression that he and she understood each other perfectly. The impression was fugitive.

"You are to enter my service," she informed him, with a large air of conferring an inestimable favour; and without awaiting an answer she informed John that he was to go with William to bring home a new car which she named— she was giving up her pair because the pavements were too hard on their feet. William was instructed to take John to the tailor and have him outfitted. All this with a gracious smile while she complimented John on the way he carried himself— John's particular uprightness was the regulation product of the police gymnasium. The widow spoke in a little thread of a voice, which broke here and there, when she would close her eyes with a sigh. If the red-headed man had been a thousand devils he could not have refused so pathetic a figure. But the element of humour in the transaction was the ultimate appeal.

A few days later Parr himself, held up by one of his own regal traffic cops at a busy corner, had the grim satisfaction of seeing Sophie taking his red-headed mechanic out for an airing. The new car itself was quite as perfect in its way as had been her prancing pair— a town car imported from France, where they do themselves well in such things.

The motor occupied a glistening bandbox up forward. Sophie was enclosed in a gorgeous candybox away aft. The red-headed mechanic was exposed to the world and the weather as the only living thing abroad, perched on a slender capstan of a seat rising out of the bare deck amidships. She was making a Roman holiday of her prize. Parr could not repress a chuckle. It was so like Sophie!

The Dresden china widow— or what remained of her for popular consumption— did not vary her surface routine by a jot. At home and abroad her shuttle-like eyes were always moving slowly back and forth under the screen of her long lashes. Before many days had passed she had isolated her red-headed mechanic's pack brothers. One was a man with a brown derby who always chewed a cold cigar. The other was a frayed taxi-driver with a moth-eaten beard who had a stand just off the avenue. She never hurried them, never lost them; she nursed them as tenderly as she did her man on the box. They were merely the hounds following blindly. It was the huntsman behind whom she must uncover. She examined bolts, bars, locks, window ledges, painted surfaces for tell-tale marks. In the act of crossing her boudoir she would pause, only her eyes moving, her senses alert and as receptive as if in the very cloister of her retreat she had already half-uncovered the thing that lurked and would strike when the time came. She knew the tricks and pace of her pursuers, and she timed her wits and pace to theirs.

Her telephone she handled with the utmost delicacy— they had tapped that, of course. Whenever she used it, she would set it down softly, then instantly pick it up again and listen, for minutes on end. It was filled with voices, disembodied, inarticulate, and far-off, that swirled and eddied through the ceaseless river of speech. Nothing there— it required exquisite patience. And then one day as she eavesdropped, under her very elbow someone yawned incautiously, groaned lazily, "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" Sophie showed herself her little white teeth in the mirror that looked down on her eavesdropping. Her nimble mind drew a picture: it would be a big bare room with a lazy man in a blue uniform, with receivers strapped to his ears, seated at a desk. And this police ear grafted to her wire would always be open and attentive.

Once Sophie was rewarded by hearing a door open in that vague room. Again she caught the tread of feet; then the murmur of hushed voices. But it was the ticking of a clock— two of them, in fact— that pleased her most of all. How like a stupid cop, to lie in wait breathless at the mouthpiece of a telephone, with a blatant clock at his elbow. Sophie giggled. While she crouched up wind, watching those who watched her, she savoured the old intoxication of the game rising in her blood. This was réclame! She had had enough of stodgy respectability. After she had executed her last great coup Sophie had solemnly assured herself she would go out to grass for the remainder of her days. She had devoted years to this end. And yet, at the first fillip to the vanity of her legendary aloofness— Sophie, the uncaught!— she was off again.

Meantime our friend Mr. Parr, who had assigned himself, in his mature age, to the Sophie Lang case, was gloomy and bad company. The end of the fourth week found him scowling. There was the daily harvest of squeals falling on his desk. Betrayed crooks, with bracelets on, came home to roost as inevitably as raindrops trickle back to the ocean. But, just as all the rivers flow into the sea and yet the sea is not full, so Parr was conscious of an aching void. He had the uncomfortable sensation of being laughed at.

"The damned thing is frozen— solid!" he muttered, settling himself heavily in his favourite elbow-chair by Armiston's desk.

Armiston said nothing. It wasn't frozen to him. It was merely that the element of time had entered in. This yarn had "written" itself, as he would say professionally. He had merely brushed the tips of his clairvoyant fingers across the oracular keys of his faithful typewriter, and the congealed action which Parr had laid at the feet of his Medicine had straightway come to life, started to move. It had developed the impetus of the inevitable. He had written Finis and locked his typewriter and packed for Lakewood. Then he waited for his friend Parr to call on him.

Leaning back in his chair Oliver idly tinkered with some electrical indicating instrument. The grandfather clock ticked, the fire crackled, and the deputy scowled misanthropically at the fat Buddha in the corner. Silence did not embarrass Oliver. In fact it was his observation that if silence were maintained long enough, the other fellow would say something interesting. Parr seemed tongue-tied. As if tired of waiting for animate things to take the initiative, the needle of the instrument Oliver held in his hand made a spontaneous gesture. It swung over to the middle of a calibrated arc— and stayed there, as if intent on something. Armiston with a yawn set the thing down and presently picked up the telephone. He rested on one elbow watching his friend Parr while he waited.

"Rotten service!" he mumbled after a long wait. Parr nodded gloomily.

"Parr," said Oliver abruptly, over the top of the telephone, "have you made any effort to find the husband? He is the one that squealed, of course. I suppose the poor devil got tired hiding out."

The effect of these words, or rather of this act, on the deputy of police was electric. He reached out with one gorilla-like hand and snatched the telephone from Oliver's grasp. The loose receiver cluttered to the floor, and Parr picked it up and replaced it. He glared at Armiston.

"Was she on there?" he demanded threateningly.

"Certainly," said Oliver easily.

He pointed to the electric needle that still trembled over the middle of the card. That tell-tale needle gave warning every time the receiver was lifted off its hook in Number 142. To the two watchers at that moment, that tremulous needle personified the woman herself, the eavesdropper, probably at that instant cocking her pretty head with the swift movement of a startled doe.

"So you tip her off— under my nose, eh? Eh?" snarled Parr.

The sudden brainstorm that evoked these words gave him a look ape-like in its ferocity. His huge hands clamped themselves on the extinct author's shoulder. Oliver could almost feel the bones crunch. He gritted his teeth, but continued to watch the spying needle on his desk. It was the needle itself at this juncture that came to the rescue. Abruptly, as if released by an unseen force, it flopped back to zero, nothing, on the calibrated scale. It was as significant as the snap of a dry twig. The lurker was withdrawing, on tiptoe.

For another instant Parr sat there glaring into Oliver's eyes. Then as if he too were in the grip of some unseen force, the deputy jammed his hat down on his ears, turned up his collar and rushed from the room as if the very devil were prodding him on.

While the Lakewood train was picking its way across the drawbridges that span the estuaries of Newark Bay, the Dresden china widow was rolling over hill and dale through the bleak fawn-colour of the winter landscape to Byam, a little lake among the hills where her stylish hackneys were acquiring a winter coat and new hoofs in drowsy ease. On the spur of the moment this morning she had thought of her beloved horses with a tinge of self-accusation. It was honest John Hanrahan, the red-headed mechanic, who as usual conducted her. Some distance behind, coming into sight now and again as her car topped a rise, followed the man in the brown derby, only for this occasion he had discarded his derby for a cap, thrown away his cold cigar, and acquired a moustache.

Life had become a bed of thorns for the red-headed mechanic. Perched out there in the open where the widow could watch him breathe wasn't his idea of being a detective; and so little had transpired in these four weeks that he was beginning to have grave doubts of the infallibility of his great Chief. But ahead of him this morning was a taste of paradise. Arriving at the farm, he went over his car, like a good mechanic, while he waited to take the widow back to town. This done, he entered the kitchen to get warm. Settling himself in a gloomy corner by the stove, he waited, sourly meditating on life. There entered a pert little French maid, a round pink person of Chippendale pattern, on high heels, which gave to her walk the tilt of a Gallic poodle. She caught the reflection of herself in a mirror— a pier-glass that had obviously been banished from above— and before the astonished eyes of John, she began to rehearse those very arts of coquetry which he in his ignorance had always supposed to be spontaneous, when exercised on helpless males.

In the act, she caught sight of him. She was not at all abashed. Indeed, quite the contrary. She tripped daintily over to him, sat down on the edge of his bench and indicated with a propelling shove that he was to move over— not too much. She folded her hands primly on her little lace apron, regarded him under her lashes; a dimple appeared on the apple-tinted cheek she presented to his gaze. Then, in the sudden effulgence of being well met, they both fixed their eyes on the wood-box and sighed happily.

An hour later, when his lady upstairs called for her motor, the red-headed mechanic— city bred— had changed his ideas about the attractions of the country.

It was the little maid who handed his lady into the car. The lady had found some fresh sweet grief here among the bucolic penates of her departed spouse, and she was crying and blowing her nose under her veil. As the pert maid handed her in, the maid boldly— behind the weeping lady's shoulder— pressed a tiny hand in John's ample paw. The motor rounded the drive, and as it passed the gate city-ward, the maid rising on tiptoe tossed a kiss to the moon-struck sleuth.

iv

IN WEST BROADWAY, among the spaghetti factories, the junk-shops, and the holes in walls where artificial flowers grow, the windows are always dingy, their ledges covered with a thick fall of grime. The Elevated trains growl all day and night, peering in, as they pass, on the upper floors where life is frankly uncurtained. The air is full of the aroma of roasting coffee from the warehouses near-by, and the sour smell of glue from the piano factories.

A man in a seamy uniform and a brass-bound cap, with a number that proclaimed him an Elevated motorman, examined doorway after doorway, always with a glance at the upper windows, as he picked his way up the street. Finally he came to a halt at a broken-down stoop, and ascending three rickety steps he rang a bell. In response there appeared, after a wait, a capacious Sicilian woman with a baby squatting on one hip. She could understand nothing; with a twitch of a shoulder and an upturning movement of one hand, she conferred upon him the freedom of the house. Indeed there was nothing worth stealing. The motorman ascended a creaking flight of stairs, and on the first landing, after some hesitation, picked out a door towards the front of the house and rapped sharply. He listened in open-mouthed concern. Then he rapped again and again, louder, and louder. Doors above him opened and shut; tousled heads peered down on him over the banisters. But the door stared at him blankly.

He retraced his steps to the street, walked briskly north a block, then turned and walked as briskly in the other direction. At a corner he sighted a policeman sampling the wares of a fruit vendor. The motorman whispered to the policeman.

"What's that?" demanded the policeman, bending his head. He gave more careful heed to the motorman's rapid flow of words. Together they crossed the street swiftly. Their unusual pace attracted a crowd. Before they had gone a block their followers were looking at each other expectantly. Many halted and turned to watch. So slight an incident as a policeman moving faster than his wont will rivet the attention of the casuals of such a street.

"There!" said the motorman, bringing the policeman to a halt. He pointed through the lattices of the Elevated structure. "I think that man is dead. He has been sitting in that window for thirty-six hours. At first," he said, in the tone of one speaking of a long time ago, "he was reading a newspaper. But not lately."

He went on to explain that he had passed and repassed that face in the window on his day and night shift, at the controller of his train— until finally it got on his nerves so he had to come on foot to see what was up. He added that he hadn't been able to sleep last night for seeing that face, and— The policeman, businesslike, pushed his way through the halted traffic and stamped up the stairs. The crowd banked against the door like a swarm of bees. He put his shoulder to the door above and it fell with a weak, splintering smash.

The man was dead— quite. The officer threw up a smeared window and blew his whistle, paying no more heed to the man in the chair. Shortly, other policemen appeared, running, and buffeted lanes through the rising throng below. A little while later a black wagon backed up to the door and carried away the man in the chair covered with a horse blanket. Another wagon bore off the fat Sicilian woman and her baby, and several other terrified denizens of the house. They said he had been a lodger for some months, a poor man. Oh, yes, very poor! It was his habit to sit in that window by the hour, by the day sometimes. Had he any friends come to see him? Who could say? The whole world might pass up and down that dingy staircase without question. The wagons moved off; in a moment the crowd was fluid again; in five minutes it was all forgotten.

In a pawnshop, any pawnshop, timorous clients are apt to be made more timid by the stare of a six-foot man, 185 pounds, who lounges at one end of the counter idly puffing a cigar, and watching, as they beg and haggle. Well they may be: it is one of Parr's invincibles.

In the little building on the river front at the foot of East 26th Street, where black wagons drive up at all hours of the day and night, to deposit burdens covered with horse blankets, just such a man stands, smoking the same cigar, quite as idly, and quite as languidly interested as his brothers in the pawnshops. Dead souls come here; they must be inspected, suspected, like any object offered in pawn. Distraught people come here, anxious mothers, brothers, next friends, seeking. An attendant pulls out drawer after drawer for their inspection. Sometimes a shriek, heard in the street, tells the hangers-on that a quest has ended. Outside undertakers, like flies, flock about them when they emerge.

A stocky man, evidently a mason who had come directly from his work, was whispering to the attendant, trembling. They all whisper and tremble when they come here. The attendant knew the world only as fearful people who whispered and trembled. The attendant listened and nodded. He knew— yes, it was here; he hauled out a drawer. The mason inclined his head, brushing his eyes with a plaster-stained hand. His brother, he said. The attendant made a grimace over a shoulder; and the man with the cigar approached, eyeing the mason with a bleary look. He took out a note-book and they talked in low tones, the policeman making entries as the other answered.

"You will have to be corroborated, of course," said the policeman, not unkindly. "Anyone could come here and pick what they wanted, otherwise."

"But why?" ejaculated the mason, horrified at the idea of anyone having use for a dead body and going to the city morgue to pick out one to his liking. The policeman said he couldn't say why— it had been done, and they must be careful. The mason produced his union card and other credentials to establish his identity.

Outside the tip had gone forth. The grisly hangers-on lay in wait for him, and he gruffly selected one, who led him triumphantly to his near-by store. The next day a little funeral party departed from that side street "parlour" with what pomp the poor can give to their dead. There were four carriages, three of them empty, the blinds drawn and, in the first the only mourner, the mason. Drivers in battered silk hats urged decrepit black nags to a sharp trot over the bridge and far away. The service of the obscure dead must move at a sharp trot— there are hundreds between sunsets.

On their return, the policeman with the cigar met the foremost carriage— there were some papers to sign for the records. When the mason stepped down he looked up and saw the porticoed door of a big building, with massive towers and turrets of red brick and terra-cotta. He drew back involuntarily; but the man with the cigar had a double twist on his coat-sleeve.

"Come along quietly, and don't start anything," he said amiably, and led the mourner up the stone steps, down the corridor, and into a big room in which sat a man at a desk. The door closed behind him. The man at the desk was Parr, deputy commissioner of police.

"Ha, ha! At last! Well, how did it go?" asked Parr, looking up.

The mason crouched like an animal, one hand stealing behind him to try the door. He straightened up, breathing hard.

"Sophie almost got away with it," said Parr. "Knocking the old duffer off like that, with arsenic in his dope! And turning the stiff over to us, to hand out to the first comer that identified it! You thought you weren't even taking a chance, didn't you, William?"

It was William, the footman— William re-drawn, some lines erased, as plausible as a raised cheque, nevertheless, it was William. He swallowed hard.

"Come over here. I want a good look at you," commanded Parr.

The man obeyed sullenly. Parr pointed to a glass paper-weight on his desk. "Did you ever see that before? Answer me!" he bawled, with sudden ferocity. William looked from Parr to the paper-weight, and back again, but maintained silence.

"What did Amos P. Huntington call himself ten years ago, when he left his finger-prints on that paper-weight, in the Park Place murder?"

Parr referred to a crime that had gone down in the annals as a celebrated mystery. It was a mystery no more. The obscure man who was found dead in his chair in West Broadway had the same finger-prints. That was why the man with the cigar had been so polite to the mason when he called on his sad errand. William did not answer. His eyes roved round the room, avoiding the one thing he feared.

"What did you blow up in your rubber plant, William?" asked Parr. "Was it a basket of cats— or dogs— or did you borrow another of your brothers from East Twenty-sixth Street? Sophie put the remains through the crematory so fast we didn't have a look-in."

Parr laughed. So did William. By that laugh Parr knew that questions were useless. At that moment the door opened and Oliver Armiston came in, back from Lakewood, in picturesque polo cloak and cap, swinging a stick.

"Take him downstairs!" growled Parr to an attendant. "Charge him with— charge him with complicity in the murder of John Doe, alias Amos P. Huntington."

Armiston dropped his stick with a clatter and started back with such a genuine movement of amazement that the policeman who was ushering him in actually grabbed him, thinking him the murderer.

"No! No! Not that one! This one!" said Parr. Parr's eyes twinkled.

When William had been taken away, he said to Oliver with some relish: "As a matter of fact, Oliver, you ought to be downstairs on that charge!"

"But how— what— I got your wire. I came right in. Is there— did she—"

"Certainly," responded Parr, nodding. "You are a wonder, Oliver!" Parr rubbed his hands comfortably. "What put it into your head to start Sophie after her husband? Don't tell me you didn't," said the deputy, as Armiston tried to break in with a word. "I heard you! You knew she was listening in, on the telephone, the other day, in your study, when you told me in a loud voice to go out and find her husband— that he had squealed on her. Squealed on her!" cried Parr. "On the level, Oliver, I could have strangled you at that moment. I thought you were squealing on me. Then it all came over me— just like that!" and he snapped his fingers to indicate the suddenness of light. He pounded Oliver on one knee. "You've got the goods! You're all right, Oliver."

"Well, it was the obvious thing to do, of course," agreed Oliver, now preening himself. "I knew you couldn't find him. I knew the only way was to scare her into starting after him herself. Then you could trail along behind. It was— it made a very good ending of the story, I thought," said Oliver, rubbing his hands. "Your men trailed her, of course?"

"Well, as a matter of fact," said Parr weakly, "she got the jump on us. You know Sophie! So we just sat back and waited."

"Waited?" ejaculated Armiston, his jaw dropping.

"Oh, Sophie did her part— she produced him all right," said Parr. "Dead!" he added grimly. He related swiftly how the bogus Amos P. Huntington, who had been blown up by synthetic rubber and cremated, in the end came to his death and burial in so obscure a manner that the police would never have known who he was, except for one thing that Sophie overlooked.

"My window washer," said Parr, "he's a wonder, too. He managed to borrow a razor, among other personal effects of Amos P. Huntington. Sophie had packed it away in a box. We found finger-prints on it that corresponded to that," he said, pointing at the glass paper-weight, grisly souvenir of the famous Park Place mystery. "When his dead body turned up, with the same finger-prints, the rest was simple enough. We merely sat on the doorstep and waited." And Parr, who had complacently compassed the murder of a murderer, by neglecting to follow Sophie too closely, leaned back in his chair smiling in a grim way. "Oh, they all come to pot sooner or later," he said, in his philosophic mood again.

"But—Sophie—"

"Oh, she is on her way down-town now," said Parr. "Sit still. You will see her."

The Dresden china widow, an hour before, had set out on her afternoon drive to air her red-headed mechanic. At Forty-second Street a policeman said gruffly, "Drive up to the curb, young fellow," and the red-headed mechanic had obeyed with alacrity, not knowing at the moment if he was wanted for some infraction of the traffic rules, or by his Chief. "Let me have your keys," commanded the traffic policeman. He took the proffered keys and calmly locked the door of the candy-box tonneau. Sophie could not escape now, except by smashing glass. "Take her to Headquarters!" commanded the traffic man, who had his instructions.

While Parr and Oliver sat talking, Sophie was announced. A graceful little woman clothed in a cloud of black entered, weeping, and sniffling in her handkerchief under her veil.

"Lift up the curtain, Sophie," said Parr, with a full breath of elation. "This is where you stop for the night, Sophie."

She lifted the veil, disclosing a tear-stained face pathetically pretty. Parr, with an oath, lifted himself out of his chair. His hands strained at the arms till the veins stood out like whipcords. He stared like a wooden man.

"What's the joke, Hanrahan?" he bawled at the red-headed mechanic.

"Joke, sir? Joke!" protested Hanrahan.

"Look at her, you fool!" snarled the deputy, coming out from behind his desk. "Look what you have brought here— this rag doll done up in crêpe."

The lady here burst into a torrent of words.

"I not understand!" she wailed, in French accents. "I am Madam 'Untington maid! She move— I come to town— three— four days— to make ready! She move. This afternoon I go out— to get littl' air! The policeman—he lock me in! Oh, he lock me in! I scream! I cry! I knock the window! I come here! This man he say 'don't start nothings—' "

But Hanrahan was holding his head. He was reviving that episode in the kitchen that made the country seem so attractive to him a few days gone by. If this was the maid, who then was that piece of pert prettiness with whom he had philandered?

"Where did you get those clothes?" demanded Parr roughly.

"Madam— she give them to me— she no want them any more— my 'usband, he is dead— Il est mort!"

"Take her away!" roared Parr.

"What is the charge?" asked the meek Hanrahan.

"Oh, anything— anything," snarled Parr, "to keep it out of the papers! You a detective! You on the Sophie Lang case! Oh dear, oh dear!"

When the door closed on the two figures it was Armiston who broke the painful silence.

"After all," he said dreamily, fingering his grey lock, "it was a signed masterpiece! Eh, Parr?"

That was the end of the Sophie Lang case. There were loose ends of course, such as William, and the maid, and the jettisoned quarter of a million dollars. The underlings proved to be very faithful ignorant tools of the lady, who took their medicine, slight doses, maintaining to the end their lack of knowledge of such a purely legendary person as Sophie Lang.

_______________

3: Canon Alberic's Scrap Book

M. R. James

1862-1936

National Review March 1895

No longer a decayed town, St Bertrand de Comminges is a tourist attraction, the former Cathedral and its splendid organ having been restored. The interior is quite remarkable, and the day I visited in 1999 the organ was being played— Pulpmeister.

ST BERTRAND de Comminges is a decayed town on the spurs of the Pyrenees, not very far from Toulouse, and still nearer to Bagnères-de-Luchon. It was the site of a bishopric until the Revolution, and has a cathedral which is visited by a certain number of tourists. In the spring of 1883 an Englishman arrived at this old-world place I can hardly dignify it with the name of city, for there are not a thousand inhabitants. He was a Cambridge man, who had come specially from Toulouse to see St Bertrand's Church, and had left two friends, who were less keen archaeologists than himself, in their hotel at Toulouse, under promise to join him on the following morning. Half an hour at the church would satisfy them, and all three could then pursue their journey in the direction of Auch. But our Englishman had come early on the day in question, and proposed to himself to fill a notebook and to use several dozens of plates in the process of describing and photographing every corner of the wonderful church that dominates the little hill of Comminges. In order to carry out this design satisfactorily, it was necessary to monopolize the verger of the church for the day. The verger or sacristan (I prefer the latter appellation, inaccurate as it may be) was accordingly sent for by the somewhat brusque lady who keeps the inn of the Chapeau Rouge; and when he came, the Englishman found him an unexpectedly interesting object of study. It was not in the personal appearance of the little, dry, wizened old man that the interest lay, for he was precisely like dozens of other church-guardians in France, but in a curious furtive, or rather hunted and oppressed, air which he had. He was perpetually half glancing behind him; the muscles of his back and shoulders seemed to be hunched in a continual nervous contraction, as if he were expecting every moment to find himself in the clutch of an enemy. The Englishman hardly knew whether to put him down as a man haunted by a fixed delusion, or as one oppressed by a guilty conscience, or as an unbearably henpecked husband. The probabilities, when reckoned up, certainly pointed to the last idea; but, still, the impression conveyed was that of a more formidable persecutor even than a termagant wife.

However, the Englishman (let us call him Dennistoun) was soon too deep in his notebook and too busy with his camera to give more than an occasional glance to the sacristan. Whenever he did look at him, he found him at no great distance, either huddling himself back against the wall or crouching in one of the gorgeous stalls. Dennistoun became rather fidgety after a time. Mingled suspicions that he was keeping the old man from his déjeuner, that he was regarded as likely to make away with St Bertrand's ivory crozier, or with the dusty stuffed crocodile that hangs over the font, began to torment him.

"Won't you go home?" he said at last; "I'm quite well able to finish my notes alone; you can lock me in if you like. I shall want at least two hours more here, and it must be cold for you, isn't it?"

"Good Heavens!" said the little man, whom the suggestion seemed to throw into a state of unaccountable terror, "such a thing cannot be thought of for a moment. Leave monsieur alone in the church? No, no; two hours, three hours, all will be the same to me. I have breakfasted, I am not at all cold, with many thanks to monsieur."

"Very well, my little man,' quoth Dennistoun to himself: "you have been warned, and you must take the consequences."

Before the expiration of the two hours, the stalls, the enormous dilapidated organ, the choir-screen of Bishop John de Mauléon, the remnants of glass and tapestry, and the objects in the treasure-chamber, had been well and truly examined; the sacristan still keeping at Dennistoun's heels, and every now and then whipping round as if he had been stung, when one or other of the strange noises that trouble a large empty building fell on his ear. Curious noises they were sometimes.

"Once," Dennistoun said to me,"I could have sworn I heard a thin metallic voice laughing high up in the tower. I darted an inquiring glance at my sacristan. He was white to the lips. 'It is he that is it is no one; the door is locked,' was all he said, and we looked at each other for a full minute."

Another little incident puzzled Dennistoun a good deal. He was examining a large dark picture that hangs behind the altar, one of a series illustrating the miracles of St Bertrand. The composition of the picture is well-nigh indecipherable, but there is a Latin legend below, which runs thus:

Qualiter S. Bertrandus liberavit hominem quem diabolus diu volebat strangulare. (How St Bertrand delivered a man whom the Devil long sought to strangle.)

Dennistoun was turning to the sacristan with a smile and a jocular remark of some sort on his lips, but he was confounded to see the old man on his knees, gazing at the picture with the eye of a suppliant in agony, his hands tightly clasped, and a rain of tears on his cheeks. Dennistoun naturally pretended to have noticed nothing, but the question would not away from him, "Why should a daub of this kind affect anyone so strongly?" He seemed to himself to be getting some sort of clue to the reason of the strange look that had been puzzling him all the day: the man must be a monomaniac; but what was his monomania?

It was nearly five o'clock; the short day was drawing in, and the church began to fill with shadows, while the curious noises the muffled footfalls and distant talking voices that had been perceptible all day seemed, no doubt because of the fading light and the consequently quickened sense of hearing, to become more frequent and insistent.

The sacristan began for the first time to show signs of hurry and impatience. He heaved a sigh of relief when camera and notebook were finally packed up and stowed away, and hurriedly beckoned Dennistoun to the western door of the church, under the tower. It was time to ring the Angelus. A few pulls at the reluctant rope, and the great bell Bertrande, high in the tower, began to speak, and swung her voice up among the pines and down to the valleys, loud with mountain-streams, calling the dwellers on those lonely hills to remember and repeat the salutation of the angel to her whom he called Blessed among women. With that a profound quiet seemed to fall for the first time that day upon the little town, and Dennistoun and the sacristan went out of the church. On the doorstep they fell into conversation. "Monsieur seemed to interest himself in the old choir-books in the sacristy."

"Undoubtedly. I was going to ask you if there were a library in the town."

"No, monsieur; perhaps there used to be one belonging to the Chapter, but it is now such a small place " Here came a strange pause of irresolution, as it seemed; then, with a sort of plunge, he went on: "But if monsieur is amateur des vieux livres, I have at home something that might interest him. It is not a hundred yards."

At once all Dennistoun's cherished dreams of finding priceless manuscripts in untrodden corners of France flashed up, to die down again the next moment. It was probably a stupid missal of Plantin's printing, about 1580. Where was the likelihood that a place so near Toulouse would not have been ransacked long ago by collectors? However, it would be foolish not to go; he would reproach himself for ever after if he refused. So they set off. On the way the curious irresolution and sudden determination of the sacristan recurred to Dennistoun, and he wondered in a shamefaced way whether he was being decoyed into some purlieu to be made away with as a supposed rich Englishman. He contrived, therefore, to begin talking with his guide, and to drag in, in a rather clumsy fashion, the fact that he expected two friends to join him early the next morning. To his surprise, the announcement seemed to relieve the sacristan at once of some of the anxiety that oppressed him.

"That is well," he said quite brightly, "that is very well. Monsieur will travel in company with his friends; they will be always near him. It is a good thing to travel thus in company sometimes."

The last word appeared to be added as an afterthought, and to bring with it a relapse into gloom for the poor little man.

They were soon at the house, which was one rather larger than its neighbours, stone-built, with a shield carved over the door, the shield of Alberic de Mauléon, a collateral descendant, Dennistoun tells me, of Bishop John de Mauléon. This Alberic was a Canon of Comminges from 1680 to 1701. The upper windows of the mansion were boarded up, and the whole place bore, as does the rest of Comminges, the aspect of decaying age. Arrived on his doorstep, the sacristan paused a moment.

"Perhaps," he said, "perhaps, after all, monsieur has not the time?"

"Not at all lots of time nothing to do till tomorrow. Let us see what it is you have got."

The door was opened at this point, and a face looked out, a face far younger than the sacristan's, but bearing something of the same distressing look: only here it seemed to be the mark, not so much of fear for personal safety as of acute anxiety on behalf of another. Plainly, the owner of the face was the sacristan's daughter; and, but for the expression I have described, she was a handsome girl enough. She brightened up considerably seeing her father accompanied by an able-bodied stranger. A few remarks passed between father and daughter, of which Dennistoun only caught these words, said by the sacristan, "He was laughing in the church," words which were answered only by a look of terror from the girl.

But in another minute they were in the sitting-room of the house, a small, high chamber with a stone floor, full of moving shadows cast by a wood fire that flickered on a great hearth. Something of the character of an oratory was imparted to it by a tall crucifix, which reached almost to the ceiling on one side; the figure was painted of the natural colours, the cross was black. Under this stood a chest of some age and solidity, and when a lamp had been brought, and chairs set, the sacristan went to this chest, and produced therefrom, with growing excitement and nervousness, as Dennistoun thought, a large book, wrapped in a white cloth, on which cloth a cross was rudely embroidered in red thread. Even before the wrapping had been removed, Dennistoun began to be interested by the size and shape of the volume. "Too large for a missal," he thought, "and not the shape of an antiphoner; perhaps it may be something good, after all." The next moment the book was open, and Dennistoun felt that he had at last lit upon something better than good. Before him lay a large folio, bound, perhaps, late in the seventeenth century, with the arms of Canon Alberic de Mauléon stamped in gold on the sides. There may have been a hundred and fifty leaves of paper in the book, and on almost every one of them was fastened a leaf from an illuminated manuscript. Such a collection Dennistoun had hardly dreamed of in his wildest moments. Here were ten leaves from a copy of Genesis, illustrated with pictures, which could not be later than A.D. 700. Further on was a complete set of pictures from a Psalter, of English execution, of the very finest kind that the thirteenth century could produce; and, perhaps best of all, there were twenty leaves of uncial writing in Latin, which, as a few words seen here and there told him at once, must belong to some very early unknown patristic treatise. Could it possibly be a fragment of the copy of Papias "On the Words of Our Lord", which was known to have existed as late as the twelfth century at Nîmes? In any case, his mind was made up; that book must return to Cambridge with him, even if he had to draw the whole of his balance from the bank and stay at St Bertrand till the money came. He glanced up at the sacristan to see if his face yielded any hint that the book was for sale. The sacristan was pale, and his lips were working.

"If monsieur will turn on to the end," he said. So monsieur turned on, meeting new treasures at every rise of a leaf; and at the end of the book he came upon two sheets of paper, of much more recent date than anything he had yet seen, which puzzled him considerably. They must be contemporary, he decided, with the unprincipled Canon Alberic, who had doubtless plundered the Chapter library of St Bertrand to form this priceless scrap-book. On the first of the paper sheets was a plan, carefully drawn and instantly recognizable by a person who knew the ground, of the south aisle and cloisters of St Bertrand's. There were curious signs looking like planetary symbols, and a few Hebrew words, in the corners; and in the north-west angle of the cloister was a cross drawn in gold paint. Below the plan were some lines of writing in Latin, which ran thus:

"Responsa 12mi Dec. 1694. Interrogatum est: Inveniamne? Responsum est: Invenies. Fiamne dives? Fies. Vivamne invidendus? Vives. Moriarne in lecto meo? Ita." (Answers of the 12th of December, 1694. It was asked: Shall I find it? Answer: Thou shalt. Shall I become rich? Thou wilt. Shall I live an object of envy? Thou wilt. Shall I die in my bed? Thou wilt.)

"A good specimen of the treasure-hunter's record quite reminds one of Mr Minor-Canon Quatremain in 'Old St Paul's,' " was Dennistoun's comment, and he turned the leaf.

What he then saw impressed him, as he has often told me, more than he could have conceived any drawing or picture capable of impressing him. And, though the drawing he saw is no longer in existence, there is a photograph of it (which I possess) which fully bears out that statement. The picture in question was a sepia drawing at the end of the seventeenth century, representing, one would say at first sight, a Biblical scene; for the architecture (the picture represented an interior) and the figures had that semi-classical flavour about them which the artists of two hundred years ago thought appropriate to illustrations of the Bible. On the right was a King on his throne, the throne elevated on twelve steps, a canopy overhead, lions on either side evidently King Solomon. He was bending forward with outstretched sceptre, in attitude of command; his face expressed horror and disgust, yet there was in it also the mark of imperious will and confident power. The left half of the picture was the strangest, however. The interest plainly centred there. On the pavement before the throne were grouped four soldiers, surrounding a crouching figure which must be described in a moment. A fifth soldier lay dead on the pavement, his neck distorted, and his eyeballs starting from his head. The four surrounding guards were looking at the King. In their faces the sentiment of horror was intensified; they seemed, in fact, only restrained from flight by their implicit trust in their master. All this terror was plainly excited by the being that crouched in their midst. I entirely despair of conveying by any words the impression which this figure makes upon anyone who looks at it. I recollect once showing the photograph of the drawing to a lecturer on morphology a person of, I was going to say, abnormally sane and unimaginative habits of mind. He absolutely refused to be alone for the rest of that evening, and he told me afterwards that for many nights he had not dared to put out his light before going to sleep. However, the main traits of the figure I can at least indicate. At first you saw only a mass of coarse, matted black hair; presently it was seen that this covered a body of fearful thinness, almost a skeleton, but with the muscles standing out like wires. The hands were of a dusky pallor, covered, like the body, with long, coarse hairs, and hideously taloned. The eyes, touched in with a burning yellow, had intensely black pupils, and were fixed upon the throned King with a look of beast-like hate. Imagine one of the awful bird-catching spiders of South America translated into human form, and endowed with intelligence just less than human, and you will have some faint conception of the terror inspired by this appalling effigy. One remark is universally made by those to whom I have shown the picture: "It was drawn from the life."

As soon as the first shock of his irresistible fright had subsided, Dennistoun stole a look at his hosts. The sacristan's hands were pressed upon his eyes; his daughter, looking up at the cross on the wall, was telling her beads feverishly.

At last the question was asked, "Is this book for sale?"

There was the same hesitation, the same plunge of determination that he had noticed before, and then came the welcome answer. "If monsieur pleases."

"How much do you ask for it?"

"I will take two hundred and fifty francs."

This was confounding. Even a collector's conscience is sometimes stirred, and Dennistoun's conscience was tenderer than a collector's.

"My good man!" he said again and again, "your book is worth far more than two hundred and fifty francs, I assure you far more."

But the answer did not vary: "I will take two hundred and fifty francs, not more."

There was really no possibility of refusing such a chance. The money was paid, the receipt signed, a glass of wine drunk over the transaction, and then the sacristan seemed to become a new man. He stood upright, he ceased to throw those suspicious glances behind him, he actually laughed or tried to laugh. Dennistoun rose to go.

"I shall have the honour of accompanying monsieur to his hotel?" said the sacristan.

"Oh no, thanks! it isn't a hundred yards. I know the way perfectly, and there is a moon."

The offer was pressed three or four times, and refused as often.

"Then, monsieur will summon me if if he finds occasion; he will keep the middle of the road, the sides are so rough."

"Certainly, certainly," said Dennistoun, who was impatient to examine his prize by himself; and he stepped out into the passage with his book under his arm.

Here he was met by the daughter; she, it appeared, was anxious to do a little business on her own account; perhaps, like Gehazi, to "take somewhat" from the foreigner whom her father had spared.

"A silver crucifix and chain for the neck; monsieur would perhaps be good enough to accept it?"

Well, really, Dennistoun hadn't much use for these things. What did mademoiselle want for it?

"Nothing nothing in the world. Monsieur is more than welcome to it."

The tone in which this and much more was said was unmistakably genuine, so that Dennistoun was reduced to profuse thanks, and submitted to have the chain put round his neck. It really seemed as if he had rendered the father and daughter some service which they hardly knew how to repay. As he set off with his book they stood at the door looking after him, and they were still looking when he waved them a last good night from the steps of the Chapeau Rouge.

Dinner was over, and Dennistoun was in his bedroom, shut up alone with his acquisition. The landlady had manifested a particular interest in him since he had told her that he had paid a visit to the sacristan and bought an old book from him. He thought, too, that he had heard a hurried dialogue between her and the said sacristan in the passage outside the salle à manger, some words to the effect that "Pierre and Bertrand would be sleeping in the house" had closed the conversation.

All this time a growing feeling of discomfort had been creeping over him nervous reaction, perhaps, after the delight of his discovery. Whatever it was, it resulted in a conviction that there was someone behind him, and that he was far more comfortable with his back to the wall. All this, of course, weighed light in the balance as against the obvious value of the collection he had acquired. And now, as I said, he was alone in his bedroom, taking stock of Canon Alberic's treasures, in which every moment revealed something more charming.

"Bless Canon Alberic!" said Dennistoun, who had an inveterate habit of talking to himself. "I wonder where he is now? Dear me! I wish that landlady would learn to laugh in a more cheering manner; it makes one feel as if there was someone dead in the house. Half a pipe more, did you say? I think perhaps you are right. I wonder what that crucifix is that the young woman insisted on giving me? Last century, I suppose. Yes, probably. It is rather a nuisance of a thing to have round one's neck just too heavy. Most likely her father had been wearing it for years. I think I might give it a clean up before I put it away."

He had taken the crucifix off, and laid it on the table, when his attention was caught by an object lying on the red cloth just by his left elbow. Two or three ideas of what it might be flitted through his brain with their own incalculable quickness.

"A penwiper? No, no such thing in the house. A rat? No, too black. A large spider? I trust to goodness not no. Good God! a hand like the hand in that picture!"

In another infinitesimal flash he had taken it in. Pale, dusky skin, covering nothing but bones and tendons of appalling strength; coarse black hairs, longer than ever grew on a human hand; nails rising from the ends of the fingers and curving sharply down and forward, grey, horny and wrinkled.

He flew out of his chair with deadly, inconceivable terror clutching at his heart. The shape, whose left hand rested on the table, was rising to a standing posture behind his seat, its right hand crooked above his scalp. There was black and tattered drapery about it; the coarse hair covered it as in the drawing. The lower jaw was thin— what can I call it?— shallow, like a beast's; teeth showed behind the black lips; there was no nose; the eyes, of a fiery yellow, against which the pupils showed black and intense, and the exulting hate and thirst to destroy life which shone there, were the most horrifying features in the whole vision. There was intelligence of a kind in them intelligence beyond that of a beast, below that of a man.

The feelings which this horror stirred in Dennistoun were the intensest physical fear and the most profound mental loathing. What did he do? What could he do? He has never been quite certain what words he said, but he knows that he spoke, that he grasped blindly at the silver crucifix, that he was conscious of a movement towards him on the part of the demon, and that he screamed with the voice of an animal in hideous pain.

Pierre and Bertrand, the two sturdy little serving-men, who rushed in, saw nothing, but felt themselves thrust aside by something that passed out between them, and found Dennistoun in a swoon. They sat up with him that night, and his two friends were at St Bertrand by nine o'clock next morning. He himself, though still shaken and nervous, was almost himself by that time, and his story found credence with them, though not until they had seen the drawing and talked with the sacristan.

Almost at dawn the little man had come to the inn on some pretence, and had listened with the deepest interest to the story retailed by the landlady. He showed no surprise.

"It is he it is he! I have seen him myself," was his only comment; and to all questionings but one reply was vouchsafed: 'Deux fois je l'ai vu; mille fois je l'ai senti.' He would tell them nothing of the provenance of the book, nor any details of his experiences. 'I shall soon sleep, and my rest will be sweet. Why should you trouble me?' he said.

We shall never know what he or Canon Alberic de Mauléon suffered. At the back of that fateful drawing were some lines of writing which may be supposed to throw light on the situation:

"Contradictio Salomonis cum demonio nocturno. Albericus de Mauleone delineavit. V. Deus in adiutorium. Ps. Qui habitat.

Sancte Bertrande, demoniorum effugator, intercede pro me miserrimo. Primum uidi nocte 12mi Dec. 1694: uidebo mox ultimum. Peccaui et passus sum, plura adhuc passurus. Dec. 29,1701."

( i.e. The Dispute of Solomon with a demon of the night. Drawn by Alberic de Mauléon. Versicle. O Lord, make haste to help me. Psalm. Whoso dwelleth (xci).

Saint Bertrand, who puttest devils to flight, pray for me most unhappy. I saw it first on the night of Dec. 12, 1694: soon I shall see it for the last time. I have sinned and suffered, and have more to suffer yet. Dec. 29,1701.

The Gallia Christiana  gives the date of the Canon's death as December 31, 1701, "in bed, of a sudden seizure". Details of this kind are not common in the great work of the Sammarthani.)

I have never quite understood what was Dennistoun's view of the events I have narrated. He quoted to me once a text from Ecclesiasticus: "Some spirits there be that are created for vengeance, and in their fury lay on sore strokes." On another occasion he said: "Isaiah was a very sensible man; doesn't he say something about night monsters living in the ruins of Babylon? These things are rather beyond us at present."

Another confidence of his impressed me rather, and I sympathized with it. We had been, last year, to Comminges, to see Canon Alberic's tomb. It is a great marble erection with an effigy of the Canon in a large wig and soutane, and an elaborate eulogy of his learning below. I saw Dennistoun talking for some time with the Vicar of St Bertrand's, and as we drove away he said to me: "I hope it isn't wrong: you know I am a Presbyterian but I I believe there will be 'saying of Mass and singing of dirges' for Alberic de Mauléon's rest." Then he added, with a touch of the Northern British in his tone, "I had no notion they came so dear."

The book is in the Wentworth Collection at Cambridge. The drawing was photographed and then burnt by Dennistoun on the day when he left Comminges on the occasion of his first visit.

_______________

4: The Brigand of Kairouin the Holy

Charles J. Mansford

1863-1943

Strand Magazine, March 1896

No 7 in the series "Gleams from the Dark Continent".

NIGHT, with heavy, velvety clouds blotting out the stars, held sway over Kairouin, Kairouin the mysterious, Kairouin the sacred city of Mohammedan Africa. For five days we had wandered, practically unmolested, through the city girded with its white, crenelated walls. True, we were constantly spat upon, called dogs and Roumis, and once the Moorish gamins had playfully pelted us with stones; but these were matters of small moment, for they had their recompense.

Under the city wall, that night, we were reclining on esparto mats, drinking coffee, and listening to the unmusical strains of a Moorish guitar, played by a minstrel who was at once the dirtiest man and the most popular story-teller of Kairouin.

Our presence at the open-air cafe, which was lit up by lanterns hung upon the city wall, was only tolerated because of a rumour which Hassan had sedulously put into circulation. It was, in effect, that we were travelling through Africa in search of a plant said to be a specific for blindness. As ophthalmia is so distressingly common among those who frequent Kairouin, the "Roumi doctors" were allowed to rest at a little distance from the group of true believers gathered round the story-teller.

"Tell us a story, O wise one," said a Bedouin, whose bronzed face was badly pitted with small-pox marks and whose picturesque attire was travel-stained.

"Does the slave sing whose throat is dry and whose pitcher a camel has kicked?" the story-teller asked. The Bedouin took the hint, and ordered the Moorish servant to bring a draught of legmi, the sap of the date-palm.

"May your story not grow stale," said a Cadi, or magistrate, whose eyes impatiently watched the story-teller as the latter sipped his beverage with the air of a Pasha.

"Don't be hurried by a Cadi who trims his beard and verdict by the size of the plaintiffs harem," interposed a Moor. The Cadi glanced at the speaker angrily. The Moor had a handsome face of Jewish cast, black eyebrows, carefully pointed beard, and eyes that flashed as one of the lanterns flung its beams across the man's face. He wore a crimson turban, yellow haik, brown djubba and saffron slippers, and was evidently a man of wealth. When the Cadi glanced at him he smiled scornfully, and returned a stare that made the Cadi shift uncomfortably on his mat.

"Sainted one," said the Cadi to the story-teller: "Son of the Prophet, thy slaves wait thy mellow words of wisdom."

The story-teller, whose grizzled beard, dirty turban and baracan or robe, and the beads in his hand, showed that he aspired to be a saint as well, was moved by the Cadi's epithets. He finished his legmi, and stroked his beard thoughtfully as if for inspiration.

"They are strange spiders that weave golden webs of imagination in thy brain," said the Moor, approvingly; "but tell us something true, to-night, instead." He bent forward towards the story-teller, and indicated us by a gesture. "These Roumi doctors, Christian dogs, can't you tell us something about such— what about the Kairouin brigand? The Cadi here may never have heard all the story. He might like, when he has heard it, to go out single-handed and bring the fellow to justice. A fine sight it would be to see the Kairouin brigand kneeling in the square while that blunderer, Raschad, the executioner, hacked at his neck! Five times he struck at a thief yesterday before the fellow's waggish head rolled on the stone flagging. Tell the Cadi the story— by my beard, the rascal shall hear it if I have to bind and gag him with my turban the while!"

Everyone stared at the Moor. To beard the Cadi like that!

"The Christian dog and infidel!" cried the Cadi, ignoring the Moor's personal remarks. "By all means tell us the story— I have only heard it in fragments. One hack or twenty, what does it matter so long as the head is struck off? Besides, the crowd likes an execution to be interesting. If ever this brigand fall into my hands, I promise a stirring sight."

"What will you do, Cadi?" asked the Moor, derisively.

"Tell Raschad, the executioner, to shut his eyes each time he strikes with the double-handed sword," calmly returned the Cadi.

"If he were a true believer, I could wish him better luck," said the Bedouin; "but this brigand is a Christian— Allah blacken his face at the Day of Judgment!"

The story-teller took a coin which the Moor held out to him. He struck a note on his guitar as if to get the sing-song pitch of his voice which he favoured, and then began his story—

"In the harem of Alipha Pasha, know, O true believers, were born two children, a son, the child of a Moorish Princess, and a daughter, the child of a Circassian slave. The son had his father's spirit, and beat every slave that roused his childish ire; Fatima, the daughter, had her father's courage, her mother's beauty, her own gentle disposition, and was six years younger than her half-brother.

"One day, Alipha Pasha, who was in want of slaves, bade a dealer bring such wares as he had into the courtyard of his harem. The Pasha made no purchases: the slaves were not to his liking. This woman was ungainly, that one was too short, another showed all her teeth when she laughed. As to the eunuchs, they were too sleek to do aught but loll in the shade and consume the Pasha's tobacco.

" 'Bring me a slave more to my liking, fellow, by sunset to-morrow, or thy head shall part company with thy shoulders!' cried the Pasha.

"The trader took the hint. When he came before the Pasha, next day, he brought three maidens, with eyes like the houris of Paradise, necks like swans, and taper fingers, henna tipped. With them the trader brought a boy, of the age of the Pasha's son, a white-faced child, son of some Christian dogs, from whom the child had been stolen in the byways of fair Tangier. The Pasha bought them all; the girls for his harem, and the boy for his son to beat as an amusement."

"Good!" said the Cadi; "what are infidels but beasts to be beaten?" The rest of the little knot of listeners wagged approval with their beards.

"Fatima, the Pasha's daughter, child of a slave woman, mark you, O true believers and inheritors of Paradise, dared one day to interfere when her free brother was beating this infidel spawn, so he beat her as well while the Pasha looked on approvingly, for Fatima's mother was in Alipha Pasha's black books for having smiled at someone in the streets of Kairouin."

"A sack and the sea for a woman who acts so. Women's smiles must never stray from their own lords," observed the Cadi, as if uttering judgment on a prisoner.

"The Christian dog, who was twenty in years and forty in ingratitude to the good Pasha, wrenched the whip from the son's hand, and struck the illustrious Alipha Pasha himself a blow that left a livid mark upon his smitten face. The Pasha clapped his hands for help, and his eunuchs ran quickly into the courtyard. They held the Christian dog and beat him by turns till he fainted. Then the Pasha sent for the Cadi."

"I came at once," said the Cadi; "for know, O good and true followers of Allah and Mahomet His Prophet, when the Pasha could not manage the ungovernable Christian beast, he sent for me!" The Cadi drew himself up a couple of inches higher on his heels, as he proudly glanced at the Moor to see what the latter then thought of his importance.

"The rest of the story I know," continued the Cadi; "it was the early part of it of which I was ignorant, for I asked the Pasha no questions."

"The Cadi sentenced the Christian dog to death," continued the story-teller, for the information of the others; "but that night he escaped from the prison into which he was flung."

"The Cadi was as stupid as a blind camel to let the rat get out of the trap that was shut upon it," said the Moor.

"Fatima was at the bottom of it all," said the discomfited Cadi; "I sentenced her to death, afterwards, but the Pasha refused to allow it, and fined me the price of three slaves for letting the dog of an infidel escape."

"After his escape," continued the story-teller, "the slave took refuge in the hills, and, gathering a band of lawless followers, plundered every traveller who went his way. One night the bandits got into this very city of Kairouin, someone having treacherously admitted them by the Skinners' Gate. Next morning every bazaar of note was found to have been looted. The Pasha and his son were found slain in the harem courtyard among a heap of dead on both sides ; none of the women were molested save Fatima— the bandits carried her off to the Ousselat Hills, to become the infidel's willing bride !

"The Sultan's troops have since swept down upon the outlaws and decimated them, but the Christian dog still lives; he, with Fatima and the remnants of his band, still lurks somewhere in their mountain fastness. Who meets them may slay them— would to Allah someone would!"

"Cadi," said the Moor, when the story-teller had ceased, "there is a chance for you to become illustrious— all you have to do is to catch the brigand of Kairouin."

"If once the way be found into the mountain fastness, I will go after the brigand, and surely he shall die," averred the Cadi, stoutly.

"The Christian dog has a rather unpleasant way of hanging his would-be benefactors," laughed the Moor, drily.

"By the Koran I care not. Let me but find a guide and I will go— and take the infidel single-handed," boasted the Cadi.

"Cadi," said the Moor, quietly, "you have sworn by the Koran: you dare not break your word and so lose your eternal happiness with the houris of Paradise. To-morrow, when the sun rises, I will meet you at the gate of the city. I have discovered the way to this outlawed dog's hiding-place— I will show it to you."

"The brigand's doom is sealed, then," answered the Cadi; "I will take enough men with me to root out the entire nest of rascals."

"Stay, Cadi," replied the Moor; "you threatened to take the brigand single-handed. If you draw back from your boast, the story-teller here will tell through the whole city of Kairouin that its illustrious Cadi is a still more illustrious liar."

The Cadi was beaten at the game of brag. He was silent a few minutes, then answered—

"The Cadi's word is his bond— I will meet you at daybreak to-morrow at the gate; the brigand's head shall roll from his shoulders within a week."

"Or the Cadi's neck be dislocated," said the Moor.

"Wait till I meet the brigand," said the Cadi, with a determined air.

"Wait till the brigand meets you," laughed the Moor, as he rose and went away, walking slowly and thoughtfully into the night.

ii

KAIROUIN was filled with an excited throng. Every street and crooked alley, every bazaar and open space, had its crowd of gossiping Moors, talking and gesticulating wildly. As we walked towards one of these groups, curious to discover what had happened, a cry of "Infidels! Infidels!" was raised. The gamins began stone-throwing in real earnest, while six or seven picturesque but fanatic Moors gathered round us and pressed upon us in a way that boded no good. A religious mendicant howled imprecations on our heads, whose utterances the crowd took up. Two or three dangerous-looking knives were drawn, and there was every prospect of our becoming the victims of a foreign mob, when Hassan caught each of us by an arm and dragged us within the shop of a friendly Moor. Passing through his little bazaar, we escaped into the next byway, and thence to where we were staying, without further molestation.

"What has happened? What was it all about?" Denviers questioned Hassan.

"The brigand is an infidel, and the sahibs are—" Hassan was too courteous to finish the sentence.

"The brigand!" exclaimed Denviers. "Has anything been heard of the Cadi, who went five days ago to take him single-handed?"

Hassan looked grave. "Sahib," he answered, "the brigand has captured the Cadi, and has sent a messenger into the city to demand a heavy ransom. Unless it is received in six days, the brigand declares he will hang the Cadi. The man who brought the message has asked that the ransom be carried back by someone from the city under his guidance. No one will undertake the task, and so the Cadi must be hanged."

"You say the brigand is an Englishman," I remarked, thoughtfully.

"The sahib perhaps is convinced of that, since he has met the brigand," replied Hassan.

"Met him, Hassan?"

"The Moor who promised to show the Cadi the way to the brigand's retreat was none other than the brigand himself in disguise!" answered Hassan, to our astonishment.

"Then I will take the Cadi's ransom to him," I said, for, somehow, the Moor's amusing air had quite attracted me to him.

"I will go instead," insisted Denviers.

"The latchet of the sahibs' shoes is ready to take the Cadi's ransom, if they will permit him," said Hassan.

"I think one of us would fare better with the brigand than a Moslem would," I answered, "and as I first suggested going, I mean to keep to my intention."

Denviers demurred for some time, but, at last, Hassan was dispatched to the house of a wealthy Kairouini, who agreed to advance the Cadi's ransom.

Next morning I met the brigand's messenger, the Kairouini handed me the required ransom, Denviers and Hassan bade me an anxious farewell, and I started for the Ousselat Hills, mounted, as was also the messenger, on a camel.

Far in the distance rose the purple heights of the towering Ousselats; between us and the hills lay a sun-scorched plain. We followed a track for some time, then came upon a wide stretch of sand, over which the camels went, up and down, like a ship plunging into the trough of high-backed waves. Long before the day was over I was heartily wearied of the long, heaving motion of the camel. At sunset my new-found guide gave me a handful of dates and a drink from a water-skin; we rested for a few hours, but were travelling on our way again before the sun had risen.

On the third day after my departure from Kairouin, we came within near view of a spur of the hills. Pushing steadily on, I was surprised to see a number of armed men suddenly spring up from the desolate plain. These men, who were armed with modern rifles, were some twenty yards apart. The nearest instantly levelled his rifle at my head and curtly bade me dismount. Without demur I did so, as the camel knelt upon the burning sand. My guide dismounted also and led his camel; his companion led mine. Halting at some distance from my destination, I submitted to be blindfolded. A cord was then adjusted from my wrists to the camels on either side of me, and in this fashion I walked or stumbled along over the sand for an hour or more.

I could tell by the frequent straining of the cord upon my wrists that our course was continuously eastward; then the camels were taken away, and guided solely by the brigand's messenger, I wound up a steep ascent. I frequently heard footsteps as some of the brigand's followers passed me ; indeed, many a rude jest was bandied at my expense, from which I gathered it was conjectured I had been captured by my guide who was leading me to the brigand's retreat.

I passed through a passage, as I supposed, lit up by flaring torches, the light of which fell upon the bandage across my eyes. My companion halted.

"You will swear to say nothing in Kairouin of what you see here?" he demanded. I answered in the affirmative. I was then led forward again and found myself standing on a soft carpet, while the sound of several people talking in low tones struck upon my ears.

The bandage was removed from my eyes, and I discovered myself facing three men, who sat at a table regarding me curiously. My guide advanced and whispered something to the one who sat on the left, a dark, military-looking man, some forty years of age, and dressed like a German officer, as were also his two companions, save that he who sat middle of the three had a profusion of gold lace upon his coat. I recognised this man instantly as the one who had sat listening with us to the story-teller in Kairouin, disguised as a Moor.

"Who are you?" demanded the man on the left, speaking English, but with a strong foreign accent. I subsequently learnt that his name was Leitner, and that he had recently taken service with the brigand, being responsible for the military training of the latter's followers.

I explained how it came about that I had visited Kairouin. "You speak plausibly," he retorted, coldly. "Of course, with your knowledge of Africa, you would have no difficulty in tracing for us the route by which you have travelled from Zanzibar, as you declare?"

"I am quite equal to the task," I answered, curtly, for the tone of my interrogator's voice seemed to challenge the truth of my state- ment. He smiled, and rising, placed in my hand a wand of willow.

"Most renowned traveller," said Leitner, with biting sarcasm, "the Continent you and your friend have crossed is well shown above your head. Be good enough to trace out your way for our satisfaction."

I glanced upwards as Leitner waved his hand. To my surprise, I observed that the entire ceiling of the rock-cut room was occupied by a map of Africa, in relief, the material used to show the depressions and mountain heights being some kind of stucco, while the positions of river courses and lakes were indicated by means of silver-backed glass. The exactness of the work, its beauty, and the tediousness of the labour, which must have taken years to accomplish, all astonished ma.

"You are struck with admiration, friend!" said the brigand. "It is, no doubt, excellent work; it occupied its designer eight years. We generally make use of the talents of those whom fortune sends our way."

"Point out the route you traversed," commanded Leitner, taking little notice of his chief's interruption.

I obeyed the behest. I could not help noticing the glances which they gave each other as, with the willow wand, I traced out the route Denviers and I had taken.

"Of all the extraordinary pieces of good luck!" ejaculated Leitner, to his chief, aside.

"We must not let it slip away from us," said the brigand. He turned to me.

"How came you to undertake the task of bearding the brigand of Kairouin on behalf of this miserable Cadi?" he asked.

"Your messenger may best explain that," I answered, quietly.

"There was not a native dog of Kairouin who dared venture his skin by coming here, even to ransom a Cadi," said the fellow, pleased to have an opportunity to speak.

"There is the Cadi's ransom," I said, placing a heavy and well-filled bag upon the table. Leitner passed it to the third of the trio who sat at the table. He unfastened the sealed cord about its neck and weighed the coins by means of a pair of scales standing in a recess.

"The money is full weight," he said, with evident reluctance. "I wish with all my heart it were not so. That rascally Cadi has been the cause of the death of a good many of our brave fellows. I am convinced he had a hand in bribing the man who led the Sultan's troops into our former strong- hold ; besides, to our definite knowledge, he has had five of our number executed within the last three months. It is folly to accept a ransom for such as he."

"We must have money," said the brigand: "he is beggared by paying such a ransom as this."

"When your heel is on a snake's head, crush it out of shape," said Leitner.

"We must be just, however much it costs," said the brigand: "the people of Kairouin are on our side, for they know that only their oppressors suffer at our hands." He nodded to my guide to approach: "Bring the Cadi," he said, shortly.

A few minutes afterwards the Cadi was brought in, guarded, by two armed men. A more crestfallen-looking being than the Cadi, it would be impossible to imagine. His garments w r ere torn and dirty, his turban awry, his beard thick with dust, his limbs shook as though ague had seized him.

"Cadi," said the brigand: "you have not taken me prisoner yet— how is that?"

The unfortunate Cadi declared that Allah had bowed his face to the dust for his presumption in making such an idle threat.

"Cadi," asked the brigand, "have you any choice in the manner of your death? Shall we behead you in the slow way which you so much favour, or shall we hang you?"

"Hang me, hang me!" pleaded the Cadi, whose face had assumed an ashen hue, and whose teeth chattered audibly.

"It seems a pity to refuse such a boon," said Leitner, drily, to his chief.

"Cadi, your ransom has been paid. Promise that you will never hurt another of my followers, and you shall be set free," said the brigand, unexpectedly.

The Cadi promised with alacrity. His joy was beyond expression. When he learnt that I had procured his ransom, he embraced me with a fervour that disconcerted me.

"There," said I, thrusting him gently away, "you see even a Christian dog is good for something, occasionally."

The brigand gave my guide some further message. The man was absent for a considerable time. When he came back he gave the Cadi a small pack of dates and a skin of water; then delivered some message to the chief brigand.

"The Cadi will depart alone, and on foot," said the brigand to me; "you may have the pleasure of witnessing our farewell greeting to him."The other two, who sat at the table, laughed.

Accordingly, I was once more blind-folded and led away. When the bandage was again removed from my eyes, I saw that, besides the Cadi, the three brigands who had sat at the table, and a number of armed retainers, a double line of women and children, armed with willow wands, had been drawn up. Shouts of laughter greeted the Cadi as the bandage was removed from his eyes, and he saw what was in store for him.

"The women and children have come to wish you farewell, Cadi," said the brigand. "Your way lies there!" He pointed between the lines of the expectant women and children.

The Cadi looked round, but saw no other way of escaping. He drew his breath, and then, carrying the provisions, which were scanty enough for his long journey, he ran the gauntlet. At last the Cadi had passed completely through the lines of his tormentors, who then pursued him over the sandy plain till they were tired, afterwards returning to their mountain retreat.

I was led back again, where I demanded my camel and leave to depart unmolested.

"You are my guest," said the brigand, courteously but firmly. "Travellers with your knowledge and experience do not come our way every day. You shall see something more of our resources before you depart."

My demur was coolly passed over; before long I understood that the brigand was hold- ing me as his prisoner!

My host conducted me through the extensive encampment, which was situated in a spot protected with great natural defences. On three sides of the valley rose sharp mountain slopes, the fourth side opened funnel-shaped upon a long, winding pathway between precipitous rocks, leading to the plain far below. This entry was commanded by several guns; indeed, the place was fortified so thoroughly that it seemed to be impregnable. The disaster which had come upon the former encampment had had its lesson for the outlaws.

Caves of various sizes, most of which were occupied as dwellings or store-places, ran into the rocky sides of the valley. In one of these orifices I had been examined ; in a second the Cadi had been held a prisoner ; a third, into which the brigand conducted me, was evidently the armoury. There, rifles of the most modern European pattern stood in stacks, tiers of them rising one above the other, so that I calculated many thousands of rifles were there. Leading from the main room in which the rifles were, were several smaller orifices. In these latter were men, stripped to the waist, working at their own particular branch of gun-making. In a large cave apart from the rest the ammunition was manufactured. Passing through one of these caves I saw a prisoner chained to the wall.

"Our discipline is naturally stern," said the brigand, as he saw me glance pityingly at the prisoner; "men who carry their lives in their hands cannot afford to be squeamish." I grew silent and fell to wondering what was the prisoner's offence. In the afternoon the main body of the brigand's followers were put through some military evolutions in the valley, and I was permitted to be present. Leitner, the German officer, for such I heard he had been, displayed remarkable abilities in handling the men. The precision of their movements and the way they manoeuvred convinced me that the men were occasionally used for other purposes than mere defence.

On the second day of my perforce stay with the brigand, a considerable quantity of arms and ammunition was placed upon camels after being concealed in unsuspecting bales of merchandise. While I was watching the men loading the camels, the brigand came up.

"Do you understand us any better now?" he asked, with a smile.

"I understand this much," I retorted: "you have a vast organization of men engaged trafficking in arms. I can understand now, easily enough, how arms of European pattern get into Africa and are disposed of to the tribes. You are directly responsible or arming the natives who resist the influence of the various European spheres."

"Yes, we arm unwilling slaves against their masters— is that a great crime?"

"About as bad as chaining a man to a wall till his hair turns grey," I retorted.

"Hark you," said the brigand, in no amiable tones, "my scheme is what it is. When injustice drives a man to the hills to die or herd with brutes, small wonder that he sides with and assists those who are oppressed and down-trodden. You can be of great service to the cause I am helping forward: you have made friends with a number of important chiefs and headmen. There is that Kwembi, for instance, the Englishman you mentioned who rules a most important tribe of Africans. Consider how you could help me to dispose of arms among those tribes with whom at present I have no dealings. I will treat you liberally enough— be sensible, and join us."

I was startled by the proposal.

"Not for worlds," I answered, promptly. "Nothing would ever induce me to do as you say."

"We shall see," the brigand answered, with a flash of fire from his kindling eyes as he drew close together his brows. "Of one thing I am determined, you shall not go back to Kairouin again."

"Do I understand that I am a prisoner?" I asked.

"You are singularly clear-headed," he said, raising his brows.

"What ransom do you demand?" I questioned.

"It is not a case of ransom. I accepted one for the Cadi because we are always in need of such a large sum as he paid, and in a year or two I mean to recapture him and hang him— there is really no hurry; the Cadi is quite safe in my hands; I have a hundred spies in Kairouin at least. What I want from you is your promise to join us; until that is given you may consider yourself a prisoner."

"But I will give no such promise; after detaining me in this way, I can put no trust in anything you say. I will escape, I warn you, if a chance occur."

"Then you may trust what I say to the latter part of that remark," the brigand said, knitting his brows darkly again; "for I swear if you are caught trying to escape, I will hang you on the spot."

"If you catch me, you may," I said, walking off in dudgeon, for I felt my hardihood in venturing to take the Cadi's ransom had been ill repaid. From that hour one thought was uppermost in my mind— how to escape from the brigand of Kairouin.

iii

I TRIED to bribe more than one of the brigand's followers to connive in my proposed attempts at escape, but the shrewd fellows took my bribes and then failed to assist me at the critical moment. Every hour I expected that El Hamam, the brigand, would hear of my doings and promptly hang me.

Nothing occurred, however, and, finding it useless to approach the men directly on the subject which was uppermost in my mind, I ventured to mention the matter to one of the Moorish women who wandered freely about the camp. She sympathized with me, but declared that escape was well-nigh impossible; El Hamam, the brigand, was all eyes and ears. Still, I spoke of the matter several times to her; indeed, it served as a convenient subject for converse whenever we met.

One day, as I stood idly dropping stones into a natural fountain which sprang up in the valley, I saw Fatima, for so I learnt the Moorish woman was named, approaching me. There was unusual animation in her dark eyes as she drew near me.

"Christian dog," Fatima said, but in no unkindly tone : "I have thought of a way by which you may escape."

"Tell me how!" I answered, excitedly.

"Not now, not here," she said, hurriedly, for several of the other women were approaching with envious glances. "To-night, while the camp sleeps, do thou be wakeful— I will send one who shall show thee the way to escape."

A minute after, the Moorish woman had left me and was joining heartily with the others in the epithets which it pleased them to hurl at me whenever they saw me and thought I could hear.

When night came, I lay down on the mat which was spread in the cave I usually occupied, and waited anxiously for Fatima's promised visitor. Hour after hour wore wearily away without anything transpiring.

It was about an hour before dawn, when, as I lay there half-asleep, I saw someone enter the cave and stoop over me. The light of a Moorish lantern flashed in my face, and, glancing up, my eyes rested upon the face of a young Moor. He motioned to me to follow him, and at once I did so.

We passed out of the cave into another of considerable length. At the end of this latter my guide removed, with my assistance, a piece of rock covering a hole. He disappeared through the orifice and I quickly followed, replacing the stone from below.

Our way lay along a narrow, excavated passage in the rock, which slanted upward. After we had proceeded in silence some considerable distance, my guide stopped to rest for a minute and to explain.

"This passage is the scheme of Leitner," he said; "it leads to the powder magazine. The latter has a secret entry and exit; follow me closely and watch each footstep you take." The Moor held the lantern so that its light fell upon the floor of the rock-hewn passage, and well it was he did so, for countless abysmal traps for unwary feet were visible at each few yards we advanced.

More cautiously than ever my guide advanced, until we came to where the rocky path had an abrupt end. The Moor held the lantern aloft.

"See," he whispered, as if afraid of the gloom through which the rays of the lantern struggled; "there is the basket by which the powder is raised from the magazine." I glanced up and saw a great wheel fixed in the rock above our heads; a basket with a long rope was attached to it.

At my guide's request, I lowered him into the depths below, the light from the lantern gleaming like a firefly in the dark, as the basket to which it was attached de scended lower and lower.

A sudden jerk told me that the basket had reached its destination. I let down the great length of rope; my guide caught it from beneath. The basket was raised and I entered it, to be lowered down, down, into the darkness below.

As I stood once more upon the solid rock, I held up the lantern and glanced round. Barrels of powder were ranged in rows that seemed endless, while heaps of cartridges and cannon-shot showed from. alcoves in the walls.

"I will show you the way of exit," said my guide; "then you must raise me by means of the basket to the passage above. Returning, you can easily make your escape. Allah bless you, and grant that you may become a Moslem and kiss the Holy Kaaba before you die."

I pressed his hand fervently as we went on towards the exit I sought. We had reached it, and were digging our fingers into the crevices to remove a stone which blocked its small orifice, when I chanced to hear a slight sound. I looked up, and as I held up the lantern, its rays fell upon the brigand's face !

"El Hamam," I gasped, in astonishment.

"You are lost!" cried my guide. "Lost! While I— I—"

"You are a traitor, and shall be hanged likewise!" answered the brigand.

I glanced round to see if there were others to face. I could see no more. Before El Hamam suspected what I would do, I flung myself upon him, and we rolled upon the floor struggling for the mastery. He was strong beyond the strength of a man, it seemed to me ; his hands gripped me like the claws of a pair of steel pincers, so that my struggle to overmaster him was in vain. Then the overwhelming coolness of the man brought him victory over us both. He pinned me down with one knee, and, seizing the lantern which was lying close by, he broke its thin sheet of horn, and held the flare right over an open barrel of powder.

"Traitor," he cried to the Moor who had conducted me there, "take off my turban and bind this fellow!"

The Moor hesitated.

"I will blow the three of us to perdition if you hesitate another second," the brigand insisted.

My guide uttered a cry of fear. Coming forward, he unwound the brigand's turban and bound me fast with it. El Hamam then removed the stone covering the orifice, and I was forced through. My guide, too terrified to escape, followed, the brigand coming last.

Once we were in the open air, the brigand fired a pistol-shot, the sound of which brought half-a-dozen of his followers upon us. El Hamam explained to the excited knot of listeners what had happened.

"What is your will?" asked one of the fellows, a half-naked muleteer, who carried a rifle like the rest of the brigand's outposts.

"Hang them both to the nearest tree!" answered El Hamam. I saw there was no hope of escape for me. My guide apparently had not known how rigidly the retreat was surrounded day and night by outposts. He had led me into certain capture.

"El Hamam," I said, when I stood beneath the tree, with the rope adjusted about my neck, as was also the case with my companion: "for myself I ask nothing, but this Moor who guided me is a mere youth: set him free at least."

"Nay, I do not desire it," cried the Moor: "El Hamam, who has always been called The Just, means to hang a fellow-country- man, as you are, innocently ! "

Something in the Moor's voice startled the brigand.

"Fellow, who are you?" El Hamam asked, roughly. The Moor did not reply.

"Take off his turban!" cried the brigand.

He stared incredulously as the turban was removed. "Fatima!" he cried, blankly. It was the brigand's wife! She had failed to induce anyone to assist me, and so had disguised herself and personated a Moorish soldier in order to help me herself.

"Take the rope from her neck!" said El Hamam, eagerly, for he loved the woman beyond measure, and her reproof for his unfairness towards me unnerved him.

"From both or neither!" insisted Fatima.

The brigand finally agreed, but with no good will. The next day my camel was given back to me, and one of El Hamam's followers accompanied me part of the way to Kairouin, which I reached in safety after so prolonged an absence.

__________________

5: The City of the Scarlet Scarabeus

Charles J Mansford

Strand Magazine Feb 1896

No 8 in the series "Gleams from a Dark Continent"

"I FANCY our guide has got us into a scrape from which not even his ingenuity can extricate us," I said to Denviers, disconsolately. " Both the people and the two Queens of this district were well disposed towards us at first: I wish we had left the Arab behind; I don't believe we shall be alive in twenty-four hours' time."

"Matters are going very badly with us, I must confess," acquiesced my companion. " Certainly, if Hassan thinks we are all to shuffle off this mortal coil shortly, he has determined to make the most of the few hours of life that remain."

As he spoke, Denviers pointed to where the Arab was standing in close conversation with the younger of the two Queens in whose chief city we then were.

On leaving Tripoli, we had turned in a south-westerly direction, and, after an uneventful march of thirty days, had made our way to this city, incited by the curiosity which an Arab slaver, with whom we had come in contact, had aroused within us.

Two days after parting with the slaver, Abu Teleck by name, we had entered a deep ravine, which appeared to have once been the bed of a river-course, for the huge boulders, overgrown or interspersed with rank vegetation, had a rounded appearance and lay scattered between the two high, per- pendicular sides of the ravine.

Passing along this ravine in pursuit of a jaguar which we had wounded, we suddenly found the animal bounding across the level, stone-flagged square of a city, of which we were later on to learn the history. The two sides of the ravine there widened out in graceful curves, the utter bareness of the rocky declivities being amply compensated for by the wondrous tints of the sandstone of which they were composed. As the rays of the sun glinted into the ravine, or valley, the waving streaks of stone seemed as if they were composed of countless glittering gems of varied hues. Like a broad silver crescent, set in a purple sheath, shot with orange, glittered one of these belts of stone; of green and saffron, of grey and crimson, were the others that hemmed it about. Towards the base of the sandstone the sides sloped somewhat, and were carved into caves, serving as burial-places for the dead, and it was in one of these that we four had now found a temporary place of refuge, two weeks after our appearance in the city.

Below, the city spread out: its meanest dwelling rich with sculptured cornices and pilasters, while balus- traded staircases, carved in the solid rock, led from the bottom of the valley to the caves. In the centre of the city stood a magnificent palace, built of various- hued limestone which, although raised centuries before, had resisted the ravages of Time. Beyond the palace was a great open amphi- theatre, with circle on circle of ascending seats, while in the centre of this stood the strangest erection of this extraordinary city. It was a column constructed of perfectly-fitting blocks of grey granite, the top of which was shaped like a vast urn. The base of this column measured some eighty paces on each of its four sides, the faces themselves being perfectly smooth and perpendicular, the mass of granite rising to a considerable height in the air. Some attempt had doubtless been made to climb one of the faces of the square column so as to reach the great vase at the top, for some rudely cut niches were visible up to a considerable height. There the rough steps ended abruptly, the daring climber having either lost courage or, becoming dizzy, fallen headlong from the scanty foothold which his hands had carved in the granite.

We found that the city was ruled over by the two daughters of its late Sultan, who were bound, under pain of death, to be loyal to each other. No sooner had we been welcomed in the city than the two Queens seemed to forget our presence in their palace, or at most only tolerated it, while Hassan, our guide, received every mark of approval that could be bestowed upon him.

It was the custom in this city to hold contests in the open amphitheatre between man and man, and even between man and beast. To celebrate such a rare occurrence as the arrival of strangers, a pageant had been arranged in our honour. During its progress, Hassan had challenged the favourite wrestler to a trial of his skill, and our guide, by sheer persistence and pluck, had thrown the fellow. From that hour Hassan ingratiated himself into the favour of the two Queens, as we plainly saw, while the chief Arabs of the city at once began to form plots for his destruction and ours with him.

It soon became evident that our discriminating guide selected the younger of the two Queens to whom to pay marked attentions. Hour after hour he passed in her presence, telling of the adventures which he had jointly encountered with us. Furious at this, the other Queen lent a ready ear to her wily counsellors, who declared that the Arab, with our help, was arranging a plot by which he might obtain the rule of the city, taking the younger Queen as his bride, while the other was to be deposed and driven from the city.

One night, while Hassan was recounting an adventure to Ahillah, the younger Queen, and we were resting upon cushions near, a number of armed attendants broke into the palace and, in spite of our struggles, Hassan and the Queen, together with Denviers and myself, were thrust into the streets. Annoyed at this indignity, we prepared to defend ourselves, and at once our weapons were taken from us. We next attempted to leave the city, but the two entrances, those at each end of the valley, were too strongly held for us to succeed. To scale the perpendicular cliffs was impossible, so that we were securely imprisoned in the city until some definite decision had been made concerning us. None of the inhabitants dared either to shelter or even to speak to us, so that, with Ahillah, we were perforce driven to take shelter in the cave I have mentioned.

The cave itself was extremely lofty, and was partly uncovered, so that the light entered it freely from above. Denviers was about to call Hassan to where we two lay idly stretched upon the stone flooring of the cave, when we heard the sound of approaching foot-steps. Going hastily to the entrance, we saw the rival Queen approaching in state the winding stairway leading to where we were. Before her slaves ran, strewing flowers in her path, while other slaves screened her head from the rays of the sun with palm-leaves held high. Behind the Queen came several stalwart and swarthy Arabs, the chief of which was the one Hassan had overthrown at the wrestle; his face was strikingly Hebraic in mould, the long ear-rings in his ears glittering against his swarthy skin and hanging, black hair. The Arab wore gems that shone lustrous in his tunic, spotlessly white turban, and sleeveless cloak: in one hand he carried a wide, curved sword, upon his left arm rested a shield.

No sooner had Ahillah set her glances upon those who were approaching than she cried out that our doom had been pronounced, and ran shrieking to the farthest part of the cave, where our guide followed her.

Up the stairway the procession came and, a few minutes after, we stood before Sargona, Ahillah's sister, waiting her will. The chief Arab came forward, and bowing low before Sargona, he cried—

"The Queen has been injured; the wrongdoers are before her; say, O Sargona, what is the penalty thou hast decreed?"

Sargona glanced angrily at our guide, and her dark eyes flashed as she answered—

"Death to the Arab who has plotted against us, death to him and those who plot with him: I have said!"

Before either Denviers or myself could speak, Ahillah had thrown herself at her sister's feet—

"Spare all, or spare none!" she cried. "What fate is mine?"

Sargona raised Ahillah roughly from the ground.

"Thou shalt live, girl, but thou art deposed. The Council has decreed that thou shalt be a vestal of the temple. Go!"

The Queen clapped her hands, and immediately Ahillah was seized and dragged away, in spite of our guide's efforts to prevent it.

"Slaves," she continued: "two days shall ye live, on the third shall ye die! Yet, if ye will carve a way to the great treasure urn, your lives shall be spared on condition that the gems there, which are as the grains of sand of the Sahara in number, be placed in our hands, and ye depart from the city. Many have tried to reach the great urn: none have succeeded. Ye are subtle as snakes; by to-morrow's dawn say if ye will try the task, or if ye prefer to die without attempting it."

Out from the cave Sargona went with her attendants, while we were left behind, strongly guarded, and feeling that the Queen's words concerning the great urn were only intended to rouse, in Hassan's mind especially, a hope of escape which was futile.

ii

DENVIERS and I lay for some time discussing our unfortunate plight, but without any possible plan of escape occurring to either of us. At last my companion called the Arab, who was disconsolately lamenting the loss of Ahillah, and, when he came over to us, asked him—

"Do you think we have any chance of escape, Hassan? Can you suggest one?"

"Allah and Mahomet preserve the sahibs; the dust of their feet has been the cause of their misfortune! He knows of no way at present; if the slightest idea occur, their slave will at once speak of it. At present, Hassan can only wish their fate had been different— but water runs out at last, and the biggest sack of dates comes to an end. The sahibs have met with their last adventure— their slave will lament it to his death."

"Which won't be particularly long in coming, Hassan," I said, gloomily. "What was it that Sargona said about the great urn? Does she expect us to cut a way up to it when no one else has ever been able to do so? If so, we would rather be excused; if treasures are there, I hope she may get them, that's all."

"Sahib Derwent," the Arab replied, "to cut a way up there in the allotted time would be impossible; indeed, with all time at their disposal, no one has ever reached the vase. Ahillah has told the latchet of the sahibs' shoes the strange story of the urn. Shall their slave repeat it?"

"Spin us the yarn by all means," said Denviers, as he threw a stone idly at a huge scarlet beetle that had just fallen from the wall fronting us, and which was again making its way up the hard surface. "We may as well listen to you as not, while we are cooped up here."

Hassan sank down at our feet and began—

"Sahibs, of all the strange cities scattered throughout this dark continent, none had a stranger origin or a stranger history than this. Far back in the misty ages some Edomites are said to have wandered into this continent. Near here they had grassy lands in common, but, as all men do, they quarrelled. The strong oppressed the weak, and drove them forth to find other lands. Wandering here they entered the ravine, and finding in it many caves, dwelt therein, tilling the land to the south. Now, all things prospered with them, and they grew rich in herds, while misfortune fell upon those who had persecuted them. So at last messengers came from the tribesmen saying that they would forget their quarrel, and asking to have once more all in common. Those dwelling in the caves refused the bargain, whereupon their outnumbering tribesmen determined to be revenged for being set at naught. They drew a great ring round the pasture, circling the valley, and when all the rich flocks were out, the tribesmen fired the lands.

"The darting tongues of flame flashed up the dry bark of the trees and the great stems blazed, then grew red-hot, while the verdure beneath, in wave upon wave of fire, rolled its flames and smoke nearer to the steep sides of the ravine. Burning leaves and showers of sparks were flung into the air, while the flocks ran towards the ravine, nearer and still nearer. Huddled together they kept till the very grass beneath was aflame, and then, in inextricable confusion, the animals leaped headlong into the sheer ravine, their herdsmen with them, only to be dashed to pieces on the rocks below, or to be drowned in a great river which then hurled its waters along through the ravine.

"Still, in spite of all they suffered, the inhabitants of the valley refused the terms offered them, and posted men, who, for a time, successfully defended the entrances of the ravine. The persecuting tribesmen turned aside the river's course, and then first the people of the valley began to despair. Through traffic with another tribe they had obtained ornaments wrought in gold, with many an uncut gem adorned, and, convinced that they were reduced to their last desperate strait, the people of the valley determined to prevent this treasure from falling into the foe's hands. To hide it in the rock they thought useless, so they consulted how to dispose of the treasure.

"In the course of the stream there stood a wide block of stone, and upon this eager hands raised a mighty column, building it of blocks of granite. A stairway was left to the top where is a great urn, which ye have seen, and the women, passing up the stairs, flung in their greatest treasures. When everything was safely protected, the stairway was carefully blocked in while those of the tribe once more returned to the caves in which their dwellings were. So the rival tribesmen, still failing to take the city, consulted together and agreed to win over another tribe to their assistance. This they succeeded in doing by promising to their allies all the loot taken in the city. So the defenders were overthrown, the women and children being afterwards sold as slaves, while the men were slain.

"When, however, the captors of the city explored its every recess, they could find none of the women's treasures. At this the allies, thinking they had been deceived, fell upon the victorious tribesmen, slew them in turn, and took possession of the city. They kept it for centuries, till Trajan the Emperor overcame them and made it a Roman city. Long after that the Arabs took it and kept it, as they have even unto this day. Each century has seen efforts made to reach the great urn, but none have succeeded. The last Sultan, before he died, made a law that anyone condemned to die might choose to attempt to reach the urn; if he succeeded in getting its treasures for the city, then his life must be spared. It was of this decree that Sargona spoke, but Hassan, the sahibs' slave, counts at little that chance to escape death."

Hassan ceased ; both Denviers and I doubted the truth of the legend. Treasures might be hidden in the vast urn, we thought, but upon the base of the column we had seen part of an inscription which read : Trajanus Aedificavit. Indeed, our idea of the reason of the building of the column, surmounted by the great urn, was quite a different one to that which Hassan gave, and proved to be correct. Our discovery of this was made in a singular and unexpected way.

iii

JUST BEFORE daybreak I was awakened by Hassan, who cautiously roused me. Raising myself to a sitting posture I found Denviers near, while Ahillah stood before us.

"Hist!" Ahillah cried: "I could not rest, knowing that I have been the unhappy means of bringing this trouble upon you all."

I glanced at the deposed Queen. She was clad in a robe of white silk, as I perceived by the light of some half-spent torches thrust in grippers of the wall. Down almost to her waist her dishevelled black hair fell; her dress was heavily embroidered with pearls, the straps of her sandals being similarly adorned. Surpassingly beautiful I thought the maiden, as I saw the expression of pity which our unhappy position wrought upon her olive countenance and inspired the troubled look in her dark eyes.

"To reach the urn is impossible for ye, yet that is the only barrier between ye and death! Long hours have I racked my brain for some way of escape for ye, and Allah has filled me with a strange thought. Here, when I waited for Sargona to decide with her Ministers whether she would slay or spare, I saw, climbing and falling, yet ever climbing again, upon yonder wall, the rare scarlet scarabaeus. Not once in years is it seen in this city, and then the foolish and ignorant declare it comes at the bidding of Allah for some strange purpose. They say that if once a scarabaeus reaches the urn, then a human being will do so that very day. The superstition I believe not, but the sight of the scarabaeus set me thinking. What my plan is I will tell to Hassan, even the one who has favoured me, though death be his for so doing. The guards I found asleep, but ye cannot escape that way, so test it not. Hear from the illustrious Arab, he who is the prince of wrestlers, and my adored, what I have devised. If it fail, ye can be no worse off than ye are now: if it succeed, your lives will be spared."

Ahillah drew Hassan aside, and, after a few minutes' conversation, left the Arab, giving him meantime a package which she had brought. Before departing from the cave, the Queen pointed to the scarabaeus, which, from its scarlet colour, could plainly be seen a few yards from one of the torches, the pleasant warmth of which had doubtless caused it to cease its efforts to reach the top of the wall of the cave.

In safety the Queen passed by the sleeping sentries, while we drew together, discussing her plan with Hassan. At first we almost ridiculed it, then, after we had grown more accustomed to the strange notion, we began to be impatient for the hour when we could test its possibility.

When dawn had fully come, the chief Arab of the city again visited us and asked, in derision, if we wished to attempt to get the long-lost treasure from the urn. To his great surprise, Hassan answered—

"Allah has given us his promise to aid us. See! This has he sent— lo! the Scarlet Scarabaeus!"

We were certainly surprised at the effect of Hassan's words upon the Arab, He seemed disconcerted at first, then asked, assuming indifference—

"Slaves, what will ye?"

"We would be led to the column of the great urn," Hassan responded.

"Come, then!" cried the chief Arab, and, without delay, we followed him down the great stairway, through the streets, past the assembling citizens, into the great amphitheatre, until we stood before the column supporting the strange urn.

The people, quickly learning what our intention was, thronged into the seats of the amphitheatre, and as we glanced about we saw the faces of thousands of excited spectators.

If Hassan should fail in the strange task he had undertaken! I glanced at the frenzied faces of the fanatics— if we had raised a false hope we should be torn to pieces.

Even as we stood there, with our foes filling every tier of the vast amphitheatre, Sargona entered and seated herself, surrounded by her chief men, where she could clearly see what we attempted. I saw her sister, Ahillah, enter and place herself in one of the seats in the lowest tier, whence she glanced eagerly at us. Hassan, turning his gaze upon Ahillah, saw that she pointed to a large grating and, following the direction indicated, saw something that startled him.

"Sahibs!" he whispered. "See! If Ahillah's plan fail, our fate will not long be in doubt. Allah send us a quick death!"

Looking at the grating, we saw several forms pacing restlessly behind its bars; it lay in shadow, but we understood. If the urn were not reached, then the grating would open and, defenceless as we were, we should be matched against the captive lions, already impatient for their human spoil.

Hassan unfastened the package and laid a quantity of cordage exposed to view. To one end of this he attached a silk thread of very considerable length, and while both Denviers and I were eagerly watching his preparations, we saw the Arab unroll his turban and disclose the huge scarlet scarabaeus which we had seen endeavouring to climb the wall of the cave. The scarabaeus was, like its genus, very strong and tenacious, for when Hassan raised it deftly with his thumb and forefinger, it carried the turban in its prehensile, claw-like feet.

The Arab quickly attached the free end of the silken thread to the body of the scarabaeus, and then placed the scarlet beetle upon the polished granite pillar.

A strange hush came over those in the amphitheatre as they saw what the Arab planned to do; moreover, as the whisper went round that the scarabaeus was scarlet, the Arabs recalled their tradition and became almost breathless with excitement, as they watched Hassan's endeavours to guide the beetle upward.

At first the scarabaeus, finding some strange burden attached to its body, dropped from the granite pillar and ran along the ground. Hassan caught it, and time after time, as the scarabaeus tried the same manoeuvre, did the Arab replace it on the pillar. At last the scarlet beetle ceased to fall, and ran heedlessly about the pillar. Hassan, with his hand, checked it in every direction but one, and then, with a frantic effort for liberty as it seemed, the scarlet scarabaeus ran perpendicularly up the wall!

So large was the scarabaeus and so distinct its colour, that we could see it plainly as it crawled higher and higher. Half-way up the pillar the scarabaeus lost its hold, for the blocks of granite were highly polished, and it fell.

My glance turned from the excited throng to where the lions were. Looking again at the pillar I saw that the Arab had placed the scarabaeus upon it once more.

Six times did the scarabaeus fall, only to be placed upon the pillar again, but the seventh time it ran right up the granite blocks and reached the circular base of the urn.

Denviers and I grew pale with excitement; Sargona's face grew dark with wrath; Ahillah clapped her hands— Hassan gave no sign that aught disturbed him. Calmly, true believer in fate that he was, our Arab watched patiently the movements of the scarabaeus as it reached the urn.

The thread of silk waved in the air as the scarabaeus ran about the circular base of the urn.

"Allah! If the scarabaeus twines the thread too tightly round the urn, our deaths are near," said Hassan, as he watched the scarlet beetle, which made a complete circuit of the urn and then was about to go round a second time.

Hassan stooped down, and selecting several pieces of granite, flung them in a shower at the scarabaeus, which he missed. His second attempt succeeded, however, for we saw the scarabaeus dangling helplessly in the air at the end of the silken thread.

The weight of the thread was more than overcome by that of the scarabaeus, which slipped slowly down, down to the ground, where Hassan seized it eagerly and snapped the thread. Ahillah, who saw the scarabaeus crawling away, left her seat and seized it, holding it high before her sister Sargona.

"Lo!" she cried; "the ancient rune reads right! By the scarlet scarabaeus, I swear the treasures of the urn shall be ours this day!"

At this, many of those about Sargona glanced darkly at her— already they repented that her sister had been so harshly treated, for it was Ahillah's plan they understood that Hassan was carrying out.

The Arab carefully hauled in the silken thread, and as he did so, the light, strong cord attached to it gradually reached the urn, wound round its base, and then came down until the nearer end was in Hassan's hand. To hoist a rope sufficient to bear his weight was an easy matter for the Arab.

A few minutes afterwards, Denviers and I were pulling hard at the rope as we hoisted the Arab high up the polished pillar of stone. He reached the urn, and, clambering up one of its huge handles, disappeared within it. When Hassan reappeared he held high a string of pearls.

"Ahillah! she must come, and then the sahibs!" cried Hassan. No one questioned why that should be, and accordingly, when Denviers and I had raised Ahillah to where the Arab leant over and drew her up, we were hoisted in turn by the ready hands of three men of the city.

"Draw up the rope, sahibs!" said the Arab, and at once we did so.

We found ourselves upon a curving platform of granite, which ran down in a winding way right into the granite pillar, which proved to be hollow. The path we traversed was more like the thread of a gigantic screw, and led us down until we were below the surface of the earth.

We went on wonderingly, following Hassan, who had improvished a torch from a portion of the rope which we had brought, until we came to a rough-hewn chamber. There, in the light of the flaring torch, we looked upon a strange scene.

The rock had been roughly hollowed into a great gallery, for from floor to ceiling rose great pillars of granite, while, at the end furthest from where we stood, could be seen a half-raised portcullis, beyond which was a rocky vestibule.

It was not the strange, uncouth carving of the gallery, however, which drew our attention, for, lying there, in confused heaps, were hundreds of mummies. Denviers had suggested to me before that the urn itself, by means of which we had entered that strange place, had been the tomb of some illustrious rulers of the city upon which we had come. We agreed then, that it was a more likely theory than that such a huge structure had been raised for the mere purpose of containing treasure. Whichever view was right, one thing was evident: the gallery in which we were had been looted by impious' hands. Save for the string of pearls which Hassan had held temptingly up, we found no other treasure in the abode of the dead.

From great niches in the walls, from chambers running out of the galleries, from sarcophagi lying broken and ransacked, the mummies had been dragged into the centre of the gallery and there despoiled. Mummy cloths had been unwound ; limbs wrenched off ruthlessly: a horde of barbarians alone could have wrought such ruin.

"There are no treasures!" cried Ahillah. Then raising her hand she cried : "Listen! The people grow impatient!"

So engrossed had we been that we had forgotten those watching for our reappearance from the urn.

"I don't believe Trajan ever wrote that inscription on the pillar," commented Denviers: "it was some traveller's trick, merely. But what are we to do? If we go back we may be torn to pieces."

"We had better explore this gallery and see if there is any way of escape by it," I responded, as I caught the sounds of clamorous voices, and understood that if we went back and acknowledged our failure to find the gems, we should have to bear the fury of the disappointed throng.

So we went on, on till the portcullis and portico were passed, and we found ourselves in a stranger part still of the underground way. The great orifice widened out until we traversed a vast stretch of marsh, where rank, white verdure grew, for there no rays of light seemed to enter. Deeper we sank in the swamp at each step we took almost; a hundred yards were scarcely passed over when the fetid slush was breast high.

Hassan passed the torch to me; Denviers cut off a length from the rope and, kindling it, we two went on before, lighting the way for Hassan, who bore Ahillah in his arms. We pushed doggedly on— on to where fantastic shapes of mist rose about us on every side, and seemed to mock our attempts to find a way out of that sickening, underground marsh.

For fully three hours we advanced, slowly and painfully, the foul odours nearly stifling us— then we became aware that there was a current flowing in the dark waters. We tried to avoid it, but in our efforts to do so ran right into the danger we wished to escape. The bed of the marsh suddenly deepened, we lost our footing, and the next minute we were all struggling for life in the engulfing waters. The torches were extinguished, and save for a strange, phosphorescent gleam which lit up the marsh at fitful intervals, we were in profound darkness.

In spite of our struggles, the current bore us away, away to where we could hear the roar of waters tumbling over a precipice, it seemed. Faster the current bore us on, faster and faster still; I caught sight of Ahillah's and Hassan's face as they were swept past me.

The roar of the waters increased; the current swept on with appalling rapidity; I was sucked over a mass of rock and then went down, sheer down into a vortex of foamy, grinding waters. When next I came to my senses I was lying on the bank of a river at some con- siderable distance from the cataract. Den- viers had suffered a similar experience to my own, but had escaped with much less bruising than I had. He found me lying senseless on a little stretch of sand on the shelving shore of the river, where the waters flowed in comparative calm.

Hassan and Ahillah were nowhere to be found!

For two days we searched diligently for the bodies of the deposed Queen, Ahillah, and that of our faithful guide. At last we gave up the quest, and struck for our camp, guided by the sun. We were a considerable distance from the camp; indeed, it was ten days after our escape from the waters before we reached it.

On arriving at the camp, the first of those who came out to meet us was Hassan. We started at the sight of the Arab, for we had conclusively argued that he was dead.

"Sahibs," said Hassan, as he bent before us, "fate has been unkind, for Ahillah was drowned; it has also been kind, for the sahibs still live to be the light of their unworthy servant's countenance," and the Arab bowed to the very dust.

"Well, Hassan," said Denviers to our Arab, when the latter had told of his own escape and how it came about that he reached the camp before us; "I don't think any of us are born to be drowned."

"It is hard to say, sahib," Hassan replied, gravely; "yet surely is it easier for a blind camel to find the distant oasis than for man to unravel the twisted skein of his fate."

___________________

6: The Man in Moccasins

James Barr

1862-1923

The Strand Magazine, August 1905

THE man in moccasins was shown in.

"I call to ask you to believe a story that is beyond your power to believe," he said, quietly.

Sir Silas Martin, lumber king and British knight, nodded.

"I am an Englishman. I tell you this to convince you that I lack the imagination needed for the concoction of an utter untruth."

Again Sir Silas nodded a non-committal nod to the man in moccasins. At the same time his lips curled sceptically. The man in moccasins noticed the curl.

"Let me put it in this way— I understand the proportion of things. I, an Englishman, would not attempt to bamboozle you, an American."

Sir Silas's brow darkened a little at this allusion to the land of his birth. He was an American, one who had quitted his native State to take up lumbering in Canada. Fortune had approved of him, forests fell prostrate to fill his pockets, and finally, to gild his career, came a knighthood. He accepted this distinction as he accepted everything of pride or profit that came his way, and went on with his money-getting and his giving in charity.

For the third time he contented himself with a nod.

"I say I lack the conceit to attempt to bamboozle you," asserted the man in moccasins, a hint of impatience in his tones not lost upon the millionaire.

"It has been done," acknowledged Sir Silas.

"I, for one, will not try. To be frank with you, I desire to tell you a story that is beyond your belief. Nevertheless it is true. I trust to its very impossibility to assist me in winning your attention. May I begin?"

"Sit down," said Sir Silas.

The man in moccasins dropped a huge slouch hat on the floor and whirled a chair to a suitable position. Outside the July sun smote down upon Montreal, each ray a fierce- flung javelin tipped with fire. After the clangour and swelter of the streets Sir Silas Martin's office seemed a cool and quiet haven. The stranger was lean for an Englishman. He wore a blue woollen shirt, patched and frayed ; knee-breeches, they, too, decidedly the worse for wear ; thick French-Canadian stockings, and rough-hewn moccasins. His hair was long, his face and hands tanned to the colour of an old oak chest. He straddled his legs and, locking his hands together, jammed his forearms like a wedge between his knees, dropping his shoulders as one who sits on a stile. Sir Silas shoved his chair from the desk and throwing his shoulders back tilted the seat as far as the springs would allow it to go. For some moments.the two men looked at each other, eye to eye. The man in moccasins spoke.

"Sir Silas, I have been into the heart of the wilderness."

He jerked his head towards the north.

"I have been in the wilderness and I have come out. You know the fringe of those awful wilds which stretch from the St. Lawrence and Ottawa away to Hudson Bay and beyond. The fringe has been good to you, it is told."

He paused, and, after a time, Sir Silas nodded his inscrutable nod.

"So I have been told. But, Sir Silas, it has in reserve for you still greater things. It has given you, chip by chip, fortune and, bit by bit, fame of a sort. Of a sort, I repeat. It holds for you fame of quite another sort. I have been into the heart of the wilderness and I know."

"You are not giving yourself all this trouble solely for my good, I take it?"

"By no means," replied the man in moccasins.

"I am glad there is something of self in the matter."

The man in moccasins thought a moment.

"No; I acknowledge nothing of the kind. There is nothing of self in the trouble I am taking, as you will find at the end. I will profit in no way; no, not in any way. Others will."

"Others in whom you have an interest, I take it?"

"You take too much. I have interest in no one on earth, not even in myself."

The millionaire threw up his head impatiently.

"I trust there is no part of your story harder to believe than this you have just now told me," he said. His tones were sarcastic.

"There is, I assure you. If you have finished cross-examining I will go on with my evidence-in-chief."

The millionaire fell back upon his non-committal nod.

"In May of this year a comrade and I launched a canoe on Lac des Quinze, a sheet of water you may remember, for many millions of feet of your best lumber came from its shores. From the Quinze we proceeded to Lake Abittibi, and from that shallow lake we pushed on into the unsurveyed wilds, holding to an easterly course. We got a certain distance. If I find at the end of my account that you are sufficiently interested, I will tell you definitely where we got to. At present I content myself with saying that we won a certain distance. It was hard work. It was slow work. We ran against a great many portages across which we were obliged to cut out a rough way, for no Indian trapper's moccasin pads the bank of the river along which we made our way. Moreover, we were prospecting as we went along, and prospecting takes time."

"If you are about to attempt to interest me in a mine, let me tell you that you are wasting your time."

"Pray allow me to believe that I know what I am about. I would not dream of mentioning 'mine' to you. You are a lumberman."

"My remark applies equally to lumber."

"I know nothing of lumber and desire to continue to know nothing of lumber. May I go on?"

Sir Silas Martin nodded.

"We had weary work of it, day after day, seeing nothing but those interminable wilds and each the face of the other. I fear we grew to hate each other's presence with an intense hatred."

"Where is your companion now?"

"He is up in the region awaiting my return."

"You intend to return?"

"It is to accomplish the return journey that I am here submitting, with more impatience than is warranted, I fancy, to your cross-examination."

"Why did you leave him ? "

"To tell you my tale."

"Go on."

"The savagery, the dismay, the oppression, the forebodings of the wilderness wore into our souls, so that neither of us spoke for days at a time. You see, Sir Silas, it was our first break away from civilization. But it so befell that one afternoon we happened upon a rather remarkable place. A huge amphitheatre it was, worn out of the rock by a great fall that roared over against our entrance. The banks of this place were high and covered with timber, save in one place where the rock sloped bare for twenty yards down to the water. Our canoe was caught by a backwater, and we floated up to the cheek of the fall, where we stepped ashore.

"I saw at a glance that my companion had made up his mind to camp there for the night, although there were still many hours of daylight before us. He soon had a smudge smoking, for the black fly was desperate. You know how desperate the black fly can be ! I followed his lead, lighting my smudge at a distance from his, and there we sat, each as morose and savage as a Malay about to run amuck. You know the Quebec wildernesses with their black fly and their dull, drawing pain of mute despair?"

The millionaire nodded.

"Yes, yes. Only those who have penetrated the land know what that chaos of water and rock and spruce really is. Now it came to pass that after a time, as if by a common impulse, the two of us arose and set out to stroll round our side of the amphitheatre, each heading for where the rock sloped gently down to the water. My companion took the high part of the bank; I walked by the marge of the stream. Suddenly we each put our foot on the thing, I claim, simultaneously. One glance sufficed, and we stood looking at one another.

" 'My find,' savagely barked my companion down at me. 'It's mine.'

" 'Mine,' I bellowed back.

"Instantly we drew revolvers and simultaneously we shot."

The man in moccasins paused to laugh a hearty roar of laughter. Sir Silas smiled in sympathy.

"The lonesomeness had made us mad, but the explosion of our pistols cleared the air like a thunderstorm. Before the echoes ceased their crazy shuttling to and fro across that amphitheatre I had my companion by the hand and we were at once such friends as never were. I had a very narrow shave, as you can see."

He threw open the breast of his woollen shirt and revealed an unhealed score along his side on a level with his heart.

"A narrow escape," admitted the millionaire, warming up a little. "I hope you and your companion are not given to disputing often."

"It was a wholesome lesson to each of us," acknowledged the man in moccasins.

"What was it you each claimed?"

"I will tell you. Down the bank where, as I have said, the rock slopes gently to the stream there lay a wonderful thing, its tail reaching far into the water. The body of it ran up the bank and disappeared into the woods. One glance satisfied me that I had come upon a monster reptile of prehistoric ages, let into the dull rock of the bank."

Sir Silas Martin placed his hands to his sides, threw back his head, and roared in laughter.

"You are a magazine story in being," gasped the knight. "I read you from four to six times a year, and gaze upon you in illustrations as you stand horror-bound, fear-stricken, before some wonderful prehistoric creature of monster dimensions. You have stepped out of the pages of some magazine. I have paid ten cents for you. I say I bought you for ten cents off some news stand."

"Be it so. All I ask of you is that you read me to the very end," said the man in moccasins.

"Was your reptile alive?"

"No. Fossil."

Again Sir Silas went off into a spasm of laughter.

"You are spoiling what might be a good story," he cried. " When you were about it you should have made the reptile alive."

"Why should I?" demanded the Englishman, quietly.

"Well, you see, you were quite as likely to find the thing alive as in fossil in Laurentian rock. Laurentian rock belongs to life's earliest dawn, that dim period of the invertebrate. Your reptile has a backbone?"

"It is all back-bone."

"In Laurentian rock cannot be found anything with backbone," said Sir Silas, definitely.

"Once upon a time the world was flat."

"That was before the days of Ananias. Since his day it has been far from flat for those who choose to listen."

The fingers of the man in moccasins raked along the carpet till they carpe in contact with the rim of his hat.

"I fancy I have made a mistake in coming to you," he began, at the same time making as if to arise. Sir Silas hastened to say:—

"Sit still. Don't think of going. I am just getting interested, and would like to hear you out."

"I am not here to amuse you."

"My dear sir, you are more than amusing; you are utterly impossible. But go ahead. If you can convince me of a fossil reptile in Laurentian rock I want to hear you out."

"I am not trying to convince you. In the beginning I told you that my story is beyond the power of your mind to believe."

"Overlook the shortcomings of my power of mind for the minute. You tell me that there is a reptile plainly discernible in the rock?"

"It may be the fossil of a long-necked sea-lizard or plesiosaurus. I am not saying that it is."

Sir Silas raised his brows.

"You know something of extinct reptiles, then?"

"I received what is called an 'education' at Cambridge."

"Did that education reach so deep down as to convince you that remains of high forms of life cannot be found in the oldest type of rock?"

"It did; but since stepping out into the world I have been obliged to throw over more than one conviction convinced into me, if I may use the expression, at Cambridge."

The millionaire swung half circles in his chair for a few moments before asking:—

"How did you chance to come to me with this— this— well, as you are rather tetchy, call it 'information'?"

"I ascertained the records of wealthy Montrealers and found that you were not only a millionaire, but also a member of the Palaeontological Society of Great Britain. I sought the combination of specific knowledge of fossils and ample resources in gold. I thought I found this fusion in you."

"What do you require of my knowledge of fossils?"

"I require it only to interest you in my find. If it does that it may help me to a little of your wealth."

"That's frank, at least. What amount of my wealth do you want to be helped to, and for what purpose?"

The man in moccasins rose to his feet. He gave no direct answer to the question.

"Sir Silas, I have no means of knowing whether you are really a learned man or not. I judge that you are not. I take it that you are a member of the Palaeontological Society for the same reason that you are a knight— vanity. Undoubtedly you are a skilled lumber-man. I see that you began at the bottom of the tree and are now seated on the apex of the world's lumber pile, and it occurs to me that in the scramble to your present position you had not the leisure to go deep into the subject of fossils. You would like to be learned, I have no doubt ; but that being out of the question you would now like to be considered as learned in the subject."

Sir Silas gazed upon the man in moccasins from under his eyebrows. He wondered if this strange Englishman guessed that palae- ology was the one enthralling study of his, and hoped, by casting a slur on his knowledge of that ology, to spur him to follow after the thing said to be in the wilderness.

"You have been a great success," continued the man in moccasins. "You have laid the foundations well and truly, you have built the walls, flung the fan vaultings and the flying buttresses fearlessly, and, in a manner, roofed' a most imposing edifice— your career. You have now the chance to rear the commanding dome upon whose giant proportions the sun of fame may blaze so that he blinks the eye of the world."

"Chaos crash upon your gilded dome," exclaimed the millionaire, violently. He leaped to his feet and began to pace the room excitedly. "What is it you want of me? Don't shove fame into my face nor prattle of blinding suns and blinking worlds. Are you telling me the truth when you tell me of a reptile in the rock? What in thunder do you want of me?"

"I want you to come with me to see the reptile in the rock."

"You want more?"

"Yes; I want money."

"How much?"

"One thousand dollars will be ample."

" 'Will be ample'! That expression implies that the money is not wanted as payment for a service rendered, but is needed for a specific purpose?"

"You are an observant man, Sir Silas."

"What is the purpose?"

"That you will learn at the end. The purpose, I may say, is all to your advantage."

"I am not accustomed to having things so wholly to my advantage as you seem to have arranged. So many advantages lead my mind to a state of wonderment. I suppose you can see some rebuffs awaiting me if I agree to your proposal?"

"Sir, I must continue to speak the truth. I fail to see where you can meet with any rebuff, however small."

"Your friend ? He is as much entitled to payment for the find as you?"

"The money I ask of you is all for him. I told you some time ago that I have no interest in the matter, and sought for no advantage from the find."

Sir Silas Martin paused, shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and frowned at his open desk for a minute or more. Then he switched his eyes on to the face of the man in moccasins. "I'll go," he suddenly exclaimed, and sitting down he drew forth his cheque-book. "What name?" he asked.

"Please draw the cheque in favour of yourself and send a clerk to cash it," said the man in moccasins.

"I will be ready to accompany you this day week. Where shall I meet you?"

"At Mattawa, on the Canadian Pacific Railway," replied the man in moccasins.

The millionaire took the wad of bills from his clerk and held them towards the Englishman. He said: "I part with this money saying, 'Silas Martin, you— confounded fool.' "

The man in moccasins slipped the wad into his pocket, clapped on his hat, and, saying nothing more than "Good-day," passed out into the street. At the corner of the street the man in moccasins came upon a small boy, who raised a thin, piping voice in an endeavour to sell newspapers. Into the little chap's hand he slipped a five-dollar bill and passed on. Next he dived into a ready-made clothes store, from which he came forth dressed like an ordinary citizen. That same evening he took passage on a little steamer, and early next morning found himself in Quebec, city of perpendiculars. He scrambled about her slopes and slants until the hour of opening offices came, when he presented himself before one of the best-known lawyers.

"I want you to register for me certain claims — mining, power, and timber. Those three claims will cover everything I find in and on the ground taken up, I suppose? Very well. As the district in which I desire rights is as yet unsurveyed I have myself drawn maps of it."

He unrolled two maps, one of them supplemented by half-a-dozen sketches. Maps and sketches were as if drawn by an artist.

"This," he said to the solicitor, "is a map of the route from Abittibi to the plot of land over which I desire rights. Roughly, two hundred miles, I make it. This," picking up the second sheet of tracing paper, "is a map of the particular spot I wish to possess. There can be no mistaking the place, for in these," lifting the six sketches, "I give pictures of various objects that are not likely to change. Here is a particularly splendid birch tree, is it not? Look at it! I have never seen a more glorious specimen. There is no such lovable tree as the birch, the shepherd of the wilds. Here are the falls; this the amphitheatre of water, with its sullen backwaters and centre of raging rapids shown; this a peculiarly-marked face of rock. No one can mistake the place having these before him."

The lawyer acknowledged this.

"Now, here is the section over which I desire the mining rights. I am merely a professional prospector and must register the property in the names of my employers. Here are the names, and I suppose you can work the matter?"

He passed over a paper on which was written: "Ann Grace Fullerton, widow, Midhurst, in the County of Sussex, England; the Palaeontological Society of Great Britain, headquarters, London, England; Sir Silas Martin, Knight, lumberman and capitalist, Montreal, Province of Quebec, Canada. Equal shares."

Three days later the Englishman, once again in moccasins, put up at the Rosemont House in Mattawa, made all arrangements for the coming journey, and spent every moment of his leisure time in practising with a bow he had bought from an Indian.

The midday mid-August sun beat down upon the chaos of woods and waters and rocks in far Northern Quebec, his rays, in their fierceness, scintillating like diamonds in the air. Along the gorge through which one river flowed rumbled the sullen sound of the falling of great waters. Ethereal fantasies in foam floated on the bosom of the stream, proud and white as swans, and bubbles flashed their fairy flames as they danced along, for truly the children of the falls leave the place of their birth resplendently apparelled. Skirting the bank, feeling for still waters, rode two canoes, each paddled by two Indians. In the waist of the first canoe sat the man in moccasins. The second canoe bore Sir Silas Martin, looking the lumberman he was, if not the millionaire. Since leaving Abittibi, now eight days ago, the spirits of the man in moccasins had been exuberant. He laughed, he sang, he told tales, and made himself genial to millionaire and Indian alike. Ashore he would practise with that bow of his, and had become so skilled in its use that he could knock over the silly Canadian "partridge" with great certainty, and on rarer occasions managed to bag a rabbit which the mute mongrel he had bought off an Indian at Abittibi nosed out of its retreat. But on this, the last day of the journey, a sudden change came over him. He grew silent to the verge of the morose. Not a word had he spoken to man or beast all the morning. When the rumble of the falls grew large he found tongue.

"We are at our journey's end, Sir Silas," he said.

"It has been a long journey, but I have enjoyed it," replied the millionaire. "I find that the wilderness is still a large part of me."

"Keep to the right," said the man in moccasins, addressing the paddlers.

Presently the canoes shot out into a great circle of water ringed round with rocks and trees. Down the centre rushed a torrent, flinging and fuming at the tousling of the falls that unceasingly drummed their reverberating, hollow, deep-tongued drum. Spray fine as witch-mist blew from the turmoil to drift away and lose itself in the green of the woods. To the sweep of a backwater the canoes skirted the bank.

Suddenly the man in moccasins pointed to the shore.

"There is your petrified reptile, sir."

The millionaire, whose gaze had been sweeping the encircling bank, glanced eagerly in the direction indicated by the man in moccasins. There, as though let into the sombre rock by a Titan worker in mosaics, lay a mighty seam of sad-white material, this streaked and mottled, ribbed and ringed, by patches of dull yellow. From beneath the lap of the ripples he could follow the thing as it rose heaving up the long slope of the bank until, diving, it disappeared under the roots of the spruce and balsam. Sir Silas Martin said no word, but kept his eyes on the whiteness until he stepped ashore at the foot of the falls. Then, hands in pockets, he strolled over until his feet rested on the glistening surface. He toed a seam of the yellow. The man in moccasins stood beside him.

"Quartz?" asked the millionaire.

"Quartz," answered the man in moccasins.

"Gold?"

"Gold."

"You have had it assayed?"

"Yes."

Sir Silas slowly scrambled up the slope, following a rude-run trail, and at a distance of fifty yards came upon a hole sunk some four feet into the ground, exposing a square yard of quartz as rich as that on the shore. He returned to the marge of the stream and confronted the man in moccasins.

"Is this the reptile?"

"It is."

"You will take no exception to my mentioning the name of Ananias now?"

" I will take decided exception, sir. I promised a petrified reptile; I have produced one. Nine hundred and ninety-nine out of every thousand people who have ever touched a gold-mine will bear evidence to the correctness of calling it a reptile. Yes, a bloodthirsty reptile. You take things too literal, sir. If a man were to mention 'log' to you you would demand a saw-log, whereas the man might well be alluding to a ship's log."

"Ye-e-es; that's all very true, but—"

"Sir Silas, let me own up to deception. To profit by this discovery I was obliged to interest a capitalist. For reasons you will soon understand I wished to accom- plish this without waste of time, and, having pitched upon you, I used what proved to be the best, perhaps the only, way of interest- ing you. You did become interested?"

"I certainly did."

"More than that,

I say you are still interested, deeply inte- rested, although in a different way."

"Yes ; I admit I am."

"Then I have accomplished my purpose.".

"I have read you to the end, I suppose?"

"No ; there are a few paragraphs more."

The millionaire recognised that beneath his feet was wealth untold, yet he was conscious of bitter disappointment. He had rather have found a fossil than a gold-mine. Nevertheless, it was a wonderful find, and his agile brain was already hard at work to devise plans for profiting from the find to the full. The two strolled back to where the guides had smudges smoking, although the flies were now few. They sat down. After a long silence Sir Silas glanced up and said "By the way, we have seen nothing of your friend!"

" He is over there."

"Where?" Sir Silas glanced round. "I do not see him."

"There. Up yonder."

"What!" gasped the millionaire, as his eyes fell upon a cairn of stones that rose on the bank by the brink of the falls. "What! Dead?"

"Dead," answered the man in moccasins, smiling.

"You— you did not tell me that."

"I told you we exchanged shots. Mine killed."

"Heavens! Murdered?"

"Not murdered —killed."

"For the gold ? "

"Again no. Not for the gold, Sir Silas, but from the weariness and misery, the bitter, gnawing lone- liness, the savagery, the malevolence of the spirit of this glorious, infernal wilderness. Our souls were possessed of devils, our brains afire with gloom. We drew simultaneously. His shot scored me next the heart. Mine killed. He had the luck."

Sir Silas Martin gazed in awe at the earnest face of the man in moccasins, who, on his part, confronted the millionaire frank-faced as a sunflower.

After a space of time the Englishman drew forth a large envelope from under his blue shirt and took from it a printed form. He handed it over. It was the Government titles for the mining rights to the land on which they sat, made out in favour of a widow, a learned society, and a millionaire knight. " Ann Grace Fullerton?" queried the knight.

"His widow." The man in moccasins jerked his head towards the grave. "I found her letters in his pocket. She'll need all the good fortune that may befall her, I fancy."

Sir Silas again glanced through the document.

"Where do you come in?" he asked.

The man in moccasins rose to his feet.

"I don't come in. I go out. Sir Silas, you are rich enough to be honest. Treat the widow and the society fair and above- board. They have been notified of their possessions, but I recognise in you the leading spirit in this the Plesiosaurus Mine. It is rich enough for three. Be honest."

From the belt that girdled him the man in moccasins plucked, one by one, the cartridges of his heavy revolver and tossed them into the pool.

The last of these gone, he turned abruptly and strode up the incline until he stood before the grave of his comrade. Sir Silas leapt to his feet to follow, but his muscles grew suddenly rigid when he beheld the man in moccasins take off his hat and with the other hand draw the revolver from its holster.

The millionaire would have shouted, but his voice refused to come. The Indians stood stoically staring.

The man in moccasins slowly raised the revolver up, and up, and up, until it was held at arm's length high above his head, its muzzle pointing to the clouds. Then the shots, one by one, each separated from the other by an impressive interval, rang out on the air. Sir Silas Martin snatched off his hat.

The man in moccasins was firing a farewell volley over the grave of his friend.

Six shots delivered, the man stood for a few minutes gazing at the grave of his friend; then, turning, he leapt into the air, and with all his might flung the revolver hurtling, so that it splashed far out in the river. Replacing his hat on his head, he walked slowly towards the knight, who now sat in a state of semi-collapse on the turf. Passing the Indians, he ordered, "Launch my canoe."

Stepping up to Sir Silas, he held out his hand.

"I'm off," he said.

"Wh-wh-where are you off to?" stammered the trembling millionaire.

"There." He flung his hand towards Labrador. "There, and for ever. It may be my fate to live for many days, but no white man shall see my face again. I am a short story, but the end will be withheld from all but myself. Now, good-bye, Sir Silas, and— deal honestly by the widow."

He caught up his dog and squatted in the canoe. The Indians danced it across the angry stream to the far shore. He tossed the dog ashore, took his bow and arrows in his hand, and, stepping out close to the great birch tree that he had drawn so well, he scrambled up to the top of the bank. Taking off his slouch hat, he stood for some moments gazing across at Sir Silas as though loth to tear himself away; then, waving an abrupt farewell, turned round and plunged into the thicket. And that was the last ever seen or heard of the man in moccasins.

_________________

7: Expert Interference

W. Pett Ridge

1859-1930

The Strand Magazine September 1905

"KENNAWAY! You there?"

"I believe I am, sir."

The young station-master inside the booking-office bent over his abstract book and proved his columns. Opening his cash drawer, he pulled out the cash bowls, emptying the contents on the counter; wetted a forefinger, and started on the work of reckoning the coins and standing them in columns of one pound each.

"Kennaway!" A more insistent thumping on the floor.

"Oh, hang the man!" muttered the young station-master.

He took his pen from his mouth, stuck it into his head of hair, and threw open the wooden window.

"Now, what is it, sir?" he demanded, in a louder voice.

The face of an elderly man set in a frown and precise whiskers appeared.

"I asked you, Kennaway, if you were here," he said, deliberately.

"And I answered. And I wish, Mr. Rose, that you'd kindly call me 'Mister.' Especially"— he peered through and saw one or two villagers waiting patiently for the next down-train— "more especially when there are passengers about. When you were station superintendent up in London you liked being called 'Mister,' didn't you, now?"

"Nobody but the directors ever dared omit it. And, of course, the Prince. I remember the Prince saying to me on one occasion "

"What was it you wanted, sir?"

"I wanted," said Mr. Rose, "to call your attention to two pieces of luggage standing out on the platform at the door which gives entrance to your rooms. Now, luggage should not be left unattended in this way. You know nearly as well as I do that the rules "

"Them two packages," interrupted the young station-master, "belong to my old housekeeper, and Pve given her the sack because she can't break herself of the habit of giving away rabbits and so forth that have been presented to me. They ain't luggage. They're waiting there until the carrier's cart comes round to call for her."

"The brass bell wants shining," said the retired station superintendent.

"I can lend you a piece of shammy leather."

"There's an auctioneer's poster pinned up over the fire-place nearly a week out of date."

"Pull it down."

"Your signalman has a friend in the box, and, so far as I can gather, they are talking about—"

"Never you mind, Mr. Rose, what they're talking about. You listen to what I'm talking about."

Young Kennaway, scarlet-faced, came out of the booking-office, slamming the door quickly behind him. "No, you don't. You've no right in there, and you're not going to go in there. That's private. You're only a civilian now, Mr. Rose, and the time's come when I've got to tell you so, plain. D'you hear me ? Plain!"

"My lad," said the other, trembling, with a glance around at the open-mouthed passengers, "be careful. You were a mere parcels clerk up in London when I was there, and I'm your senior in the service by about forty years. Don't you dare speak to me in this way or I'll take a memorandum and report you to head-quarters. You won't be the first one, by a long shot, that I've sent in on the carpet. The Prince once asked me—"

"Mr. Rose!" Kennaway pointed a forefinger threateningly, and spoke with deliberation. "You were superannuated four months ago, and you came down here to live."

"With my daughter."

"I'm not forgetting her," he said, curtly. "What I want to point out to you is that you're only a ordinary person now. You can't take an official memorandum and report me; you can't put your hand on an official memorandum. You can't send me in on the carpet; you can't even go in on the carpet yourself. And if you come round here interfering and telling me how I ought to run my station I shall simply— Well," he concluded, darkly, but rather lamely, "I shall take steps. Meanwhile, out you go."

The two passengers came forward in their anxiety to lose no word of the dispute, conscious that possession of exclusive information would later increase their importance in the village. The older man moved ; his walking-stick trembled.

"One thing you forget, Kennaway."

"What's that?"

The other shook his head and closed his lips tightly.

"What do I forget?" demanded the young station-master, anxiously. "Come on, sir. Say what you've got to say and get it over."

"I'm still friendly with the Prince," said Mr. Rose. "One word from me and—"

"And he'd do as he liked."

"I'm on terms with the directors."

"Bah!"

"The general manager—"

"Mr. Rose," cried the young station-master, piteously, "you wouldn't go so far as that! You wouldn't carry a personal disagreement, sir, to that extent. Think again. You was a railway man once, I'm a railway man now. You know what we have to put up with from passengers. Talk it over with—"

Mr. Rose stamped his way out and down the platform. The young station- master, grievously hurt at being treated thus in the presence of an audience, ran out. The old gentleman was about to step down and cross the line; Kennaway shouted an order to go over by the wooden foot-bridge, and the other with a muttered protest found himself compelled to obey. The two passengers, anxious to make their stock of knowledge complete, condoled with the station-master, saying that his was indeed a trying job, that he must often get tired of being worried by customers, and he answered them so emphatically in the affirmative that, unable to escape the personal application intended by his reply, they accepted their tickets and went out to wait for the train, and to repeat mentally the conversation they had overheard.

The ex-station superintendent came the next morning with his daughter to take the ten-twenty-five for town. Miss Rose stood back between two beds of wallflowers the while her father talked to a foreman plate-layer, pointing out a weed growing in the six-foot between the two pairs of lines and suggesting, with a certain acidity of manner, an application for the supply of a lawn-mower. The office-boy sent by Kennaway came on the platform and rang the brass bell to announce the fact that the train had left the neighbouring station, and, acting under orders, demanded the tickets which he had just issued and clipped them with an acute Scotland Yard air. Still acting under orders he approached Mr. Rose, touching his cap to Mr. Rose's daughter, and blushing as men do who are deeply in love.

"What's that?" The boy repeated his request.

"Service!" replied Mr. Rose, shortly.

"What's that again? You know very well I've got a pass all over the line. Pass for two. You want to see it? Confound it all, can't you accept my word?"

"Rules is rules," said the office-boy, doggedly, "and regulations is regulations."

"Maggie," cried the old gentleman, searching his pockets, "where did I—"

"On your dressing-table, father. I reminded you, and you said you had never yet troubled to carry it, and it didn't matter."

"It's all right, my boy," said the ex-station superintendent, with an effort at geniality. "Very glad to see you so exact in the performance of your duties. If only your station-master—"

"Can't go by the train," retorted the office-boy, "if you ain't got your pass with you."

"I'll put in a good word for you, my lad, if I have the chance. I'm going up to see the general manager. Let me see; what are you getting now?"

"Not getting what I want. What I want is to see your pass, and if you ain't got it with you my orders are that you'd better bunk off 'ome jolly quick and get it. Onless you want to wait for the next train."

Young Kennaway came out whilst the old gentleman was pelting down by the side of the line to the house— they had taken one near to the railway that Mr. Rose might still have about him the atmosphere of rail- ways and the sound of trains. Kennaway lifted his cap, spoke hurriedly to Miss Margaret, and, picking a wallflower, pre- sented it to her. The train came round the corner into the straight as her father started on his desperate run back from the house. Passengers looked from windows to demand explanation of the delay as he hurried up the slope of the platform ; he was half lifted, half thrown, by the entire staff into the first- class compart- ment where his daughter was calmly seated.

"You shall pay for this."

"Right away, guard," said young Kennaway. "Try not to book any time against us."

"You'll hear about this, sir," panted Mr. Rose, using the little stock of unexhausted breath as the train started. "This is the last straw."

"Father," said the girl, "sit down, or else your hat will blow off."

The rear-guard remarked to the station-master, as the train went out, that the last rose of summer appeared to be still blooming alone, that retirement had not altered his notorious spirit of proud command. Kennaway answered absently and watched the train as it went. Presently he turned with a sigh and, going into the booking-office, dispatched the boy with some parcels to the village. Taking one of the high, slippery-topped stools he sat and squared his elbows and wrote out rough drafts of answers to the expected reports.

Dear Sir,—

In reply to your letter of yesterday's date, I beg to inform you that Mr. Rose, almost ever since he took his superannuation and came here to live, has done his best to be a thorn in the side and to interfere with me and my men in the performance of our respective duties. At first he was friendly of manner and asked me to come up to his house of an evenings, but after awhile he stopped me when I started to sing, and commenced arguing about railway matters, so that after a while I found it was no use taking 'A Warrior Bold ' folded up in the inside pocket of my overcoat.

He then began to tell me how my duties as S.-M. should be performed, and, one word leading to another, I one night said I would never enter his house again and banged the door after me. Since that time he has always had his knife into me. As to what he has stated to the general manager I beg to deny it per se, and to inform you there is not a word of truth in it from beginning to end; but I should also like to say that if you can see your way to giving me a shift to some other station a little farther up the line, but not so far away but what I could run down here to visit friends now and again, I should feel very much obliged.

In any case I make an appeal not to be reduced to inspector.

Your obedient servant,

Walter R. Kennaway,

Station-master.

Kennaway wrote several variants on this during the afternoon. His office-boy reminded him more than once of the claims of the garden, of the necessity for going upstairs and preparing a lonely meal— being, indeed, anxious to have the office to himself, where, with the aid of a three-penny packet labelled "Complete Theatrical Make-up," bought when last in Ashford, he could go through a scene from a stirring melodrama which he had seen there on a previous occasion. His station-master answered him shortly, and for midday meal sent over to the Railway Tavern. Kennaway expected Mr. Rose and Miss Rose down by the train arriving at four-twenty, and previous to that hour jumped towards the telegraph instrument whenever it ticked out a call for his station. The messages always proved to be in the form of some inquiry from a truck-seeker, and never the expected one from the general manager's office. Suspense found itself prolonged by the fact that the ex-superintendent and his daughter did not arrive by the four-twenty, and this appeared to Kennaway a serious incident, although he had feared their arrival. Mr. Rose was evidently staying in town in order to perfect plans.

"He's making it hot for me," sighed Kennaway. " Wish now I hadn't lost me temper with him. Means I shall get the sack or else reduced, and it means something— something more than that. This'll be a lesson to me all through my life. When I'm an old man in charge of a level crossing "

The office-boy slipped off his wire beard on finding the governor in a state of deep concern, but not quickly enough to escape observation. Young Kennaway, glad to find some object for reproach, demanded an explanation of what he termed monkey tricks. The office-boy replied in tones of aggrieved respect that he supposed he was entitled to the liberty of doing as he liked when away from the station. Kennaway said this was all very well, but supposing there had been passengers about ? Sup- posing the district superintendent (an official with an awkward trick of alighting at a pre- ceding station and walking on and surprising one) — supposing the district superintendent had happened to catch the lad in a bearded state on the platform ? The boy said, proudly, in that case, not the district superin- tendent — -not even the head of the detec- tive department, would have succeeded in piercing the marvellous disguise. Kenna- way scoffing at this assertion, the office-boy took up the challenge and offered, if the station-master would but turn his head and gaze out of the window, to give him an impersonation of a quarrelsome passenger, with which he had more than once livened dull hours between trains in the signal-box.

" Not bad," admitted the station-master, presently. " In the dusk it might deceive the short-sighted."

"Care to hear me sing a song ? "

"Certainly not," said Kennaway. " A country booking-office isn't a London music- hall."

"Sometimes wish it was, sir."

"Tell you what!" cried Kennaway, after a moment's thought. "I've got a brilliant idea. I believe if you like you can help me."

MR. ROSE and his daughter Margaret arrived by the next train. The girl looked around eagerly for the young station-master ; he was standing back in the dark near some churns of milk, and only the light of his hand-lamp could be seen. Old Mr. Rose produced his all-station pass for two, and the signalman, having inspected it, thanked him and bade them both good-night. Half-way up the stairs a short, bearded man caught them and tapped Mr. Rose on the shoulder.

"That's my name, sir."

"One word with you," said the short, bearded man. The signalman's boy came stamping across the footbridge, bringing his father's supper. "You're a new-comer to this village, I believe?"

"That is so," replied the old gentleman.

"I'm sure this young lady will excuse me," went on the other, in a deep voice, "if I speak plainly and distinctly and straight- forrardly."

"Please go on," said Miss Rose.

"You've been making yourself, I'm give to understand, very unpleasant to our station-master. What I mean to say, interferin' in official matters that don't concern you in any way whatsoever."

"I'm an old railway man, sir, and if I see anything amiss—"

"You were an old railway man, but you ain't a railway man now. You're only an ordinary person. And I've been asked by the other residents in the village, Mr. Rose, to make you understand that by treating our respected station-master in the way you've been doing you've only succeeded in making your own self onpopular— highly onpopular, I may say."

"Father, I told you what would happen."

"My dear sir," said Mr. Rose, with great concern, "I don't know that I can do anything but express my deep and very sincere regret. I came down here to enjoy what I may fairly claim to be well-earned rest for the remainder of my life, and I can assure you that I have— really and positively— every desire to live at peace with my neighbours."

"Nice way you've had of showing it," said the bearded little man.

"If I have made mistakes," pleaded the old gentleman, with earnestness, "believe me that they shall not be made again. I've already decided that, you may take my word for it. Sha'n't occur any more. Please tell the village this, and say that I hope we shall all get to know each other and understand each other and"— his voice showed signs of breaking and his daughter took his arm affectionately— "and like each other." He held out his hand. The signalman's son, a youth unrestrained by rules of etiquette, had listened open-mouthed, disregarding an imperious jerk of the head on the part of the short, bearded man.

"I am sure," said Miss Rose, in her pleasant way, "that my father means what he says. Won't you give us your name and address, and won't you call upon us soon?"

The signalman's son gave the ecstatic shriek which he appeared to have been restraining with difficulty, and setting down the knotted red handkerchief containing a saucer made a movement. The wire beard came off, the bowler at went down, taking two steps at a time.

"I KNEW IT," said young Kennaway five minutes later. "I felt convinced in me own mind that I was wrong in falling in with your suggestion, my lad."

"It was yourn!"

"You've gone and made the crisis far worse than ever. All this, set down on paper and sent up by the old chap to the general manager, will make it look as though I've got no control over the staff and that the staff is up to every mad, silly trick that was ever thought of. Seems to me," he went on, disconsolately, "that I may just as well write out my resignation. Give me a memo."

"Must admit," agreed the office-boy, "that things are going a bit crooked. But don't do anything in a 'urry, sir. Let's see if we can't think of something else."

"We've thought of too much already. Hand over a memo."

"There's one chance left, sir." The boy withheld the sheet of paper. "Delicate matter to refer to, but I have reason to believe— don't know exactly how to phrase it— I think I have good grounds for the impression that Miss Rose looks on me with a kindly eye."

"You?"

"I judge by her manner," the lad declared. "Women have a way of showing when they're gone on a chap. And it strikes me that if I walked along the line and up to their house and saw her—"

"My lad," said Kennaway, "I spoke to her this morning and I begged her to interfere on my behalf."

"P'r'aps you haven't got any influence with her."

A tap came at the door as young Kennaway dipped his pen in the metal inkstand. The boy answered it and took a letter; the maid said she was instructed to inquire whether there was any answer. Kennaway opened it and read:

"I did not see you this evening when we came back from town. On the way up I spoke to father, and told him that I was so fond of you that anything he did against you would be against me. He seemed much astonished, and said he had had no idea of this; I did not tell him that it was almost news to me. He did not call at the general manager's office; we went to a matinee instead. Shall I come down and see you between trains to-morrow morning? You must not think that what I told father was exactly true, but, of course , there is always the chance that it may come true one of these days."

"Been thinking it over," said the office-boy in the signal-box "— thinking it over very seriously, and I've virtually decided not to go on the stage. I see by the papers that the profession's very much overcrowded as it is!"

___________________

8: The First Class Passenger

Evelyn Everett Green

(born Eveline Ward Green, St Pancras, London. 1856-1932)

Australian Town and Country Journal 23 Feb 1910

"HANG IT ALL!" exclaimed Everard Vale, as the creeping train drew up once again in a cutting, "I shall lose my connection at Bindon Junction if this sort of thing goes on, and I shan't get to town to-night."

He was alone in his first-class carriage— a fine-looking, bronzed man of some eight-and-twenty to thirty years.

"Hello! What in fortune's name is this?"

He had let down the carriage window, and was thrusting forth head and shoulders into the frosty rawness of the fog, when his quick eyes were arrested by the sight of something moving on the bank. The fog disguised the character of the object till it was within a few yards of him. Then he saw that it was a girl, laboriously descending into the cutting, carrying in her arms a large white and black pointer dog.

The astonished man heard the girl's sobbing breath, accompanied by little moans of pain from the poor beast. Next moment he had flung open the carriage door, leaped out, and, risking the restarting of the train without him, made one bound towards the panting girl. He gently lifted the dog into his own strong arms.

"Come along in— jump into that carriage. The train will be starting, and you might get into trouble on the line here."

As though this was exactly the girl's object, she sprang light of foot up the steep steps into the railway carriage, and sank down upon the cushioned seat with a long-drawn breath of exhaustion and relief. The traveller, with the dog, followed her. The animal was laid upon one of the seats, the arms of which were turned up for his better accommodation, and Everard, passing strong, friendly, capable hands over the creature, gave his verdict.

"He is badly bruised and knocked about, and one fore-leg is broken.

"I know— I know. Oh! it was wicked— cruel, hateful! And he left him there to die. He kicked him as he lay helpless, poor darling, and told him he'd shoot him if ever he found him sneaking about his place again! And it's his own dog, too— one of his sporting dogs. And he treated him like this just because he made a mistake with the guns! Oh! it's awful— it's too awful!"

The girl was shaking all over, more unnerved than seemed quite to be accounted for by the nature of the adventure. Everard had never had much to do with girls or with women in his life, and felt a bit puzzled. how to act now. He busied himself with the poor dog. He rummaged out. from his bag some bits of stiff cardboard, and, tearing a long muffler into lengths, he proceeded to set the broken leg, with no small skill, in the rough but effectual splint which he improvised.

The girl, rousing herself to consciousness of what he was doing, lent assistance. By the time the surgical operations were completed. she had calmed down very considerably. Certainly that was rather an interesting happening in the fog.

Everard began ro find himself singularly indifferent as to whether he caught his connection at the junction or not.  The dog had ceased to moan; he was trying to lick the kindly hands that ministered to his comfort. The girl bent down and kissed him between, the eyes. Everard found it in his heart to think that the dog was a lucky fellow.

"How good you are," she said, raising her lustrous eyes to his kindly, bronzed face. "I was almost praying that the train might stop and that somebody might be kind to me. Guards and railwaymen are very nice generally; but of course it's breaking the laws to be on the bank like that. And even now, if they come and ask for tickets, I haven't got one!"

"Oh yes, you have!" said Everard, laughing, and extracting a small oblong of pasteboard from his own pocket he stuck it into the breast pocket of her coat. "It's I and the dog who are the illicit passengers. I'll show you how we get out of scrapes of that, sort, we old-seasoned travellers, when the awful crisis comes."

She laughed deliciously; her tremors had subsided. She sat opposite him with the dog's head upon her lap. The train was crawling on through the fog at about two miles an hour. Everard had no desire to hasten its progress one jot.

"How good you are," she said. "How can I thank you for it all?"

"By telling me the story of this incident," he said; "for I am simply bursting with curiosity. Can't you see the question marks sticking out of my head?"

He wanted to hear her laugh, and the sound was like music; but then the littla piquant face grew grave, and the brown eyes clouded over.

"I'll tell you everything— because you have been so kind. I live at Bindon, and I wanted to take a long walk and see some of my friends in different places. I thought, if I was tired, I could take the train at Bindon Bottom— we are just getting there now. I paid my visits and had lunch with a friend, and then I started off through a nice woody piece of country, much nicer for walking than the muddy roads. And the railway cutting runs through it. I knew I should have to follow that by a little track along the top to get to the station."

"Had you the dog with you?"

"Oh, no; he is Mr. Rain's dog. Rain's Hall is over yonder in the woods, and Mr. Rain was shooting. I heard the guns, and hid in a big hollow tree. I didn't want to be shot, and I didn't want to meet Mr. Rain, or any of them."

A sudden crimson dyed her face, and Everard's curiosity received a sudden fresh filip.

"And whilst you were in hiding, something happened, and you saw it?"

"Yes, yes. I don't know what the poor dog had done. It was getting very foggy. But I heard Mr. Rain's voice, very angry, shouting at him. Then the dog crouched down terrified, just where I could see, and Mr. Rain rushed at him with his gun and hit him again and again. Oh! it was dreadful, and the dog yelled. I knew he had hurt him horribly."

"The brute— don't think any more about it. And when he was gone you stole out and carried that heavy creature away all by yourself?"

"You see, the cutting was very near, and trains are often signalled to stop just there, and the fog made it all the more likely today. Only I didn't know if I could get into the train with the dog— he got heavier and heavier as we went on- I heard tihe train coming along, and then I heard it stop, and I hurried and hurried to be in time; and then— Oh! it was as if you were a sort of angel when you jumped down and came to help me!"

"First time I've been called that!" confessed Everard with his frank, friendly smile.

"Well, some fellows want a taste of the cat-o'-nine-tails across their backs! And now, about this poor old chap there. What are we going to do with him next?"

Her big eyes lighted at the pronoun.

"Oh! if you will help me through, I'm sure something can be done!"

"Oh! I'll see you through, never fear. Do you mind telling me your name, and where you live in Bindon?"

"My name is Beatrice Vale, and my father is the Vicar of St. Saviour's— 'the church belonging to the poor part of the town. We are quite poor people ourselves—"

She stopped, because he was gazing at her so hard. His eyes seemed full of surprise.

"Vale— what an astonishing thing! My name is Everard Vale, and the name isn't a common one. What relations do you happen to have going about the world, Miss Vale?"

"We haven't any that we know of. Father says that the only Vales except ourselves are most likely in Australia, if there are any left. His great-uncle- went out there, but he never knew anything about him "

"That's so?" Then, little friend Beatirce, it strikes me very forcibly that you and I are cousins of a remote description. I came from Australia, where my grandfather made a modest pile. My father trekked to California and ranched there. He prospered, and I'm his only child. When I was left alone in the world I had a fancy to come Home— as we always call it. One of my objects was to see if I could unearth any relations over here. I guess this is the kind of thing the writing chaps call the long arm of coincidence!"

"Oh! Cousin Everard! Oh!" cried Beatrice.

"That's right, little 'un — take me as a cousin, as I've taken you! Mighty pleasant to find a cousin so quick— and such a pretty one too."

She blushed charmingly as she bent over the dog. "Oh, it's like a fairy tale— like the sort of game we used to play as little kiddies—"

"What sort of game, little Beatrice?"

"Oh, you know what children like to play at— things that never can come true. We have always been poor. Daddy can't do half what he wants for us— there are such a lot of us, and so many poor in the parish. And we used to play games about the rich old uncle from Australia who was to come and be a fairy godfather— if ever there was such a thing!"

She stopped short, laughing and rosy— altogether charming. His eyes dwelt upon her face with a wonderful pleasure and satisfaction.

"Beatrice!" he said suddenly, "is there anything that I can do for you?"

Suddenly her face changed and grew grave. A new look came into her eyes, a look difficult to understand; there was a certain desperation in it— a certain element of horror.

"Oh, Cousin Everard— if you really are a cousin — you are a man, and understand about men— and the world!— and everything. If you could advise me— tell me what I ought to do."

"Little cousin, I'll do the very best I can for you, if you'll only tell me what the trouble is."

"It's Mr. Rain, that dreadful man who hurt the dog. I've never liked him; I've always been afraid of him; he makes me feel creepy all over. But I don't know anything against him, and he is rich, very rich, and he always come to church. He tips the boys, and gives them treats, and talks of the things he could do for them as they grow up, if— if— oh; don't you understand? He wants to—marry — me!"

Everard's face grew a little tense.

"Oh, that's it, is it? He wants to marry you. Do you happen to want to marry him?"

"Oh, no— no! I never did, and after what I saw this afternoon, oh, how could I? But think of the others— the boys, father and mother, the difference it would make to all of them— the relief! They will never try to make me; but I know how they must feel."

"Hold hard, little cousin. Here we are at Bindon Junction. I'll take the liberty of driving you and your poor old man here home in a cab. I've lost my connection, and must put up for the night here. My traps can go to the Railway Hotel, and I'll see you and this fellow home first."

The ways of an experienced traveller with well-lined pockets were new to. Beatrice. She watched and listened with interest to all his. arrangements, and was quickly transferred, with the dog, into, a comfortable pair-horse carriage,   into which Everard followed her.

"Has this fellow asked you to marry him Beatrice?'' Everard inquired, as  they neared the house. "He asked me last week. I promised him an answer soon. I think he is going to come for it to-morrow."

"We'll have it ready for him," quoth Everard.

WHAT excitement and rejoicing there was over the advent of this wonderful Cousin Everard from the other side of the world! They took him as one of themselves from the first, and very quicky Mr. Vale was satisfied that there could he no mistake. His likeness to an old Vale family portrait spoke for itself; and so soon as supper was ended the girls were flying round getting ready the one spare room. Two of the boys set out to get Everard's luggage from the hotel, whilst the others "hustled" all they knew, under his personal supervision, knocking up a suitable shelter for Ponto, as they called the injured dog.

"Dear old fellow," said Beatrice softly, as she bent once more to kiss him between the eyes.

"Lucky old chap," quoth Everard this time, and the laugh and blush of the 'little cousin' were alike charming.

Mr. Vale and Everard sat up late together that night. During the early hours of the following day Everard and Beatrice held consultations over Ponto, bandaged up afresh the broken limb, and finally carried him between them into the drawing-room, laying him gently down upon the rug. Then Everard stood up, and took the girl's two hands in his clasp.

"Beatrice, that fellow Rain is coming today for his answer."

"Well,  let him take it here."

"Ah, yes; it will be easier— with Ponto there."

"Oh, Everard, dear, Daddy has told me. I don't know how to thank you— about your ranch, and the boys, and the openings for them out there, under you. He will not hear of me marrying a man I do not love. Oh! how could I ever have thought of it. It seems too awful now."

"It is too awful! No fellow could stand by and see it done. Are you afraid of meeting that chap?"

He still, held her hands, and now he felt the clinging clasp of her slender fingers.

"Oh, Everard, if you would help me, then I shouldn't be afraid. If you would be— like a brother."

"Little Bee, I don't think I want to be your 'brother' if you don't mind. But if you'll give me the right, I'd like to be here in another capacity. No, I'm not going to ask anything of you, dear! But let me be the kinsman you trust  yourself to. That will do to go on with. Can you grant me that much?"

Her face, all in a glow, was downbent. Her hands  willingly in his.

"Oh, Everard— yes! It is so lovely to have a strong, splendid kinsman— like. you!"

All right, little Bee;  that'll do for to-day. You give me the right to protect you from this brutal fellow, and, if need be, kick him into the gutter!"

Her tremulous, musical laugh, was music to his ears.

"Oh, Everard, how splendid if you did!"

MR. RAIN, of Rain's Hall, presented himself in due course. He bowed low over the hand of Beatrice (before he was aware of two other presences in the room), as though he would have pressed it to his lips; but she snatched it away, and, with flaming eyes, pointed to the dog upon the rug which cowered and whined at sight of his former master. Mr. Rain also started rather violently, and gazed at the girl with a shadow of apprehension in his eyes.

"Yes, you may well look like that!" she said. "I saw everything yesterday— your cruel, wicked treatment of that poor dog. Do you think I would; marry a man who could be so cowardly, so brutal! Never! I should hate and despise and fear you always. I could never respect; you— never like you. Like! When I saw you yesterday in the wood, I hated you— hated "

"Take care how you provoke me!" began Rain, fury at this disclosure robbing him of his suave, self-command. "As for that wretched brute yonder, he is my dog still, and I will—"

He advanced upon the unoffending creature with murder in his eyes, and the dog howled in terror.

But the heavy boot never touched the victim, for, quick as thought, Everard's grasp was on Rain's collar, and he was whirled completely round and propelled first to the door of the room and then to the door of the street before he could so much as gather breath to expostulate or resist.

"You have had your answer, sir, now go!"

"Who and what are you, sir? I'll have the law on you for this assault! I will—"

"You will do exactly as you please about that, my good fellow. If you want to make your name a by-word through the country, no one will regret it! There is my card. Miss Vale has done me the honor to entrust herself and the dog to my protection. I will take care that neither she nor the poor brute suffers molestation from you again. I wish you a very good day!"

The door was firmly banged. Everard walked back into the room with a grim smile on his face.

"Oh, Everard!" she cried; and then, with a little catch in her breath, "he won't really have you up, will he?" His laugh was good to hear.

"I'm afraid not, little Bee."

"You mean you would not be afraid! Oh, you are so brave, so strong. How can I thank you, Everard ?"

He held her hands, and lifted them a little higher. He looked down straight into her eyes, and her face was all one lovely blush.

"You would not let Rain kiss your hand, Beatrice. Will you let me?"

He bent his head lower towards her; but after all it was not her hand he kissed.

______________

9: Heritage of Lucille Rivers

Alice and Claude Askew

(Alice Askew neé Leake, 1874-1917

& Claude Askew, 1865-1917)

Australian Town and Country Journal 20 May 1914

IT WAS Mademoiselle de Fontaine who told me all about Lucille Rivers— describing the girl so vividly that when I closed my eyes I could almost see the slim tall young creature with her soft pale yellow hair and her eyes that were as blue as midsummer skies, and her delicate old world grace. We were fellow boarders, Mademoiselle and myself, staying at a quaint old house down in Kentucky, and Mademoiselle, who was taking a brief summer holiday— she was playing the part of gouvernante to some wealthy New York family— trying to teach the girls manners and to give them a smart French accent, was real nice to me— a lonely little school marm, and we chummed up together.

I was afraid of her first of all, I must admit. She had such a proud fine old face, an' she wore her grey hair brushed straight off her forehead— just like one of those marquises you see in pictures. Her hands were beautifully shaped, and testified to her blue blood, and she had the tiniest feet I ever saw. She dressed very simply, but she wore a real lovely old lace scarf over her shoulders in the evening. We'd sit together on the piazza at nights, Mademoiselle talking, I busy with my sewing, an' she told me ever so many stories about Lucille Rivers; seemed as if she couldn't get Lucille out of her head. An' I didn't wonder at that either when I heard all that Mademoiselle had to tell me— I didn't wonder a bit.

Lucille was an orphan, and two guardians looked after her— a Colonel Marlton and another gentleman, Sir Henry Cobton— but it was Mademoiselle de Fontaine who had the real charge of the beautiful young English girl— poor Lucille who lived the life of an imprisoned princess. For she had a lovely house of her own down in Cornwall, set in large grounds, but she was never allowed to go outside her own park railings, or to know any of her neighbors.

"I guess I never heard such a queer state of things as that," I remarked to Mademoiselle as we sat chatting on the piazza, our rocking chairs drawn up close together, and a big kind harvest moon shining down upon us and silvering the whole countryside.

"That was just what I thought, Maisie," Mademoiselle answered in her pretty clear voice. (My name's Maisie — Maisie Brown, an' I come from New England.)

"I could hardly realise that Lucille's guardians were serious when they told me before I went down to North Towers that I must never allow my young charge— Lucille was only sixteen, you know— to leave her own grounds or talk to any strangers; it seemed such an impossible state of things, did it not? But when I remonstrated a little with the two gentlemen they told me something about Lucille which inclined me to believe that perhaps they were acting wisely after all. Only it did seem hard, did it not, ma cherie, to keep such a lovely young creature a close prisoner? For when I went down to North Towers, Lucille was only just sixteen, and imagine it— since she was a little child she had never been outside her own grounds!"

"It sounds real dreadful," I answered, and I thought of that beautiful poem— 'The Lady of Shalott'— and the fairy lady on whom a curse rested if she ever tried to mix with the gay glittering world, an' it seemed to me that Lucille was just such another heroine, an' I declare the tears came right into my eyes.

"Yet Lucille was fairly happy." Mademoiselle murmured thoughtfully. "She had her horse, to ride, and she could ride for miles over her own land, for she was the heiress, as I think I have told you, to great, possessions. She was also fond of boating and swimming, and a path led down from North Towers straight to the shore, and of course the grounds and gardens were beautiful — a dream. There was a rose garden, Maisie— such a rose garden! Ciel! — I can smell the perfume of those roses still."

"And the house itself. Was the house real nice inside?"

"Nice?" Mademoiselle de Fontaine smiled— a faint flickering smile, "it was a house of charm— of dignity— of repose. Many dead hands had helped to make it beautiful— it was the home of successive generations, you see, ma cherie. There was a great deal of finely carved black oak about, and some good china — old dessert services and tea sets — the gold slightly faded— the flowers a little blurred by constant usage in the past. Family portraits hung in the dining-room— a goodly row— smiling Cavaliers who may have fought at Naseby— staid Tory squires in periwigs— proud beauties, patched and powdered, stiff in their brocade gowns and satin sacques. The drawing-room boasted a harpisichord, and the chairs were all worked in silk embroidery, and there were old lacquer cabinets looted in the 17th century by some dead and gone Rivers on each side of the wide old-fashioned fireplace. Oh, it was. a lovely, lovely room, and the bedrooms were just as delightful, for the windows all had lattice panes, and the four-post bedsteads had the most wonderful sets of hangings. Lucille's bedchamber was called the tapestry room because of the tapestry arras that went round the walls, and I used to think that my charge looked exactly like a lily — a slim, white lily— when I said goodnight to her at night, for the dark background of the tapestry seemed to make her clear beauty more evident— her slender grace, and her yellow hair— hair as soft and fine as floss silk— used to fall over her shoulders in gleaming waves."

Mademoiselle's eyes glowed as she spoke of the fair Lucille, then she bent towards me in the moonlight.

"She was so clever, too. She sang like ' an angel, and she played the piano beautifully— there was music in her heart I always told her — also Lucille was a great reader. She used to spend hours in the big library, or she would take a book with her if it was summer and read quietly in the woods by herself; and, indeed — indeed — Maisie, I tried my best to awaken lofty ideas and high ideals in this sweet girl's mind. I laid myself out to strengthen her character — I endeavored to make her understand that there is such a thing as the law', of compensation and that men and women can make themselves the masters of their destinies."

"And she listened to you?"

"Yes, she listened most sweetly, but as the slow years crept by and the child of sixteen blossomed and ripened into the girl of twenty, I saw that Lucille was beginning to chafe sorely against the life she was leading. She longed to call on her neighbors and make friends with them. It was absurd of her two guardians, she argued, not to allow her to know people— cruel; but never mind— when she attained her majoritv and became her own mistress she would very soon alter that— she would go out into the great world and make heaps of bright cheerful friends. Oh, she was full of plans for the future, was my dear Lucille. We were to travel round the world together— Lucille and I— and we could start on our travels on Lucille's 21st birthday. I used to listen to all these plans and say nothing, for I knew that on Lucille's 21st birthday her guardians had a communication to make to her, and I wondered if my darling charge would take it bravely or the reverse. I prayed for her— night after night I prayed, but I prayed— and therein lay my fault perhaps— that my child should be happy— I forgot to ask le bon Dieu to make her strong and courageous."

Mademoiselle paused a second, and I thought how fine her old face looked in the moonlight, but how terribly sad. I said nothing, however. I guess I sat still and waited for her to go on speaking, which at last she did.

"One day, just when it wanted four months to Lucille's twentieth birthday, I had the misfortune to sprain my ankle badly, and I had to keep to the house in consequence, and to my couch. It was early in May— such a warm beautiful May— and I did not like to keep Lucille indoors; but I thought sometimes that she left me a great deal to myself— more than she should have done— for she stopped in the woods all day. I did not like to scold her, however, for her discontented mood had completely vanished— it seemed as if the wise woods had driven it away, for Lucille would return from these long solitary rambles — her face wreathed in smiles— her eyes soft and shining— her cheeks tinted to the most lovely bloom— and I— oh, the imbecile I was!— never realised that an enchanter had been at work— that my charge had been walking in love's land, and had fallen completely under love's spell."

Mademoiselle sighed.

"I ought to have guessed, perhaps— I know the guardians blamed me bitterly enough afterwards; but how was I to imagine that a fellow-countryman of yours, Maisie— a rich young American cruising in his own yacht round the Cornish coast and spending a few days at the little inn which was situated only a mile from North Towers— right at the edge of the long straggling fisher village— would have dared to trespass into the grounds of North Towers? But Mr. Randolph had heard all sorts of stories about Lucille from his garrulous old landlord, and was determined to catch sight of the beautiful young girl. who led the life of an imprisoned princess. He was a light-hearted young man, and the tales he had heard had tired his curiosity, but when he saw Lucille as she. sat reading at the foot of the huge beech tree— why, he fell as suddenly in love as Jacob fell in love with Rachel when he came upon her drawing water at her father's well; it was yet another case of love at first sight— love on both sides."

Mademoiselle hesitated, then drew her lace shawl a little closer about her shoulders.

"I cannot blame Lucille. It was her time to love, and though she knew how angry her guardians would be when they found out about the stolen meetings that were taking place in the dark green woods that belted North Towers, she determined to risk the displeasure of the two old men and follow the dictates of her hot young heart. Gilliam Randolph was very handsome, I must tell you, ma cherie — tall and strong and dark, with a clever, clear-cut face—"

"I guess I know the type," I interrupted. It was getting quite dark on the piazza— seemed as if the moon was gradually becoming hidden, by clouds, an' maybe it was the soft dusk that hung over everything that made me feel a craving for the company of a young fellow that I knew well at home— Jabez Martin— the son of old Deacon Martin. We are to be married next fall, an' he's real splendid, an' I reckon I'd have met him in a wood in spite of fifty guardians— so I was downright in sympathy with Lucille Rivers, for Jabez is tall an' strong and dark "

"My poor Lucille." Mademoiselle's voice got somehow full of tears. "Yet do you know, Maisie, I am sometimes glad that all happened as it did happen— that my little Lucille had her love dream, for she must have been happy— happy— during the long month when I lay on my couch in the drawing room and Lucille walked with love in the green wood. I know a wonderful look came over her face— a look that puzzled me strangely, and smiles played constantly about her lips, and the blue in her eyes deepened— deepened." Mademoiselle hesitated, then she turned to me in the dim darkness and put a hand on my arm; I could feel the soft emotional trembling of her cold fingers.

"Shall I go on, ma cherie — shall I finish the story? Shall I tell you how Lucille came tripping to me one brilliant June afternoon, her cheeks glowing like, the rose, and whispered that she had a confession to make? She held out her left hand, and I caught the glitter of a diamond ring upon her third finger, and my heart sank into my shoes, for what had the child been about, I asked myself— who had given her that half hoop of diamonds?

" 'Lucille!' I cried, 'Lucille! What folly is this? Tell me what you mean?'

"She faltered for a second, then she fell on her knees by the side of my couch and hid her crimson cheeks upon my lap, whispering the whole story, telling me how she and young Gilliam Randolph had been meeting every day for the last month— meeting by stealth in the woods, and now love had made Lucille so bold that she actually begged me to see Mr. Randolph— this young man whom she had promised to marry.

"I was very angry with her— at least as angry as anyone could be with Lucille, and I told ma petite at once that she had been behaving shamefully both by her guardians and by myself— the gouvernante under whose charge she had been put, but Lucille was not at all penitent— that was the trouble of it. She would not see that she had done anything wrong. She laughed in my face and told me that I must not be silly— that it was foolish of me to scold her. Her guardians were two silly old men— two antiquated old fossils — and they did not understand what it meant to be young and alive.

See how absurdly they had behaved, she argued, in not allowing her to mix with her neighbors— in condemning her to lead the life of an imprisoned princess. Why, Gilliam said he had never heard such nonsense in all his life— that the treatment her guardians had meted out to Lucille savored of the Middle Ages— and, of course, he had some reason to think so, this fine handsome young American. But I, who knew the real reason that Lucille's guardians had had in keeping her apart from the world, shook my head and wondered what I ought to say and do. One thing was very plain, however; the two old gentlemen must be communicated with at once, and I told Lucille as much.

" 'Of course.' She nodded her head— the head brimming over with soft yellow curls. 'It is just what we want— Gilliam and I. We desire to have our engagement acknowledged. Besides, my guardians can find nothing to object to in Gilliam. He is a very rich man— he has got about eight thousand a year, so he could afford to marry me if I hadn't a farthing, couldn't he?— and if my guardians are disagreeable and refuse to allow me any of my money till I am 21— well, what does that matter? Gilliam has got enough for us both— in fact, his one regret is that I am not a poor girl. He would have loved it, he says, if I had been a beggar maid— he would have liked to give me everything — everything.'

"I could quite believe it, for as Lucille stood up in the wide old-fashioned drawing room— for she had sprung to her feet by now— she looked so lovely that I don't think any man in the world could have helped being impressed by her beauty at that moment; and she was so full of joy— so radiantly happy— that was the most tragic part of it — Lucille's radiant happiness.

" 'Lucille!' I called her to me and I put my arms about her, and I hushed her to my breast as I would have hushed a child of my own. 'I do not think your guardians will consent to this engagement. I — I do not think they will wish you to marry Gilliam Randolph.'

" 'And why not?' A note of challenge came into her voice as she asked the question. Her eyes glittered dangerously. 'What possible objection can my guardians offer to my engagement? Besides, it doesn't matter; we should simply refuse to listen to them— Gilliam and I. He is coming to dine here to-night. I am going to acknowledge him before the whole world as my future husband. I am not going to be treated like a child by my guardians any longer— I have made up my mind on that point, Mademoiselle — I intend to break free from my cage.'

"She spoke with such decision— such intense determination, that I trembled, and I realised that I must tell Lucille the truth— and yet how I dreaded it— oh, how I dreaded it!"

Mademoiselle paused, and drew a deep, deep breath, and. I could hear, the loud beating of her heart. It was quite dark on the piazza by now, and I was glad. What had to be told was best told in the dark.

"Ah, Maisie, it was terrible— terrible— telling Lucille the truth— informing my poor child that the heritage which her forbears had bequeathed to her was a cursed heritage— a fatal heritage, for though the lot had fallen to her in fair ground as far as her actual possessions went, a doom hung over her head. She was of chose who have no right to marry; there was a taint in her blood, Maisie— the taint of madness. Her mother had died insane, and so had her grandmother and her great-grandmother before her, and therefore it would be wrong-nay, more— it would be criminal of Lucille to marry— it would be a sin.

"I told her this as gently as. I could, but I felt her young body stiffen in my arms, and Lucille gave a shrill, fierce cry, ahd her face changed as I looked at her, and it was no longer the face of a lovely laughing girl— a girl who had been walking hand in hand with love— it was the. face of a stricken woman. She began to moan, Maisie, .and all the color went out of her cheeks and the light died out of her eyes, and she crouched down at my feet till her fair hair trailed the ground, and I, alas, could do nothing to comfort her.

" 'I see now why my guardians have shut me up in this house,' she moaned out at last, 'and why they have never allowed me to make friends with young people of my own age. They realised that I was a sort of leper; but, oh, why didn't they tell me the truth, or let you tell me the truth years ago, Mademoiselle? It wouldn't have come so hard upon me as it comes now.'

" 'My darling — my darling!' I bent over my poor Lucille and stroked her soft hair. 'Your guardians intended to tell you about the unhappy taint in your blood when you were twenty-one— they didn't want to cloud your youth with the news; and, my child— though you may have to give young Gilliam up, there may be yet many days and yeais of happiness in store for you. You are young, Lucille, and everything except love Is in your grasp. ' You can travel and see the world— you can mix freely with your fellows, now that you know what you know— only you must never marry.'

" 'Only I must never marry!' Lucille repeated the words bitterly— brokenly, and' she suddenly began to laugh, and her laughter was wild and terrible. 'It's too late to tell me that— it's too late, for Gilliam and I were so afraid that my guardians might make trouble and endeavor to part us from each other till I was twenty-one, that we were married this morning— married by special licence. We thought it would be safer to get married first and then confess that we had been meeting each other afterwards, so that no one would be able to part us or come between us. But of course'— Lucille flushed— 'we did not intend to go away together on our honeymoon till my guardians had been acquainted with the news of our marriage, and had more or less given their consent.' Lucille paused. 'We motored to a town a good many miles from here, and we were married in a little grey church— married till death should us part— only I wanted to break the news gradually to you, Mademoiselle—not to blurt the truth out at once. And now— now— what are we going to do— what can we do?'

"She faced me with a blank look in her eyes. She was trembling from head to foot. It was terrible to see how grey she looked— my beautiful, flower-like Lucille.

" 'Married!' I repeated the word dully. 'Oh, Lucille— Lucille— married!'

" 'Yes, and Gilliam is coming round to dinner this evening. I told him that I would have broken the news to you by then, and that I knew you would be glad— really glad — that I was going to be so happy; and now what am I going to say to him when he comes?— oh, Mademoiselle, for the love of God tell me what am I going to say?'

"I looked at Lucille steadily for a few seconds, and her face was the face of a soul in pain— in torment.

" 'Oh, my child!' I cried pitifully at last. 'What is there to say— what is there to tell this husband of yours but the truth? And you must never forget— never— in the future— that a barrier lies between you— a terrible barrier. Lucille, you have no right to bring children into the world to inherit your heritage; you understand that, ma petite, do you not?— you are a woman, and you realise it.'

" 'Yes, I understand it well enough.'

"Lucille sat down in a big chair and let her slim white hands sink helplessly into her lap, and she was quite silent for a minute or jtwo, then she suddenly looked up, and there was more light in her eyes.

" 'I shall say nothing to-night,' she said— 'nothing. We will have one happy evening, Gilliam and I, and you will not say anything either, Mademoiselle, for the sake of your poor Lucille. To-morrow— oh, to-morrow — when Gilliam comes round again, you must tell him the truth— but you will have to tell him— not me; I— I simply shouldn't have the courage. He talks of going up to London to see my guardians to-morrow — to inform them that we are married; he wishes to make settlements upon me, and all that.'

"She paused a second, a faint smile playing about her it' lips— a curiously pathetic smile.

" 'You will let us be happy to-night, will you not, Mademoiselle? It is all I ask of my dear, dear gouvernante— this one fete day. To-morrow— to-morrow— Gilliam shall be told the truth— he must realise that it would be best and wisest that our paths should divide. Perhaps the lawyers will even see a way to break the marriage bond for us— for I don't want to be a drag on Gilliam's life in the future— a thorn in his side. But, oh, let us be happy to-night!'

"What could I say to Lucille— how could I withstand her pleading? I yielded at once, and I promised her that Gilliam Randolph should dine with us that night, and that I would not reproach the young man for the runaway-marriage. Yes, the children should be happy together for one evening. I told myself— they should have their fete— these two poor unhappy children.

"Lucille kissed me and clung to me, and she gave an odd little laugh.

" 'See— I am not going to cry till to-morrow,' she exclaimed. 'I intend to forget all that you have told me and live in the present for a few hours. And now, Mademoiselle, will you see to things for me. The best china is to be used to-night— the china service that belonged to my great-great- grandmother and which they tell me is priceless; we will have out the gold plate, and let the table be decorated with white flowers, for I am a bride, you must remember; and the finest wine in the cellar— we will have that brought up, too— and I will wear my mother's jewels— the jewels that are kept in the safe in my bedroom.'

"I yielded to Lucille's whims. I promised her that all should be done as she desired, and then I took her in my arms and kissed her."

Mademoiselle paused and drew another deep long breath. The clouds were lifting— the moon was just beginning to appeal again.

"Oh, Maisie, I shall never forget Lucille when she swept down to the drawing-room that night to await her husband's arrival— her bridegroom of a few hours. She was dressed all in white— just like a bride, and she wore a starry jasmine wreath in her hair, and the diamonds — her mother's wonderful diamonds— sparkled on her breast— but her eyes were brighter— oh, far brighter than the jewels, and her face was flushed with the most wonderful color. I have never seen anyone look so lovely in all my life as Lucille as she stood by one of the wide old-fashioned windows watching and waiting for Gilliam Randolph to drive up to the house. And when he arrived she met him by the doorway and led him proudly up to me, and, Mon Dieu! what a pair they made— he  so tall and dark— so handsome— she so fair and slender. How could I help the tears starting to my eyes as I looked at them, and I railed in my heart against Fate.

"Lucille was marvellous, however. No one could- have imagined that she had a care in the world, that night. Perhaps it was her mother's, mad blood in her veins that helped her to get through the evening, and to be so gay — so marvellously gay; for as she sat at the head of her table she was like a twinkling flame. She laughed— she smiled — her gaiety was wonderful, and at last, at the end of the dinner, she drank to her husband — the young man whom I must confess for my part I found so very attractive that I did not- blame Lucille for - having lost her heart to him.

"But what was I telling you, Maisie? Oh, how Lucille rose, to drink a toast to Gilliam Randolph. She drank it out of a wonderful cut glass goblet that had been in the Rivers family ever since the time of Charles the Second. But after Lucille had drunk her toast, she gave a wild reckless laugh and flung the goblet over her shoulder, and there it crashed into a hundred fragments, and I thought she would never cease laughing; she laughed because young Gilliam Randolph looked so concerned be cause she had shattered the beautiful old glass.

" 'What does it matter, Gilliam?' she cried. 'Who is there to come after me?'

"No doubt he, thought her manner strange and her words stranger still, but he was so much in love, poor boy, that he began to laugh himself presently, and to talk about Cleopatra's pearl. And after a while he took Lucille by the hand and led her through the great French window into the garden.

"It was such a beautiful night, Maisie. The velvet sky was powdered with a million stars— the scent of roses was abroad, and stocks washed wet with dew, and I made my way to my little room— my own special parlor— and there I sat and cried till I thought ray heart would break; for it was so terrible to think of those two walking in the garden— the new. made bride and bridegroom— and to know that they would have to part ultimately, and I wondered if they would ever have the courage to say good-bye to each other, and oh, how mv heart bled for them both— how my heart bled." Mademoiselle gave a queer little cough — a cough that covered a sob I thought, and half, involuntarily I pressed her hands.

"Don't tell me any more if you feel unhappy," I whispered. "I guess it's the saddest story I ever heard."

"There is little more to tell," Mademoiselle answered. "Late— late that night— oh, it must have been close on 12— Lucille came to my room, cherie, and her hair had come down and was falling in loose waves about her shoulders, and the jasmine wreath had faded in her hair; the color had left, her lips, and the glow had departed from her cheeks, but her eyes still shone out of her pale face, and her eyes were like lamps of love.

" 'He has gone, Mademoiselle,' she said very quietly— very softly— 'and when he comes round to-morrow you will tell him the truth, will you not?— you will tell him all about my heritage.'

" 'Yes, Lucille, I will,' I answered very softly— 'unless you would rather tell him yourself.' But she only shook her head. "I opened my arms and she laid her head on my breast for' a few minutes, then she looked up in my face and smiled.

" 'You must not be too sorry for me,' she murmured. 'I have been so happy tonight. Oh, I don't think anyone in the world has. ever been happier. I am glad that I have known what love meant— 'what love means, even if I must say good-bye to love to-morrow, for it has been worth it, Mademoiselle— oh, it has been worth it.'

"She hesitated, then, because I was weeping—the tears running down my face lik? soft rain, she shook her head reproachfully.

" 'Indeed you must not cry, Mademoiselle. I do not intend to cry myself, for I have had the best thing out of life after all. I have known what love means.'

"She paused a second, then she walked out of the room, and I judged it wiser not to call her back. But oh, Maisie— Maisie— I ought not to have left Lucille that night — I know that now, only her fine courage deceived me, for next morning—" Mademoiselle's voice faltered, and she added in lower tones:

"The dawn broke wild and stormy; it was a morning of sharp squalls— brief intermittent gusts of wind and rain, but when the maids went, to call their young mistress they found her room untenanted— she had gone out notwithstanding the rough conditions of the weather. She must have dressed and gone out quite early in the morning— almost at dawn, made her way down to the seashore, got into her boat, and rowed out to sea— and the boat was found floating bottom up later, and the tide that night brought Lucille's body back to us— white and cold and drowned, Maisie— her lips locked tight— her eyes closed, and nothing to tell us how she came by her death— whether it was by misadventure, or, as I fear, by choice."

"I guess I don't blame her." The words broke from me huskily. "She just couldn't have gone on living— Lucille couldn't, knowing what she did about herself. It would have been too hard on her and too hard on him— her husband. But how did he take the news, Mademoiselle— what did he do?"

"I never told Gilliam Randolph the truth," Mademoiselle answered slowly and somewhat unsteadily. "I let him think that it was an accident — I let everybody, think that. You see I wanted Gilliam Randolph's recollections of Lucille to be beautiful happy recollections, and I made her guardians— those two stern old men— feel as I did about the matter; so to this day Gilliam Randolph believes that it was by God's will that Lucille's little boat was overtaken by a sudden squall and overturned. And how can we say it wasn't so— how can we really tell?"

Mademoiselle clasped her hands tightly together. The moon had come out again by now, and I could see her face distinctly in the pale silvery light. Her lips were working. "Sometimes I am glad— glad— that it all happened as it did," she muttered — "that Lucille loved— then died. For what does the English poet say, Maisie— the wise Tennyson?

" 'Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all.' "

A long silence fell. I thought of Jabez Martin, and I sort of nodded my head.

"I guess the poet was right," I answered. "He knew the stuff men and women are made of, and I'm glad Lucille had her hour even if it was a short hour, Mademoiselle, and if she had to pay for it with her life."

_________________

10: The Intruder

Chris Sewell

World's News (Sydney) 9 April 1927

Apart from a series of stories for various British publications starting in 1901 and ending in 1921, nothing is known of this author. This story is acknowledged in World's News as a reprint from London newspaper The Daily Chronicle with no further information.

COMPLETE with revolver and camp stool, I crossed the unhallowed threshold and made for the kitchen—only io find that I had been forestalled.

Understand, upon no other occasion should I have complained; for I love dark hair in a widow's peak upon a square brow, amber eyes which pierce disguises, and perfect teeth apt to appear on the smallest excuse; but, obviously, spook-hunting is a one-man show: else whence arrives the honor and glory?

Therefore I frowned at the girl who sat on the oak dresser, swinging her legs, and she smiled back as though I rather amused her.

"Hulloa!" she exclaimed. "May I ask—?"

I decided in favour of the unadorned truth. Besides, those eyes would have prised it out of me anyway.

"I'm ghost-hunting," I stated, "and you?"

"I'm terribly interested in ghosts."

At this I relented.

"It's jolly plucky of you to venture alone," I admitted. "I heard that no native would look at the place after sundown."

"But I'm not a native— exactly."

"Ah! You're a visitor, like myself?"

I did not catch her answer, for at that moment a sudden gust of wind slammed the kitchen door.

So I came right in, and, seating myself on the hearth, lighted a cigarette.

"I've walked from Felthamstowe in search of a thrill," I explained, "but if our visitor does not materialise between twilight and dawn it's no use waiting, they say."

"That's so," she replied, with witness-box brevity.

"D'you mind if I share your vigil?"

"Why should I?"

I smoked awhile, and I think she watched me. Shadows stole in and flickered on the ceiling.

"Perhaps, since we're both on the same errand, you'll tell me the story," I suggested. "I only heard by chance from the Feltham's chauffeur that Custover had a reputation. Just at the interesting part he was called away. Feltham himself is an incurable sceptic, I simply didn't dare to question him. I gathered that a woman was found dead here, and that the farm doesn't let; but if every place where a corpse—"

"Oh! there's more to it than that," my companion said. "I knew her."

"Well?"

"Very well. She rented Custover and tried to make it pay with poultry; but, of course, she didn't. Eventually she took poison."

"Because she couldn't make it pay?"

"No: there was a lover in the case."

"Ah!"

"Its rather banal— really. She was just inexperienced and over-trustful. She thought the lover meant marrying her."

"He was a big pot, of course?" I guessed. "They always are."

She nodded. "With an estate appallingly mortgaged. He seems to have insisted that unless he found a rich wife, it would go into the melting-pot, and then he would cut his throat. Probably he exaggerated. Anyway, he broke with Custover one October evening. There was a storm!"

"Human or meteorological?"

"Both. It was hellish weather. Nobody in the village slept a wink— and they discovered her next morning, twisted up— just where you are. She'd taken some of the poison she kept for the rats and things."

"Was his name mixed up with it?"

"No."

"I suppose I mustn't ask who he was?"

"No, you mustn't ask that."

"And you've come all this way—" (I hoped the hint would elicit her present residence), "because you were fond of the poor woman?"

"As a matter of fact, I've been before."

I yearned to inquire what had happened, but something immensely strong like a pushed-out hand kept me silent. I knew she was gazing at me intently, "stripping me with her eyes," as the French say; and all at once I felt a vulgar Thruster— a Peeping Tom, who had edged in among holy memories to eavesdrop and stare— perhaps even to shoot.

"Look here," I exclaimed, "you're too polite to tell me I'm a beastly interloper, come to spy on something that's— that's been hurt. But you think it, and— I'm going."

I jumped up.

"Can I wait outside and see you home?"

"No— really, no:— thanks all the same." (Her smile was a benediction.) "It's nice of you to understand so— quickly that this isn't a place for strangers. Somehow I thought you would— Good-bye."

"Good-bye," I said, and withdrew, leaving her to the shadows, and the shadows among the shadows.

I DID NOT MENTION my adventure to the Felthams. Apart from Feltham's animosity to the occult, I wasn't proud of my exploit.

Elva Feltham had a headache and retired early, and Feltham and I sat in his study, and squabbled until the small hours, because we had been at Oxford together, and squabbling was second nature to us. We got into a silly argument as to whether one Ghey of Balliol was clean shaven or not in his undergraduate days. To settle the question, Feltham leapt up, cigar in mouth, and reached down a red morocco photograph box from a shelf in the bookcase. In doing so, it overtured, and the contents spilled about the floor. They were mostly old photographs, but one was a modern snapshot. I picked it up, and remained staring at it, whilst my heart rattled against my ribs.

"What's amusing you?" demanded Feltham. "Look here, I've found—"

"Who's this girl?" I asked, thrusting my find under his nose.

He took it, and something flickered across his face— and was gone.

"That. Oh! a neighbor of ours. She rented Custover Farm at one time— and died."

"I fancied for a moment that I recognised her," I remarked, and indeed I had, for a widow's peak of dark hair came low on to her brow; her eyes were of the kind which rend aside all veils, and her teeth were showing deliciously. Moreover, she was sitting on a gate, and I think that just before the shutter snapped she had been swinging her legs.

And, like lightning, it came upon me (I had not remembered it before) that Feltham had done very well for himself when he made Miss Elva Biggar, of Philadelphia, Lady Feltham.

___________________

11: The Green-eyed Remedy

K. R. G. Browne

1895-1940

World's News (Sydney) 3 and 10 Sept 1927

YOUNG Betty Diamond had red hair, a tolerable income, no parents, and the temper of a beautiful fiend. Big Bill Janion, her affianced husband, owned a 41-inch chest, a passion for horticulture, and a temper in every respect as formidable as hers. The quarrel which separated them occurred when their engagement had endured for two months and three days; its origin, unlike its consequences, was insignificant. The break came when Betty, goaded beyond endurance by Bill's attitude of politely scornful indifference, secured the last word by announcing hotly that she (a) hated him, (b) would never marry him, and (c) never wanted to see him again— never. And would he please go?

Whereupon Bill, saying no more, bowed coldly, picked up his hat, and went.

By 9 o'clock of the following morning Betty's mood of bitter enmity had simmered to one of armed neutrality. Her temper, though fierce while it lasted, never lasted very long, and she was how prepared fo torget and— if suitably asked— forgive. She spent the day waiting for Bill to come crawling to her feet in order that she might be magnanimous about it according to the rules laid down for quarrels of this nature.

Bill, however, missed his cue. He showed no inclination to crawl. When three days had elapsed without a word from him, Betty realised with a sense of shock that she had been taken at her word, and that there was no one to forgive. She had told him to go, and he had most unreasonably gone; her knowledge of him assured her that he was unlikely to return in a hurry.

As a matter of fact, he did not return for three weeks, at the end of which period Betty was justifiably surprised to find him in the kitchen garden. But we anticipate....

TO BETTY, seated one fair morning beneath the solitary apple tree, came Jagger, the gardener, a venerable antique, with three teeth, chronic rheumatism, and a pessimistic outlook on life.

"Marnin', miss." said Jagger moodily.

"Good morning, Jagger," said Betty.

"Come to ask," said Mr. Jagger, massaging the small of his back with a knotted hand, "if so be's I c'n get some young felly to lend me a hand wi' the 'eavy work and such. It be too much for me these days, what wi' me rhenmatiz an' arl. 'T won't cost ye a heap."

Betty indicated a gentle sympathy.

"Of course, Jagger. Do you know of anyone?"

"Soon lay aholt of some'un down to village. Thank'ee, miss. This yer rheumatiz takes me somethin' crool these days."

Mr. Jagger knuckled his ancient brow and shambled, groaning, away.

Five minutes later the little white gate clicked. Betty, glancing up, saw advancing towards her a tall, slender, feminine figure. She sprang up with a glad cry and hurried forward.

"Ann! "How splendid! Where have you come from?"

Miss Ann Sheldon smiled cheerfully. She was an immaculate and attractive young lady, with a perpetual retinue of worshippers and a talent for amateur theatricals. She and Betty had graced the same school, and the friendship there conceived had persisted itt after life: which was no matter for surprise, for Ann's imperturbable good humor was a thing to rejoice at and cherish.

"Hullo, Betty," said this damsel. "Can you put me up for a day or two? I'm sick of town."

"Why, of course," said Betty. "You're a perfect godsend. Ann. I've had enough of my own company to last me the rest of my life. But what's wrong with town?"

"Men," said Miss Sheldon, succinctly. "I'm weary of 'em, Bet; They plague the life out of me. I simply can't keep 'em away."

"Well," said Betty, sweetly, "you don't try very hard, do you? I suppose the truth is that you've infuriated some wretched youth to the verge of suicide, and bolted here to escape the consequences."

"Have it your own way," said Ann, placidly. She draped herself gracefully upon the bench and looked appreciatively round the garden.

"Nice little place you've got here. Give me a cigarette."

Half an hour later, after a spasmodic conversation upon various of the peculiar topics dear to the feminine heart, Ann turned and bent upon her friend a level, blue gaze.

"Betty, dear," she said, "haven't you and Bill made it up yet?"

There was a short pause. "No," said Betty, tersely.

"Haven't you seen him since—"

"No."

Another pause.

"Betty, darling, I don't want to butt in, but it seems such a pity. I thought you two were such pals. What was the trouble?"

For a space Betty hesitated. Then, possibly owing to the softening influence of the morning's beauty, or more probably because no woman can exist for more than three weeks without confiding in some one, she answered with unusual meekness, and even a touch of embarrassment.

"Rice pudding," she said.

Ann started and stared at her in pardonable astonishment.

"Rice pudding?"

"Yes. He was talking about food, and said that if I ever gave him rice pudding when we were married he'd divorce me, and I said I'd give it him as often as I wanted to, and he said that was a typically feminine attitude, and I said he needn't be selfish about it. That really started it."

"I see," said Ann, in a small, rather strangled voice. "It— it seems rather a pity to— to spoil things just for that, though, doesn't it?"

Undoubtedly some strange influence was at work upon Betty.

"Yes," she admitted unexpectedly. "Though we'd had rows before, of course, over silly things. But this was worse than the others. But— but I don't know where Bill is, and I'm not going on my knees to him, anyway, if— if he doesn't want to come back." She held her head very high as she spoke, but the sunlight evoked a moist gleam from her eyes.

"No, of course not," said Ann thoughtfully. "Oh, dear! Men are so stupid! When you want them to take you at your word they don't; and when you don't, they do." With that the subject dropped.

EARLY ON the following morning Betty, glancing from her window, was faintly surprised to perceive, in the middle of the kitchen garden, Miss Ann Sheldon in animated converse with a man. Of the latter but little was visible, as his back was towards the house and he was largely concealed by a gooseberry bush; but it was apparent to the naked eye that he wore a beard and no collar. Betty, frowning slightly, made her way downstairs

When she gained the kitchen garden Ann had disappeared, but she was vouchsafed a stern view of a pair of ancient corduroy trousers, whose wearer, uncannily curved, was making great play with a trowel.

"Good morning," said Betty, with a touch of hauteur.

The man straightened his back and turned. "Good morning, miss," he answered respectfully.

For a moment Betty stared at him in a dazed silence; then she started violently and gasped. She turned pale, and then flushed hotly.

"Bill!"

"Good morning," said Bill again, as one prepared to make conversation.

Betty eyed him voicelessly. The figure before her was as unlike the original Bill as it was possible to imagine. This person wore a grey flannel shirt and incredible trousers; his erstwhile clean-shaven countenance now lurked coyly behind a formidable growth of black beard; his bare arms and the visible sections of his physiognomy were of a deep mahogany shade. Taking him all in all, an interesting, if vaguely intimidating, figure. With an effort Betty pulled herself together.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, icily.

"Gardening," said Bill, obviously surprised at such a question.

Betty's right foot began to tap rapidly upon the ground, infallible token of a mounting temper. The old sense of wrong surged up and mastered her.

"I don't know what your idea is," she said, in a tone calculated to freeze hum where he stood, "but you can go avay at once."

Her fiance, it appeared, was unfreezable.

"Dash it all, Betty, I've only just come! And this is partly my garden, you know. I laid it out in the first place."

"That doesn't give you the right to come here and annoy me."

"I shan't annoy you. I'm only going to get the garden into shape. Have a heart!  It'll go to pot if I don't take it in hand."

"Why are you dressed up in that absurd way?" said Betty, irrelevantly.

"Because it's comfortable. I've been pottering about the country for the last weeks like this. Grew a beard to save shaving soap. Oh— by the way! I can't give this this job now. You employed me."

"I— what?"

"You took me on, via old J agger. I met him in the pub last night, and he gave me the job in your name. Didn't recognise me, of course. So here I am. Nothing for you to worry about. You needn't acknowledge me If you don't want to. I'll just roll up in the morning and blow away again in the afternoon. No one'll know me in this face furniture, if that's your trouble. I've just had a chat with Ann, and she hadn't the ghost of an idea it was me. You ask her."

"Very ingenious," said Betty, scornfully. "Well, go away, and have your little game somewhere else, please." She made as if to move away.

"Oh, I see," said Bill, clearly. "You mean you're afraid."

Betty halted as if stung, and wheeled upon him.

"Afraid? Of— of you?"

"Obviously. You're scared to have me about the place in case you weaken. Knowing this is your fault, you don't want to be the first to give in. Well, to oblige you, I don't mind sparing your vanity. In a way, you know, it's a bit of a score for me." He picked up his coat, shook it, and put it on.

"Well—" gasped Betty, well-nigh dumb with fury.

This was the last, the ultimate straw. Up to this point her one anxiety (or so she really believed) had been to see her fiance off the premises; his last words, however, put the affair in a new light. Not for nothing had she red hair. To hint to Betty Diamond that fear had any place in her make-up was to arouse in her a cold rage akin to that of a professional prohibitionist accused of secret tippling. Anyone foolish enough to suggest that she was afraid to jump from the roof would have had the task of collecting her from the pavement five minutes later.

Gradually it became plain to her, regarding the bearded Bill through a mist of anger, that he had spoken a true word. To permit him to depart would be to admit a lack of faith in her own self-control. Manifestly Bill had engineered this situation in the hope that propinquity would assist him in smoothing her down and winning her over. Therefore, by allowing him to pursue his insane project, she could deal his fatuous self-complacency a pretty hefty blow. Let him see that his presence meant less than nothing to her, and his vanity must suffer. Which was greatly to be desired. She surveyed him inimicaliy.

"I don't care In the least whether you go or stay," she said, and, turning, marched away to the house. Bill watched her go, and fell again to his trowelling in the manner of one without a care in the world.

Betty entered the dining-room with a firm step and a high head. That Ann had failed to recognise Bill she found hard to believe. Certainly Ann had not seen him for over a year, while Bill's beard and musical-comedy rig-out were designed to mislead, but still—

Ann, as it happened, settled the matter at once beyond further question.. She greeted her hostess with supreme cheerfulness.

"Morning, Betty. What a day!"

"Yes," said Betty, seating herself and dispensing provender.

"I've just been talking to your gardener," pursued Ann chattily. "He seems quite a character. Unusually intelligent and rather good-looking, don't you think?"

"I hadn't noticed it"

"Do you know, he reminds me of somebody— oh?"

"What's the matter?" asked Betty, anxiously. "Fishbone?"

"I've just remembered whom he reminds me of— Bill "

Betty frowned into the coffee-pot. Fond as she was of Ann, she wished that the latter would not harp so upon Bill. It indicated a lack of tact.

"Surely not," she said.,

"It's his size and his voice, I think," went on Ann, garrulously. "I can't imagine Bill with a beard like that."

"Have some more coffee," said Betty crisply.

BREAKFAST over, the pair emerged into the garden. The morning was blue and still'; the sound of the sea came faintly to them; from the far end of the garden was audible the snapping of shears. Ann lit a cigarette and watched the smoke slide up into the quiet air.

"This," she observed, "is heaven." Her eyes roamed over the garden. What's that Jolly little red flower by the gate, Bet?"

"I don't know," said Betty frankly.

"You ought to," said Ann.  "I'll find out." She sauntered gracefully away. Betty saw her approach a stooping, corduroyed figure a short distance away, and engage in a brief conversation. The seeker after knowledge returned leisurely to her hostess's side.

"Really, Betty," remarked Ann, as she drew near, "that man of yours is very unusual. Quite educated. He gave me some frightful Latin name for that flower. Where did you find him?"

"Jagger got him somewhere," returned Betty absently.

Her mind was working swiftly. It actually appeared that Ann had not recognised Bill— unless she had some reason for concealing the fact; though, since she could, have no possible reason, for so doing, such a supposition might be dismissed at once. Ann, then, saw in Bill merely the super-gardener, the educated hireling with the gift, of tongues. Here was a situation.

Betty's first impulse was to reveal to Ann, the truth. Second thought, however, revealed, all the elements of a promising joke. Why spoil it? A moment's reflection decided her to stay her hand and permit the ingenuous Mips Sheldon to remain in ignorance. It seemed tolerably certain that by allowing events to run their course much innocent amusement might be gained, and a most salutary jolt administered to the peccant Bill.

"Come for a walk, Ann," she said.

"Do you mind if I don't, old thing," said her guest apologetically. "Williams is going to show me how to prune a rose-bush."

"Williams?"

"The gardener," said Ann, raising suprised eyebrows.

"Oh, of course. All right, run along. This afternoon—"

A deprecating cough interrupted her. At a respectful distance stood the lunatic Bill, grasping a pruning-knife. He resembled himself less than ever.

"Oh, are you ready?" said Ann. "Right."

They moved away.

Betty watched them depart, and took her seat beneath the apple-tree, prepared to be amused. For some little time she was amused. The spectacle of Ann innocently absorbing horticultural knowledge from an unrecognised Bill was one to bring joy to the most melancholy of souls, and at first Retty appreciated it to the full. As time wore on, however, and Ann showed no inclination to return to her side, she was aware of a vague sense of irritation. The pair were visible to her as they moved about the garden, examining this and investigating that; the rose-bush had been merely the overture to the performance. Slowly Betty formed the opinion that Ann, by thus neglecting her hostess for the company of a gardener, was hardly displaying the best of manners. The fact that Betty knew the said gardener's identity, while Ann did not, somehow added strength to this impression.

It was not until the luncheon gong sounded that Ann returned. She was smiling happily and plainly on the best of terms with Fate.

"Betty, darling!" she cried. "I'm so sorry! I'd no idea it was so late. I was so interested in what Williams was telling me that I didn't notice the time."

"Quite," said. Betty. "Come and have lunch. We might walk over the cliff to the village afterwards."

Ann glanced, at her almost nervously.

"As a matter of fact," she said, hesitatingly, "Williams was going to show me how to train a creeper this afternoon."

Betty looked at her quickly and then away to where Bill, in an attitude,of studied ease beneath a large shrub, was in the act of exhuming sundry sinister foodstuffs from an immense red handkerchief.

"Oh, all right," she said, after an appreciable pause. "I've got some letters to write, anyway."

"You know," volunteered Ann. as they walked away. "he's a most interesting man. I can't think why he's only a gardener. After the fools I meet in town, he's like a breath of fresh air. And he does remind me so of Bill."

"Yes?" said Betty, leading the way into the house.

TWO DAYS later Miss Betty Diamond sat before her mirror, doing things to her delightful red hair as a prelude to going to bed. She performed the accustomed ritual in an absent manner, a marked frown between her attractive brows. Now and again her right foot tapped sharply upon the carpet. Those experienced in the reading of omens would have deduced that her mind was occupied with some matter of grave import, as in fact, was the case.

The past two days had been days of considerable trial for Betty. Save at mealtimes, she had seen but little of the volatile Ann, the major portion of whose time had been devoted to the acquisition of gardening lore at the hands of the picturesque and still unrecognised Bill. The garden had become accustomed to the sight of master and pupil in earnest conclave, now concerning an incipient calceolaria, now on the subject of a backward vine. Betty, the idle spectator of her guest's education, had passed from a state of. amusement tinged with irritation first to one of unmitigated boredom, and finally to stark annoyance. Even the knowledge of her secret jest proved small consolation. Her acquaintance with Ann's character gave rise to grave doubt as to the genuineness of the latter's thirst for knowledge. From this doubt it was but a step to suspicion— suspicion that the attraction lay not in what was taught, but in the teacher. This was a disturbing conclusion, and one at which Betty had only arrived a short time ago. It seemed

incredible that Ann Sheldon, the favored of fortune, the pampered idol of masculine Mayfair, could have succumbed to the charms of one who ostensibly earned his living with a spade; but, on the other hand, the said pampered idol had long borne the reputation of being capable of anything Betty felt that in all fairness she could scarcely blame Bill. He had not gone out of his way to impress Ann; more than once, indeed, he had seemed anxious to get rid of her. The fault, then, was not his.

Betty put down her comb and sat biting her lip and frowning at her reflection. What should she do? The obvious course seemed to be to reveal Bill in his true colors, but this step was. one that she was curiously loth to take. So much explanation would be necessary and— and people would laugh when they heard of it. And then—

Her meditations were shattered by a soft tap at the door and the entry of Ann herself, looking peculiarly disturbing in some pink, shapeless garment, and inadequate bedroom slippers. ..

"May I come in. Bet? I'm not a bit sleepy." She sank into an arm-chair, extracted a cigarette from some obscure sitting-out place in her raiment, and sighed happily.

"I've had a heavenly time here, old thing," she remarked. "I'm most frightfully obliged to you for putting me up."

"Very glad to have you," said Betty.

"You know," said Miss Sheldon, absently, "one gets most awfully sick of the way one has to live in town. Dinners, dances, theatres— theatres, dances, dinners. And men; men all the time. And such men! Tailors dummies with fleas' brains, all of them. Not a real man in the lot of them. It's a rotten sort of life, Bet."

"Don't live it, then," said Betty.

"I don't think I shall much longer," said Ann, gazing at the ceiling. There was a short pause; then, "Bet, you remember Daisy Mannering, who married her father's chauffeur two years ago?"

"I remember. Silly little fool."

"That's what everybody said at the time, of course. But I met her the other day, and she's perfectly happy. Irving in two rooms somewhere, and awfully bucked with life. You know, Bet. old thing, I think people talk an appalling lot of rot about marrying beneath one and all that. What does it matter what the man is so long as he is a man? I can't see the importance of wearing a collar and belonging to the Bath Club. I think— hullo! Tired, old girl?"

"I am rather," said Betty, a trifle faintly. "If you don't mind "

"Of course not," said Miss Sheldon, rising, "It's time I went to bed myself. I've got to be up early to-morrow. Williams says I ought to see the garden with the dew on it. Good night, darling."

Oh— I nearly forgot," said Betty, hurriedly. "I— I'm most terribly sorry, Ann, but— but I've got to go back to town for a while. Some— some lawyer's business. I'll have to shut the cottage up. I'm afraid. I hate to send you away, of course—but—"

Ann's face fell noticeably.

"What a nuisance! Never mind. If It can't be helped. You'll want me to clear out at once. I suppose? I can go on to the Farquhars at Sharrowby, then. I've got a standing invitation. When you come back—"

"Yes, yes," said Betty. "I'll let you know. Good night, Ann."

Ten o'clock of the following morning found Miss Betty Diamond standing In the porch, waving farewells to her departing guest, as the latter was borne away in her car along the narrow white road. When the gesticulating Ann had vanished round the corner. Betty sighed, and was about to re-enter the house when the sound of an approaching footstep gave her pause.

Before her stood Bill. But a very different Bill from the unkempt laborer of the previous day. Gone were the beard, the corduroys. the flannel shirt; in their stead were a bronzed, clean-shaven countenance, slightly pale round the jaw, and an immaculate suit of tweeds.

"I say, Betty," said Bill briskly. "I wonder if I might borrow the car? I've got to get to town in a hurry. I'll send it back to-morrow."

Betty started; her glance turned aside, and fell upon the corner where she had last seen Ann.  Bill— was it possible? She was aware of a stinging sensation behind her eyes, but fought it back manfully.

"Certainly," she answered, composedly.

"Thanks," said Bill, and swung away. Betty stood for a moment as if welded to the ground. Then slowly the color came back into her face, and her eyes gleamed. Her foot tapped upon the ground, and her chin became suddenly prominent. She cast a quick glance round, drew a deep breath, and began to make her way almost furtively towards the garage.

An hour later the small grey two-seater swung into the road and headed Londonwards. Bill, seated behind the wheel, stared ahead with a faintly anxious smile twisting the corners of his mouth.

On the crest of the hill the car slowed and stopped. Bill made no move, but scanned the surrounding country, as if in search of something. Presently he nodded, climbed out and became busy with the engine. He was thus engaged when a small voice smote upon his ear.

"Bill."

"Hullo" said Bill, straightening up. He perceived that the speaker's face betrayed symptoms of an unwonted nervousness.

"Bill," said Betty haltingly. "I— I— there won't be any rice pudding unless—unless you ask for it."

Bill's face lit up with a great light, and. be took a hugo stride forward. ...

When in due course they returned to earth, it was Betty who spoke.

"Bill, you're not— I mean, Ann didn't— c—"

"Oh, Ann!" said Bill. "Thank goodness she's gone. Now I can put in some solid work on that garden. Hop in. We've none too much time."

"Then where," said Betty, "are you going?"

"London. With you."

"We can't," said Betty, giggling. "I practically emptied the petrol tank before you started. I didn't want you to— to get very far, you see."

"I know," said Bill. "I saw you. So I filled it up again."

"Oh," said Betty meekly. She climbed Into the car. Then: "But why are we going—"

"In my pocket," said Bill, letting in the clutch, "is one of those useful special licenses, and the Archbishop of Canterbury or one of his opinions is waiting at the other end. Is it a go, Bet?"

Betty's shoulder pressed against his. "It's a go, Bill," she said.

IN THE circumstances it is perhaps as well that young Mrs. Janion has no knowledge of the telegram written and despatched by her husband's hand that same evening. It was brief but significant:—

"Sheldon. 23 Ridley Street, W.1.—It worked. Married this morning. Eternally grateful.—Bill."

________________

12: The Phantom Drug

A. W. Kapfer

Weird Tales, April 1926

Reprinted, Weird Tales, Nov 1939

This is the only known story by A. W. Kapfer.  No other information is available.

THIS document, written in a clear, bold hand, was found in the burned ruins of an old insane asylum. The records of this institution had been saved, and upon investigation it was found that an eminent drug analyst was confined within its walls for one of the most horrible crimes ever recorded. He was judged and found insane after telling, as his defense, a fantastic story which was interpreted as a maniac’s delusion. After reading his story, which coincides so well with the known facts, one cannot help but wonder....

IT’S night again— one of those threatening, misty nights that you see in dreams. I’m afraid of it— it returns like a mockery to goad my memory to greater torture. It was on a night much like this that it happened; that horrible experience that gives my mind no rest— that fear that gives shadows ghostly forms and lends an added terror to the scream of an insane inmate. They put me in a madhouse because they judged me insane— me, whose mentality is so inexpressibly superior to those that judged me mentally unbalanced.

They wouldn’t believe the facts I told them— said my story was the fabrication of an unsound mind, as an alibi for the horrible crime I had committed. I swore on my honor that I had told the truth, but even my friends refused to believe me; so it is with little hope of winning your credence that I leave this written document. But here are the facts.

I was at work in my laboratory analyzing some drugs that I had received in a new consignment from India. A tube, which contained a phosphorescent liquid, attracted my attention and I read the note my collector had sent with it.

He stated that it was supposed to have the power of transforming the mind of a human into the body of an animal; a superstition which the natives of the inner jungle firmly believe. They claim it is compounded from the brains of freshly slain animals, each brain containing an amount of this substance relative to its size.

I naturally scoffed at the claims for this drug, but decided to test it on one of my laboratory animals so that I could place it in its proper category. I injected a small amount into the system of a rabbit and watched closely the reaction. For a minute it was motionless except for the natural movements of breathing. Then its eyelids closed slowly until they were completely shut and it appeared to be in a deep lethargy. For half a minute more there appeared no change; then its eyes flicked open and I looked, not into the timid eyes of a rabbit, but those of a scared animal.

With a sudden spring it leaped for the laboratory light, which was suspended by a chain from the ceiling. Its paws, however, were unfitted to grip the chain or the sloping reflector, and it fell to the floor only to spring frantically at the curtain in a vain attempt to climb it. Another leap sent it to the top of a cabinet, where it upset several bottles, which fell to the tiled floor and smashed.

This aroused me from my stupor and I endeavored to catch it. I might as well have tried to catch its shadow. From cabinet to mantel, from mantel to curtain, curtain to shelf, leaving a trail of spilled and broken bottles in its wake. As it sprang about, strange squeaky barks came from its throat.

Perspiring and out of wind I gave up the chase, picked up an overturned chair and sat down to ponder the matter out. I observed the rabbit’s actions closely. Now it was on a shelf looking at its short stump of a tail and chattering excitedly. Then it rubbed its ears and seemed startled at their length.

I wondered what was the explanation of this. It flew around like a monkey. A monkey— that was it. The drug made animals act like monkeys. Then the claim of the natives was true and the drug did have the power of performing a transition! I wondered if the drug always had the same result and decided to test it again on a white mouse that I took from another cage.

I carefully injected a small amount into its bloodstream. After a minute had expired, during which it made no move, it began to twitch about. The blood was pounding in my temples and my eyes were glued to its quivering form. Slowly it roused from its stupor and then stood on its hind legs while it flapped the front ones by its side.

"What the deuce ’’ I began. Then I understood. The drug affected each animal differently, dependent on the amount of the dose. As I arrived at this conclusion I noticed the rabbit was hopping about in its natural way, all trace of its former erratic movements gone. Never before in my experience had any drug such a startling effect on the brain as to give it the complete characteristics of a different animal.

M y old and dearest friend, Rodney Caleb, was living with me and I went to his room to tell him what had occurred. He was lying on the bed covered by a heavy blanket which did not entirely conceal the hulking form, once the proud possessor of enormous strength, now robbed by sickness and old age. He was twenty years older than I. He liked to talk of the days when his prowess was commented upon where strength and courage counted. His voice still held some of its old timbre as he greeted me and noticed my excitement.

"Hello,” he said. "Something interesting happen?”

With eager enthusiasm I detailed the effects the drug had had on the rabbit and the mouse. I could tell, from the expression on his face, that he was intensely interested, but when I had finished he lay back on his pillow as if in deep thought.

"Doc,” he said quietly, "I think that at last I am going to have my wish fulfilled.”

I looked at him uncomprehendingly.

"You know,” he said, growing excited, "you know how I’ve longed to have my old strength back again, or, at least to be active for a time; well, there you have the substance that can perform that miracle.”

"What do you mean?” I gasped "Why can’t I take some of that drug,” he reasoned, "and control the body of some animal for a while?”

"Rodney, you are crazy,” I cried aghast. "I will not consent to your doing such an insensate thing. It would mean your death within a few minutes. Can you imagine yourself as a monkey, hopping and swinging about, with that old body of yours? It could never stand the strain.”

"You forget something,” he smiled.

"What?” I asked.

"My mind would no longer control this body, but that of some active and healthy animal.”

"I should say not ” I began, then stopped and reasoned the matter out. The rabbit had been controlled by a monkey’s mind; what happened to the rabbit’s mind? It was only logical to suppose that they had been exchanged and that some monkey in far-off India had been hopping about like a rabbit during the transition.

"It is probable,” I admitted, "that you would be controlling another body, but you forget that your body would be controlled by an animal’s mind. That would be far more risky, as was proved by the rabbit’s antics in tire laboratory.”

"You can take care of that,” he argued, "by giving me a potion to numb the motor area of my brain, and by giving me a sleeping-powder. Then, no matter what impulse is aroused, it cannot be carried into an action.”

I pondered his words carefully, and had to admit to myself that his reasoning was plausible. Rodney pleaded his cause with desperate earnestness.

"Here am I, an old man, chained to a bed for the rest of my life— a year or so at the most. Life holds little attraction for me, handicapped as I am. My body is weak, but the spirit of adventure is still strong within me. Surely you cannot deny me this favor; if not to gratify the wish of an old man, then on the claim of our friendship.”

"I have but one thing left to say,” I replied, "and that is— if you take some of this drug, then so will I.”

Rodney hesitated at involving me in his rash wish.

"It is not necessary for you to do so,” he said. "You are healthy, and in the name of your profession you owe the world a service. Nothing claims me.”

"Nevertheless, that arrangement stands,” I said. "Do you think I could ever bear to have anything happen to you through this enterprise, without my sharing it? Never. We have stood together in all things in the past and will continue to do so until the end.”

Rodney placed his hand on mine. Neither of us spoke for a few minutes, but we felt the bond of friendship more closely than ever before.

“I can’t ask you to risk it,” he said huskily, and tried to hide the disappointment that his voice betrayed.

"And I cannot refuse your wish,” I replied. "Besides, it is in a way my duty to undergo an experience that may prove of value in research. I must admit that I feel thrilled at the prospects of this adventure too. When shall we try it?”

"I am ready now,” he replied. "What preparations are necessary?”

"Hardly any,” I said. "I’ll go down to the laboratory to get the sedatives and a hypodermic needle for this drug. I may as well bring my safety kit along.”

Before I locked the back door I glanced out into the night. The air was surcharged and oppressive, and the uncanny stillness that precedes a storm sent a chilling premonition over me.

I locked the door, gathered the articles I needed and returned to the bed- room.

"An electrical storm is coming up,” I said.

Rodney did not answer. His eyes were on the tube containing the phosphorescent rug. He was breathing faster and becoming excited and impatient.

"Better quiet down a bit, Rod,” I admonished. My own heart was pumping strangely and the air seemed exceedingly warm. I thought it best to hide my perturbation from him, however. An unexpected crash of thunder made our nerves jump.

"We’re as nervous as a couple of kids on their first pirate expedition,” laughed Rod. His voice was high-pitched and taut.

I mixed a sedative and a sleeping-potion for him and a stronger mixture for myself. These we drank. Then I took off my coat, bared my left arm and bade Rod roll up his pajama sleeve.

"We shall not feel the effects for a minute or two,” I told him, "and by that time the potion we drank will start its work. Just lie quiet.”

I forced my hand to be steady as I injected the drug into his arm, then hastily refilled the needle chamber from the tube and emptied it into my own arm. Rodney had put his hand by mine as I lay down be- side him and I clasped it fervently. A drowziness crept over me as the seconds slipped by; then — something snapped, and I knew no more.

AN UNFAMILIAR atmosphere surrounded me when my mind began to function again. Slowly the haze wore away and I stirred restlessly as strange impressions flooded my brain. I was among a heavy growth of trees, rank grass and bush. My nose felt peculiar to me; then I cried out in wonder. It was not a faint ejaculation that came from my throat, however, but a roar— a volume of sound that made the very earth tremble, and with good cause; for I, or rather my mind, was embodied in an elephant. My nose!— it was now a trunk!

I became intoxicated with the thought of the strength I now possessed, seized a tree with my trunk, and with a mighty tug, pulled its roots from the ground and hurled it aside. My cry of satisfaction was a boom that rolled like a peel of thunder.

A low growl sounded behind me and I swung my huge bulk quickly around. A tiger lay crouched in the undergrowth. I raised my trunk threateningly and stamped angrily, but the beast did not move. Then I looked into its eyes and understood. It was Rodney! He had possession of a tiger’s body!

He was overjoyed at my recognizing him, and although we could not talk to each other, we showed our pleasure plainly enough. He gloried in the agility and strength that were now his, and took prodigious leaps and flips in a small clearing.

Finally, tired and winded from his play, he came to me and rubbed his back against my leg, purring like an immense cat. With a flip of my trunk I swung him on my back and raced through the jungle for miles. A river cut its way through this wilderness and we drank our fill— a gallon of water seemed but a cupful to my stupendous thirst. I was amusing myself by squirting water on Rodney when a roar came from a distance, accompanied by heavy crashings.

We faced the direction of the disturbance and waited breathlessly. Over the top of the waving jungle grass there appeared the head of an angry elephant. That its temper was up was all too plain. Its ears stuck out from its head like huge fans and its upraised trunk blasted forth a challenge as it charged along.

I looked anxiously at Rodney. The light of battle was in his eyes and I knew that he would be a formidable ally. It was too late to flee. My opponent was too close and the river was a barrier which, if I tried to cross, would give my adversary the advantage of firmer footing. My temper was aroused also, and as it was not my own body that was at stake, I did not fear the coming conflict. The huge elephant facing me charged, and I met him half-way. Two locomotives crashing together would not have made that glade tremble more than it did when we met.

My enemy gave a scream of fear and pain when we parted and I soon saw the reason why. Rodney had waited until we were locked, then had launched himself at the throat of my rival. He had sunk his teeth deep into its tough hide and was tearing the flesh from its shoulder and chest with his bared claws.

All this I had seen in an instant, and as the monster turned on Rodney, I charged it from the side, driving both tusks deep in. Almost at the same instant Rodney severed its jugular vein. The elephant trembled, swayed, and toppled to the ground.

I was unhurt except for an aching head, the result of the first onslaught, but Rodney had not fared so well. As we turned from our fallen adversary I noticed that one of his legs had been crushed. The light of victory was in his eyes, however, and he seemed happy despite the pain he must have been suffering.

It was then that I noticed a change coming over me; a sort of drowsiness. At first I thought it was due to the exertion I had just gone through, but as its effect became more marked and insistent, I realized with a tremor of terror what it really was. The elephant’s mind was trying to throw my own out of possession of its body!

I glanced at Rodney apprehensively to see if he was undergoing the same change. He was still in complete control. Then the truth dawned on me. The immense bulk I had been dominating had absorbed the power of the drug faster than the body Rodney controlled!

I hurried to his side and tried to make him understand that he should crawl into the jungle and hide until the effect of the drag had worn off. It was of no use. The more I stamped and raged, the more his eyes smiled at me as though he thought I was trying to show him how pleased I was at our victory.

More and more insistent and powerful did the elephant’s mind become. It began to get control of its body and fixed its eyes with a baneful glare on Rodney’s recumbent form. I struggled desperately to wrest control from that conquering mind, but in vain. The drug’s force was ebbing fast.

One last warning I managed to blast out, and Rodney faced me. Horror of horrors! He thought I was calling him! Slowly and painfully he crept toward me. My thoughts became dim, and I struggled, as if in a dream, to conquer again the huge bulk he was approaching, but it was too late.

The monster I had once controlled was in almost complete possession now, and I was but an unwilling spectator viewing things through a veil that grew steadily heavier.

When Rodney was but a few feet away the body under me reared in the air— a flash of fear showed in Rodney’s eyes as he realized the awful truth— and as his shrill scream rent the air, I was swallowed into blackness.

I DON’T know how long I lay in a daze, in Rodney’s bedroom. Consciousness came back slowly. As events crowded themselves into my mind, I felt for Rodney’s hand. It was not by my side. I sat up in bed, weak, and trembling all over.

At first I did not see him; then— I screamed in terror!

Rodney lay beside the bed, every bone in his body broken as though something weighing several tons had crushed him!

_________________

13: The Cruise of the Vega

Lieutenant Edgar Gardiner

Weird Tales, July 1929

The author contributed a small number of stories to Oriental Stories Magazine and Weird Tales, 1929-1932. Nothing else can be found.

I HAVE been told a hundred times or more that the story, The Cruise of the Vega, has set a new high mark in romantic historical novels, that it bears the deft, sure touch of a master, and that it transports the reader to the time and the place of the Conquistador heroes as never such a tale had done before. Perhaps even more often I have been complimented on the accuracy with which I followed that recently discovered account that had lain buried in the Spanish archives, to be finally exhumed almost simultaneously with that great story. It has been a source of amazement to the historians that I boldly discarded all of their preconceived thoughts of the Conquest; that I disregarded those inaccuracies completely and struck boldly out in an entirely unexpected direction.

They have asserted that I must have been the first to read that hitherto unknown manuscript and base my story on it alone; they point out that even the names of the gentlemen-at-arms are retained in the story with commendable accuracy.

I am but now come from a dinner given in honor of this newest literary and historical prodigy which is myself, where I listened again to fulsome praise and adroit questions. Where did I obtain my heroes? Why did the great galleon, Vega, strike out due north instead of northwesterly, and so land in an entirely unsuspected quarter? And above all, where did I obtain my remarkable knowledge of the customs and dress and habits of that far-off time? of Indians as well as Spanish grandees? True, of the Indians no vestige now remains; they and their customs have long since gone to the limbo of forgotten things; but much of what I had written so sympathetically and withal so authoritatively was borne out by vestigial fragments found in the scanty narratives of the time.

The ladies have surrounded me eagerly, to talk of my Don Sebastian and of that wonder princess, to talk of my little Miguel whose downward path was such a poignant sorrow, yet who redeemed himself so magnificently in the end.

Yet I have steadfastly declined to enter into controversy, to explain, to talk in any way upon that monumental work; and for that I have been praised all undeservedly. My interviewers have written columns about my unassuming modesty, my poise; the thousand and one bits of tittle-tattle that envelop the great and the near-great. They have used countless columns in speculation as to the next great thing that may be expected from my pen, while I sit as mute and inscrutable as the Sphinx.

But I will talk tonight; indeed, I must talk or else go mad. I must tell the bald truth, incredible as it may seem; and tomorrow, when all the world shall know, then perhaps someone may rise who can explain and, explaining, relieve me of my doubts and fears and worries.

If I have not spoken about The Cruise of the Vega, it is not because I did not wish to do so. When all the world was reading it and talking of it, wondering, arguing, questioning, I wanted to do likewise— I, whose name appeared in gold lettering beneath its title on the gaudy, soul-stirring illustrated cover. Yet I was the one man who could not question and exclaim; my questions must be forever stifled, for I was its author. The gods on high must laugh at that, even as the world will do tomorrow! But I must make haste and write lest my courage fail me even now.

I need not weary you again with the story of my early beginnings when I studied till far into the night, ambitious to master the writer’s art. Nor need I tell you of those early failures when each story came back to me like a homing pigeon times without number, and I faced the fact that such a craft was not for me. That has been told and retold in all its myriad changes by interviewers who seized upon the little they could find and magnified it out of all proportion. No; I shall tell the tale of The Cruise of the Vega, and you who read this shall judge its worth.

IT WAS in that hour of deepest despondency, when I knew myself for what I was, an utter failure, that it first came to me. Night after night I tossed sleeplessly; day after day I wrote interminably, only to tear up all that I had written and cast the fragments aside. Well might I be desperate as I saw myself sinking inescapably into the quagmire of mediocrity.

Came the fateful night when before my sleepless eyes I saw the w arm brown walls and spires of that wonder city gleaming above the waving jungle greens; saw the proud Armada of mighty Spain bowing, dipping, swinging before its crescent of white beach. Like a brilliant-colored motion-picture the scene unrolled vividly before me. Oh, for the pen of a master to write down what I saw there! But, alas! I was only a bungler!

Night after night I saw that panorama unroll before me until I began to look for its appearance, even as I looked for my long periods of sleeplessness. And night after night I rose in desperation, to sit at my desk trying to put it all down on the bald white paper, only to compare my poor weak efforts with the brilliant pageantry of the original and grow more despondent than ever.

At last came a night when even the gorgeous vision failed me, and I sat in sleepless misery over my desk with the blank, lifeless paper before me. Oh, that I might see those raw white sheets glow with the life and color of my dreams, I thought, as I dropped my burning face upon my arms and pulled my dressing-gown the closer against the night’s damp chill! I must have dropped asleep at last, there before my desk; for I awoke only when the birds in the trees without began their praise of a new-born day. Wearily I arose and stretched my cramped, aching limbs. The glories of that new day had no joys for me. I saw only a drab, dull vista of another failure ahead. Idly I picked up the scattered sheets, the litter of blunted pencils. Had I then, after all, written through the night just passed? But no; that could not be, else I should have remembered it. Anxiously I looked over those scattered sheets that I was gathering up— more food for the ravening maw of the ever-yawning waste-basket.

I read the page; with quickened interest I found the next, then feverishly went through the entire dozen. I had never seen that fine, neat script before; certes, it was altogether unlike my own coarse, angular scrawl; but I was in no mood to ponder upon such trifles as these, for before my delighted eyes glowed that wonder that had recurred to me so often; in all its glowing color and life the mighty Armada and the gleaming battlements of the Spanish Main were passing before me.

Yes, and more! Woven throughout its warp and woof was a tale as precious as old wine ; that stirred my blood: a tale to quicken the pulse of young and old alike! Though I could not write, yet I knew a master tale when I read it, and here was a story that only a Sabatini could write! And then my heart sank like lead: the story was incomplete; it stopped short in mid-stride!

Half the day I sat there, trying desperately to pick up that broken thread, to bring the story to a triumphant conclusion, only to east each halting, futile effort into the ever-ready basket at my feet. I tossed my latest bit disconsolately aside as the afternoon shadows lengthened and acknowledged utter failure.

Yet I could not bring myself to east that beginning after the abortive efforts of the day. Might I not catch the thread once more after typing the precious sheets, I wondered? Obedient to the impulse. I drew the aged, battered machine forth and painstakingly ground out the dozen sheets; but it was no use: I was as hopeless as before.

The hours slipped by unnoticed while I toiled desperately but ever more hopelessly, writing feverishly, only to cast my efforts aside with a groan, then try again with no better result. Midnight chimed from the darkened village before I gave it up and sought my bed.

Again a new day flamed in the east and again it found me cramped and shivering before my desk, chilled to the bone in spite of my warm dressing-gown that had once been an Indian blanket of a weave now seldom seen. And again my dazed eyes took in the litter of dulled pencils and scattered sheets that bore the same fine, careful hand I had seen once before. And again my heart flamed with delight as I read further of that epic tale.

Once more I typed those closely written sheets, nor did I try, this time to aid by my poor weak efforts its unfinished end. When that task was done I walked alone in the cool green woods with a curiously uplifted heart. Something within me gave me cheer for the first time in months; something assured me that on the morrow I should find another heap of manuscript and a furtherance of that tale that so enthralled me.

And so, from day to day, from night to night, I slaved, the servant of an unknown, the unconscious, uncomprehending pawn of I knew not what destiny, and with each new sun the sheaf of typewritten manuscript in the locked bottom drawer of my desk grew ever larger and more absorbing until the day came when it was finished; all save the title, for title it had none, nor foreword, nor author. There it lay for weeks while I threshed out in my mind what course to pursue.

I knew the tale was worthy of the highest in the printer’s art. Were it published it would flame meteor-like across the literary world— the crowning triumph of a master. But dare I publish it ? And if I did, whose the name it should bear? Surely, not mine, for I was but the typist who copied endlessly the work of one far greater than myself.

With fear and trembling, I sent it out at last, adding to it only the title which it bears, and speedily I heard from it again. It was accepted with delight. From the thin envelope of acceptance fell a check that made me gasp, and within a few short weeks I was famous. Though I had signed no name to that bulky manuscript, yet the publishers had put my name beneath the title.

That first check I banked at once and each succeeding check of the mounting royalties went the way of the first, nor did I touch that money, for it was not mine, any more than the book was mine.

If I have not commented on The Cruise of the Vega, it has been that I did not care to criticize the work of another, and that one a master such as I can never be. Yet my heart is like a stone within my bosom. At the bank under my own name lies a sum that belongs to the unknown who nightly wrote at my humble desk. Who he may be I can not guess. Is that neat fine script that I  transcribed a very record of truth, indeed? Was it the disembodied spirit of one of those Conquistadores come back at this late date to write by my hand his memories of that unforgettable trip with a vividness and a color that we of a later age may not hope to equal, much less surpass? If not such an one, who then? Alas! I do not know. Perhaps this side of the Great Adventure I may never know.

The literary world is agog with speculation. What will be the next great thing to come from my pen? What will be the next from one who has shown such artistry and mastery of that romantic age? My pen, indeed! Will there be a next? Or does that unseen, unknown now lie forever mute?

______________

14: The Warburton Mystery

Clarence Herbert New

1862-1933

Blue Book May 1934

ABOUT the time that Dr. Seth Warburton received an appointment on the consulting staff of a well-known hospital, he had reached a degree of eminence in his profession which insured him an independent income. He'd built up his reputation in South Orange until special cases, recommended to him by his patients, came from Manhattan, Brooklyn and many outlying districts. With the wide extension of his practice, a more central location had been found necessary, and a four-story brownstone house had been purchased in Manhattan, near Central Park.

When they had been in this house two years, and the Doctor had become a man of moderate wealth, Mrs. Warburton died. This left Marcella, a lovely girl of twenty, as housekeeper for her father. During the next five years, his reputation as an exceptional surgeon and a general practitioner became almost nation-wide.

One sunny morning, a South Orange patient of many years' acquaintance had come to Warburton for a consultation in regard to his wife, who had been ill for nearly a year and seemed to be getting no better. Warburton had called a specialist in consultation on her case, but found the other man entirely in agreement with his diagnosis. Infection from a tumor was attacking the lumbar nerves until the pain, at times, was very severe. Warburton was one of those rare practitioners who never operated if there seemed any other way of effecting a cure, and he had tried various treatments in hope of improving Mrs. Coverley's condition without using the knife— but within the last forty-eight hours had decided there was no other way out of it. All this, he explained to her husband.

"When would you want to do it, Doctor?" inquired Coverley, at length.

"Oh— let's put that up to her. Knowing her temperament as I do, I think she'd rather get it over as soon as possible. You go home and have a talk with her."

That afternoon Warburton was given a telephone message saying that she would be ready Saturday, if he could arrange it. This he had no difficulty in doing....

The next afternoon Doctor Warburton performed an entirely successful operation upon Mrs. Coverley. Subsequently, he was driven home as usual, but went out again before dinner on an emergency call from one of his patients in Brick Church, which so detained him that he telephoned he would have to eat dinner at his old club in South Orange.

HE was driving toward the club after dark, along one of the narrower, tree-shaded streets, when a man emerged from the shadows along the sidewalk and jumped upon the running-board. An arm reached through the open window, jammed the muzzle of an automatic hard against the Doctor's side, and fired two shots into him.

To the chauffeur, Judson, they sounded like blow-outs, a short distance to the rear. He instinctively came almost to a stop, but as the car seemed to be riding all right, he went on to the club.

When the Doctor didn't open the door, Judson got out of his seat and looked inside. Warburton was sagged back into one corner as if greatly fatigued; but he didn't move— or answer, when Judson asked if anything was the matter. Suddenly, the chauffeur knew— and trembling with horror so that it was an effort to snap out of it, he ran up the club steps to ask the doorman if Dr. Amberley was in the building, or Dr. Graham— both old friends of Warburton's.

Amberley happened to be just coming from dinner when Judson grabbed his arm and hurried him out to the car. After one glance, Amberley sent the chauffeur in again after Graham, who was in the billiard-room. They carried the body inside and up to one of the sleeping-rooms. Some of the members went out to look the car over, but there didn't seem to have been any damage to that, and Judson had locked the doors, so no further attention was paid to it at the time....

Meanwhile, Marcella and two of her girl friends had been chatting comfortably over their dinner. Then three young men called to escort them to a show. As the party was leaving the house, Miss Stevenson — the secretary-nurse — asked Marcella where her father was, and what time he would be home, explaining:

"I've just had a telephone message that Mrs. Coverley is out of the ether— pulse and temperature fine— and she's asking for her husband. Mr. Coverley is out somewhere getting his dinner, but they expect him in any minute— and they want to know how long the Doctor thinks it'll be safe for him to stay."

"He went over to see Mr. Pendleton, at Brick Church— and telephoned that he'd get his dinner at the club in South Orange. You can probably catch him there, Ella," said Marcella hastily. "The boys are calling for me— we haven't much time!"

"Will you be late home, tonight ?"

"Oh, twelve or one, I suppose. They'll want supper and a dance after the show. Don't let anyone wait up for me— I have my keys."

HE hadn't been gone ten minutes when Miss Stevenson was informed what had happened. After a stunned moment or two, she called one of the doctors who took Warburton's cases when he was away.

"Dr. Joyce, I've something startling to tell you! Dr. Warburton has been hurt— very badly— over in Jersey. Simply impossible for him to attend to his cases. From what he has said at various times, I think he would wish you to look after Frank Levering, Dorothy Sedgwick, and old Mr. Bloom. Dr. Amberley of South Orange is a family friend of the Coverleys— I'll have him come over and attend that case. Until Mrs. Coverley is considerably stronger, we'll have to be careful what we tell her. You must caution Mr. Coverley not to let his wife know, tomorrow."

"But what was it, Miss Stevenson? What's happened to Warburton?"

"They'll telephone me later, and give me the details. But please ask everybody to keep quiet and not discuss this among the patients."

A the club in South Orange, the chief of police and the coroner had been sent for. Tom Raynor, a star reporter on the Sun, was a member of the club and a friend of the police chief— and was just finishing his dinner when Warburton was brought in. Having known Raynor for several years, Amberley made no objections to his being with them while he and Graham examined the body.

"No question as to poor Seth's being dead," said Amberley after a moment. "Those bullets have torn a hole through lungs and heart!" Then he turned to the chauffeur, who had accompanied them: "Judson, tell us what you know about this! Didn't you hear the shots?"

"I heard two reports that sounded like blow-outs a little ways back of us, Doctor— (wasn't driving very fast— holes in the pavement)— and slowed down to see if any of my tires were down, But they were all full— so I supposed the sounds had nothing to do with us and came right on to the club. When the Doctor didn't get out, I opened the door and looked in. He was slumped back in the corner. I just touched his knee, and then— well, I ran up the steps and asked for you or Doctor Graham— whichever I could get quickest."

Raynor was rapidly jotting this down in his notebook.

"About where were you when you heard those reports?"

"Six or eight blocks down the street— where the trees are pretty thick overhead and the sidewalks dark in spots."

"You saw nothing of anybody on the running-board, or hurrying away in any direction?"

"Not a sign of anyone, sir. There were other cars within half a block— but none of 'em were paying any attention to me, and there was nobody on their running-boards."

"Anyone seem to be hanging around while you were waiting at the Pendleton house in Brick Church?"

"There was a car parked just behind me when the Doctor got out and said he'd telephone Miss Marcella about eating over here at the club— but there was no chauffeur on the front seat or anywhere in sight. Man came out of the Pendleton grounds while I was waiting there, and drove off in the other car— evidently somebody who'd been calling on the family. Aside from him, and folks passing on the sidewalk, nobody was hanging round or paying any attention to our car— no other machine could have been following us or I'd have seen it when I stopped for traffic, coming down from Brick Church."

"Do you know of any argument or difference of opinion that anybody had with the Doctor, lately?"

"I never heard anyone talking sore with him since the first day he hired me, over nine years ago. If he ever felt sore at a man, you never knew it—and no guy ever had any cause for gettin' mad at him. He was too busy—and he wasn't that kind!"

"Suppose he may have been shot by mistake— taken for some one else?"

"By thunder!.... I guess you've got it, Doctor! Must've been that— couldn't have been anything else! But— my gosh! Why couldn't the mistake've been made on some no-account guy that nobody cared about!" Judson irritably fished out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes.

THE local police chief entered— a man still under forty with a well-deserved reputation for ability and intelligence. The coroner followed him.

After that official had made a close inspection of Warburton, also of the car and the blood-soaked clothing, the Chief said, when they were again locked into the room with the body:

"Now— I guess Billings can get together a jury of the members here, and finish up with the red tape so you can take poor Warburton home."

When the hastily summoned jury had been packed into the room behind closed doors, Judson was again carefully examined— scarcely varying his story by so much as a word. Although he was the last person to see the Doctor alive and was driving the car at the moment he had been shot, nobody ever suggested that he might be the murderer— there wasn't the slightest evidence pointing that way. The Chief had quietly sent three officers back down the street with Judson to the spot which he identified as being about where he had heard the reports— but although they searched for half an hour with flashlights, along streets and sidewalks and behind the hedges of private grounds, they found no pistol— nor was there one in the Doctor's car.

It took the club jury a scant ten minutes to arrive at the verdict: "Death from gunshot wounds at the hands of person or persons unknown."

When the coroner had left the club and most of the jury had gone downstairs, one of the remaining members asked Raynor how much publicity he was going to give the affair. Before replying, Raynor turned to the police chief with the question:

"Were you figuring upon letting the press have this as it is, Chief? Will your men be talking to reporters back there at Headquarters?"

"Not until I say so! Ive given orders that all who know anything about it are to keep their mouths shut. I've also warned the club members and servants, here. Now suppose you tell us why you asked that question, Raynor? Won't prompt publicity give us a better chance of catching the murderer?"

"It'll let him know the Doctor is dead— making him wary about taking any chances whatever. If what newspaper comment he sees merely refers to Warburton's having met with a serious accident which will keep him laid up for some time, he'll think his shots didn't have the effect he meant them to— figure that he can't be convicted of murder anyhow— and may get careless before long."

"That's one fairly good objection. Any more?"

"The greatest, of course, is the shock newspaper scare-heads will be to all of his patients— a shock which may have serious consequences with a-lot-of them."

"Yes— that's right, too. But how can we get around the funeral? I think you'd best write the story in the least sensational manner you can, and phone it into your newspaper right now, from this club. T'll hold it back from everybody until noon, tomorrow, if I can— so that your conservative details get on the streets ahead of the yellows. Then we'll get after that rotten murderer with all we've got! Makes no difference whether he made a mistake in the man or not!"

The feeling among the club members was similarly intense. One of them said:

"I want to offer a reward of five thousand dollars, out of my own pocket, for the apprehension and conviction of that brute! You publish that in your paper, Raynor!"

Exclamations arose from other members: "Make it ten thousand, Raynor— there are some of us others who want to chip in a thousand each. Now, say— Chief! Isn't there some way outside of your work that we can help to find that brute?"

"Well— Raynor knows a man who's a shark at solving mysteries. You get hooked up with Raynor, and it may help a lot before we're through. The police don't know it all—I've never claimed that they did— and there are features about this case which look more and more baffling to me as I consider them. We haven't got the weapon— or a fingerprint— or anybody who saw the murderer at any time. Judson didn't spot anyone loitering around or hurrying away— nor any dispute that would direct attention to some one the Doctor had talked with."

AT half-past two in the morning, Marcella Warburton and Miss Stevenson reached the club in a taxi, and at four o'clock, Warburton's body reached his house in an undertaker's car. Raynor and Doctor Amberley, who had accompanied the girls back, were put up in two of the guest-rooms.

Marcella had nearly completed a medical course— including a nurse's training— but her mother's death and the necessity for managing the house had cut

this short. Her partial training, however, had given her poise and self-control in emergencies. So, though sick at heart, she was still able to make arrangements for the funeral, see some of their more intimate friends and patients, turn over the reporters to Miss Stevenson, and keep the machinery of the house going with a reasonable amount of smoothness. Marcella was well acquainted with Tom Raynor, and she had asked him to stay near by for a few days, as much as his newspaper work permitted.

WHEN she found a moment's opportunity that afternoon, Marcella took Raynor into her father's office for a talk. "Tom—we'll none of us have the time or the heart to do much about running down that brute until after the funeral— but I want to find that man! Why was this done? Have you any theory?"

"Well, the supposition of mistaken identity seems the most plausible to the police. I'm not so sure that I don't agree with them."

"I've been going over that. Yes, it's plausible— too much so! The sort of supposition a brainy murderer would count upon, I think. Consider how carefully he must have planned. He must have known that the man he expected to kill would pass along that street about that time— that, because of the holes in the pavement at that one spot, the chauffeur would have to slow up a bit, giving him a chance to jump on the running-board. Is it likely that two cars exactly like Dad's— with chauffeurs exactly like Judson— would be passing along that stretch at just the time the murderer was looking for one? No— it looks to me as if he meant to kill Dad, and nobody else. But what possible object could he have had?"

"Say— look here, Marcella! I'm going to make a suggestion. The Chief is a good man. And I've had the luck to solve a few mysteries, myself. But I have a friend downtown who has us both beat. Professionally, he's an artist— he's good enough to exhibit at the Academy and sell his stuff for good prices. But the odd feature about him is that, with all his study and portrayal of the human face, he seems to dig through to the real person behind it— and his reasoning processes are so much like higher mathematics that I simply don't grasp how he arrives at his conclusions until he explains 'em to me. If there's any man in the United States who can find that brute— he's the man! Would you care to go down with me, when you have time, and see him? Id like to take along Dr. Amberley and one other man too— Appleton— the man who offered that first five thousand dollars reward-money."

"Yes— I'd like very much to do that! From what you say, your friend will very likely go at his investigations partly from the psychological angle; I want to heat him talk along that line."

Both Appleton and Doctor Amberley had little confidence in an artist as an investigator— but they were willing to try any means which offered a chance for running down the mysterious murderer. On the twenty-fifth floor of a skyscraper below Wall Street, the reporter took the three of them into a spacious room, the artist's studio— twelve feet high, with a great mullioned window along one side commanding a view of the Bay and Narrows.

The artist, Normanton, was tall— loosely but strongly built, with powerful features and dark hair, prematurely flecked with gray at the temples. After introductions had been made, Normanton pulled up a chair and sat down to talk.

"I've read the account in your paper, Tom. And of course I know a lot about Doctor Warburton— everybody in the city does— in fact, I was up at the Medical Society the night when they gave him those medals...  Well, the Chief, over there— (darned good man, too— he can think, some)— rather agrees with the rest of you that it must have been a case of mistaken identity. But he does it with a mental reservation. That hypothesis doesn't quite satisfy him—  which is where he's miles ahead of the average man in his position. It doesn't satisfy me, by a long shot— in fact, I've already discarded it as negligible. The murderer knew the locality altogether too well to make such a mistake— he knew the Doctor was coming along that street to the club— the car was not a common type— the chauffeur had a pretty strongly marked face. Then again, the Doctor had lived for more than twenty years in South Orange; his face was familiar there— he'd moved away only a few years before."

"BUT," protested Appleton, "if it was not mistaken identity, who under the canopy had any reason for killing Seth Warburton— one of the kindest, best human beings who ever lived?"

"That's what makes this case so entirely different from the average murder, Mr. Appleton! Now, the first outstanding point which happens to occur to me is the obvious fact that the murderer knows South Orange as well as New York. Also, that he must have been following the Doctor in Manhattan, and through the Holland Tunnel, in a car. Otherwise he would have had no knowledge of just when the Doctor might go to Jersey. So we have here a resident of the Oranges who goes to New York in a car for the purpose of shadowing his victim— follows him to Jersey— parks near the Doctor's car when he stops at the Pendleton house— hears him tell Judson that he'll stay over for dinner at that club— and, knowing the street Warburton will go through, runs his car on ahead to the best spot for his purpose. I think all that is fairly self-evident."

NORMANTON went on thoughtfully: "Now I want, if I can get them, photographs of everybody the Doctor knew in the Oranges—or a list of them, if the photos can't be obtained. I suppose two-thirds of his patients must have given him their photographs at one time or another. I think all would send them if Miss Warburton wrote, asking for them as souvenirs of her father's friends and patients. Miss Stevenson's files, of course, will contain a fairly complete list even of mere acquaintances— and I think Raynor can pick up a good many prints from local photographers in the Oranges— unmounted, glazed prints for reproduction. The photographers are not supposed to let them go without permission— but so many people secretly like to see themselves in the papers that photographers grow cynical about that rule."

"Wouldn't you want pictures of all Dad's patients and acquaintances, Mr. Normanton?" Marcella asked.

"Not until we've exhausted the Jersey possibilities. The murderer lived over there—I'm gambling on that because your family lived there so long. And I'm almost beginning to consider the possibility of temporary insanity as the compelling reason! That might account for the action as nothing else would."

Amberley considered this.

"Y-e-s— that's almost a permissible theory. Almost— but not quite, I think. There still would appear to be too much careful premeditation— from a physician's point of view."

"Well, we can leave that point for later consideration. Meanwhile— do you know, Miss Warburton, just which of your father's patients were under treatment that last day?"

"Miss Stevenson can tell me that by referring to her card-index. I can telephone the names to you almost as soon as I reach home."

"Of about how many do you suppose you might have photographs?"

"Well, let me think a moment. Dad went over there to see old Mr. Pendleton— a widower. I know he had photos of Pendleton and his family. Then we have pictures of Frank Levering, his brother and sister, father and mother. We have Dorothy Sedgwick, with her husband and children. Mrs. Atkins is going to send us one when she puts on a little more flesh. The Coverleys— good pictures of both— the most devoted couple we know, and two of the finest people. Old Mr. Bloom, with his wife and two sons— I remember those pictures. That about covers the surgical cases. Of other patients who are sick at home, we probably have pictures of at least half."

"Are they stowed away where it will take some time to locate them?"

"No— Dad was always methodical. As there were so many pictures, he always asked for unmounted prints which he pasted into albums of uniform size, and indexed them. One of our closets is pretty well filled with those albums."

"Seems to me it'll be easier all round if I put in an evening at your house and go through the lot up there. Miss Stevenson can have a typewritten list for me when I come. If possible, Tom, I'd like to have you go through those pictures with me and check up on the ones you know anything about. As for you other gentlemen— I can't say just how soon I may have something to communicate, but as soon as I'm reasonably sure of the murderer's identity, I'll send for you to come down here so that I can demonstrate it to you. If we succeed, Raynor and I split the rewards. Is that satisfactory to you?"

"Perfectly— but suppose the police or newspapers beat you to it?"

"Then you pay me a thousand for the time I put in on the case. If I fall down, on that basis, I get nothing. Unless I'm way off in the present appearance of this affair to me, you are all going to get a jolt when we find out who really did it. So far, I've no idea who the man may be— but I do think I know his type."

Normanton appeared at the house about eight o'clock. Tom Raynor came in a few minutes later. The artist sat down at the broad table-desk in the Doctor's office, with the pile of albums, each holding two hundred unmounted prints, on one corner— Miss Stevenson's card-index boxes on another. Raynor sat opposite, with a large pad. Marcella sat in a chair at his right, Ella Stevenson in another at his left.

Taking the list of patients under treatment, Marcella found the pictures from the album-index— Raynor turned up the loose end and made brief memoranda on the back concerning what he knew of the person. This took over two hours. Then Marcella read aloud names from a list of patients and acquaintances who lived in the Jersey towns— Raynor jotting on his pad data concerning ones he knew, and checking the photograph when one was found in the albums.

By the time they had finished this list, it was close to midnight— and Normanton turned to Ella Stevenson with a question:

"Miss Stevenson— how well do you know the nurses who are taking care of the surgical cases?"

"I know all of them very well— all of the consulting doctors. Most of the nurses were undergraduates when I was studying."

"Good! Let's take, first, the nurses who are now attending Dr. Warburton's patients. Frank Levering— who's his nurse?"

"Sarah Osgood— graduate— at night. A student nurse during the day."

"Dorothy Sedgwick ?"

"Third baby— doing nicely. Martha Bream is taking care of her— one of my class. A student nurse at night."

"Mrs. Atkins?"

"Responding nicely to insulin. Amy Brown's looking after her— graduate. A student nurse at night."

"Mrs. Coverley ?"

"Very successful operation— no lymphatic complications. Recovering splendidly. Clara Smythe is attending her in the daytime— graduate. And a student nurse at night.

"Mr. Bloom?"

"Doing nicely. Mehitable Downey's in charge— graduate."

Normanton had written down these names as she gave them.

"H-m-m— now how many of those nurses are what: you might call gossipy? Talk with other nurses or friends about their cases— or about the doctors?"

"Well— there's an unwritten rule against that, of course, but it's generally supposed to apply more in outside practice. I suppose really more than half the younger nurses and doctors do talk."

"Would it be possible for outsiders to hear accidentally what they might be saying?"

"Well, the orders are pretty strict where there is any contact with the public. But suppose some one with a very sharp sense of hearing had been visiting a patient— and two nurses outside of the room happened to be discussing the case when She came out. If they were just a little careless, she might easily pick up some of it. I can't recall that such a thing happened concerning any of Dr. Warburton's patients. If it did, nobody heard anything about it afterward. As you put the question, I suppose it might happen— but probably wouldn't."

Normanton turned to Tom Raynor and Marcella.

"Tom, of all those men living in Jersey, whom you've been checking over, can you think of any who form hasty opinions—conclusions—or sometimes act hastily, without second thought? —Do you know of any such, Miss Marcella?"

Raynor answered first.

"That's a large order, Bart! Nobody in the Pendleton family— the Atkinses— Hiram Clements— or Wilfred Blunt— would be likely to take a hasty action in any circumstances I can think of. I don't seem to think of any others I could say as much for; they're an average lot like the rest of us— might go off half-cocked at some unexpected occurrence. Am I right, Marcella?"

She nodded positively.

"As to those four—absolutely. And I don't think Mrs. Seaver would lose her head, either— though her husband might."

NORMANTON glanced over the accumulated memoranda.

"There are twenty-eight of these pictures I'd like to study, Miss Marcella. For the present, I don't think you need bother about writing for any more, because Raynor and I can get a good deal from the lists, which seem to be fairly complete. Fortunately, the pictures I want are all in two of these albums, which I can easily carry down to my studio if you'll let me have them. I may be over-sanguine, but it seems to me I ought to spot the man who committed this crime inside of a month— probably sooner."

"Surely, Mr. Normanton— you don't for a moment suspect any of Dad's patients or acquaintances? That's quite impossible, you know!"

"Improbable— yes, of course. Impossible?.... Well— no!"

FOR nearly the whole of the next day, Normanton studied the twenty-eight photographs which seemed to convey the most suggestion of strong or unusual personality—making hasty sketches of each, which he stuck up with thumb-tacks on one of his walls.

On the day following, with Marcella Warburton's assistance, he made a point of questioning a dozen of the professional nurses who had cared for Dr. Warburton's patients. As Marcella explained that Normanton was a crime-investigator whom she had retained to solve the mystery of her father's murder, they were all anxious to give him any assistance they could. When he had finished this line of investigation, he asked how Dr. Warburton's patients were getting along.

One of the nurses answered for the rest:

"They're all doing surprisingly well, considering the shock the Doctor's death gave them. Frank Levering will be out tomorrow, and Mrs. Sedgwick on Monday. Mrs. Coverley will have recovered thoroughly in ten days more. Her husband is planning to take her down to Bermuda with two of their most intimate friends—and we think she ought to stand the trip very nicely. Mr. Bloom has nearly recovered. There were but eight of Dr. Warburton's surgical cases under treatment at the time he was killed—he generally averaged from three to ten at an one time."

Later, Normanton went to an office in the Library neighborhood for a chat with one of the Doctor's patients. The man received him with the utmost courtesy— expressed his approval when he understood what the artist was working on for Marcella Warburton, and said he believed nothing should be left undone in the way of running down his murderer.

"Dr. Warburton certainly was one of the greatest surgeons we've ever had," Normanton remarked as he rose to go.

"And one of the finest characters, personally— don't forget that, Mr. Normanton! The man who killed him committed one of the most hideously inexcusable crimes this city has ever known! If he isn't hopelessly insane, he must know that himself! You wouldn't want to be inside that man's brain when he gets to thinking about it, would you?"

These remarks had a ring of passionate earnestness—Normanton kept thinking them over after he left the office. The man must have felt the Doctor's death very strongly, he mused.

On the sidewalk, Normanton hesitated a moment— thinking. Then he went under the river in the tube and took the first train for South Orange. In the telephone-directory, he got the address of a certain house, and walked out to it. Being fairly certain that the owner and his wife were in New York at the time, he rang the bell to see how many servants were in the house. Nobody answered; it seemed evident they had gone out.

With the coast clear, he went back to the garage in the rear and had no difficulty in unlocking the door. He examined the car there. Evidently the two right-hand shoes of the car had recently run through some fresh lime, for it was caked, white, in the cracks between the tread-patterns. In the space under the rear seat, along with the chains, jack and other tools—was a .45-caliber automatic with two empty shells. Carefully closing and locking the doors as if he belonged in the house, he then took a taxi across to the Pendleton house in Brick Church. Here, as he had expected, he found that a bucketful of soft lime-plaster had been dumped into the asphalt gutter and not entirely removed by the street-cleaners.

Back in Manhattan, Normanton went to a tourist-agency and secured illustrated booklets of half a dozen steamer-lines before going to his studio....

That evening, Tam Raynor came down to see him. The managing editor had been passing on to Raynor some of the public indignation over the failure to secure even a clue, so far, and Warburton's friends were growing both impatient and indignant.

"I suppose you haven't reached any definite conclusion, Bart? It would be a miracle if you had!"

The artist opened a drawer and laid a heavy-caliber automatic on the table for Raynor to see.

"There's the gun that was used, if it's any satisfaction to you. Don't touch the metal— there are fingerprints on it!"

"My glory! Good work, Barty— if you know what you're talking about. Do you? For the love o' Pete, who's the man?"

"Chain isn't complete yet. This is the sort of case where one simply doesn't dare accuse anybody of such a crime unless he can prove it up to the hilt. You understand that, of course?"

"Bet your life I do! But, say— can't you loosen up just a little— to me?"

"When I give you the whole show— about two weeks from now— you'll admit I'm dead right in not giving out a single hint tonight."

"Take two weeks to get in your evidence, will it?"

"That— and other features of the case. Come here two weeks from tomorrow night— the 29th— unless I phone I've slipped up somewhere—and I'll give you the whole story. Bring Marcella, Dr. Amberley, Appleton, and the Chief."

ON Saturday the 28th, Normanton looked in the paper for sailing-lists of steamers leaving that day— and nodded to himself in a satisfied way, looking at a cabin-list which he had secured that morning. Then he overhauled his remarkably successful home-made radio-set, making careful adjustments to assure himself it was in perfect order.

Shortly after eight o'clock next evening, his guests arrived.

Normanton directed their attention to four sets of carefully sketched portraits—three in each set—tacked on the wall under a mercury light.

"Those portraits I selected from Dr. Warburton's albums for the sole reason that in each case the original photograph had caught something of the man's inner character— which a photograph rarely does unless the person's face is frequently so expressive as to be revealing. That doesn't occur more than once in ten thousand times on the average— but it would happen more frequently among persons of more than average intelligence— as most of the Doctor's patients were. Even at that, I wouldn't have singled out these four men from the sixteen hundred other persons if they hadn't had a certain inner quality of temperament and nervous development which rendered them possibilities in a case of sudden and temporary insanity. Take this first one. (Of course you recognize them all.) One sketch in his set of three is the same as his photograph. The next represents him as he might look if he found himself in a corner, fighting for his life— no way out except to kill as many of his attackers as possible— jaw set, eyes steady, but merciless. The third represents him as he might look if he suddenly was convinced that an overwhelming, irreparable injury had been done him. See him brooding over it!... See the gleam of merciless vengeance coming into his eyes! Do you catch the idea? Same man—  same face and disposition— under three different sets of compelling emotions. The other men have been worked out in the same way. Well, that's the basis from which the crime started. I picked out John Coverley from the four because all the surrounding circumstances pointed most clearly to him."

Marcella Warburton gasped.

"Oh, but— Mr. Normanton, that is absolutely impossible! Why, John Coverley's lifelong devotion to his wife proves it couldn't be he!"

"That one point was the most convincing thing I had to go upon, Marcella! This is the story. We all know that he idolizes his wife— would give his own life for her, in a second. He fought against that operation even after the Doctor assured him it was the only thing that would save her. He had a horrible conviction that she would die under it. During the operation, he walked up and down, in the street— half demented with his fears for her. By some tragic chance, he overheard two nurses speaking of some unnamed woman who had just died under her operation— jumped to the conclusion that they were speaking of his wife— must be speaking of her. To him, there was but one woman in the world being operated on at that time.

"Coverley went stumbling down the street with his brain fairly numb. He had been told that he probably could see her in three or four hours, after she came out of the ether— but he knew now, or thought he did, that she would never come out of it. He climbed into his car— something was whirling in his brain. He wanted to think— he must think— there was something he had to do! Warburton!... The man he and she had trusted more than anyone else in the world— had deceived them both— and killed her! He drove to the Doctor's house, sat waiting near it in his car. Heard the Doctor say to Judson: 'Pendleton's— Brick Church,' when he came out of the house. Coverley drove madly through West Side streets where traffic was light, and beat them to the Holland Tunnel— and was parked by Pendleton's curb when Judson arrived there. Coverley heard the Doctor's instructions about going to the club for dinner, so he drove on ahead and selected his spot. For several hours, he was quite insane.

"When he drove back for his wife's body, they said she had been asking for him. The nurses have said he acted at first as if he didn't believe them. But she was the only consideration in all the world to him. How he managed to keep his usual cheerful manner with her until she dropped off to sleep— considering what was on his mind— is a mental and psychological marvel. But he managed it somehow; neither she nor anyone else but ourselves has, at this moment, any suspicion of what he did. Here is the gun with which he killed Warburton. The tires on his car show that he parked by the Pendleton curb that night; there's lime-plaster in the cracks— same stuff as is in the Pendleton gutter. You'll find the fingermarks on the gun are his."

A low gasp came from the listeners.

"My God! A needless crime! The pity of it! Where's the man now, Normanton?"

"He and his wife are thirty hours out, on the Bermuda— bound for Hamilton with their two most intimate friends."

"Great heavens, man— did you know of their plans before they left?"

"Yes— they told the nurses they were going. But neither their friends nor his wife know why he was so set upon getting out to sea. Can't any of you guess?"

"You mean that he— that Coverley—"

"Let's wait a little while and rest our minds with the radio. It's eleven o'clock, now— the late news-bulletins will be coming in. Perhaps we may hear something before midnight."

HE switched on his set. From the big cone on the wall came a beautiful movement of Tschaikowsky's "Symphonie Pathétique." Presently the music stopped. A loud and very clear voice said: "There will be a brief pause in the program for special news announcements." And the very first of those announcements was:

"A message received from the steamer Bermuda states that Mr. John Coverley, a well-known business man, living in South Orange, staggered against the rail in a fit of vertigo, an hour ago, and slipped overboard before anybody could reach him. The steamer was backed down and a boat lowered— but no trace of him was found. Mr. Coverley was traveling with his wife and two of their most intimate friends."

____________________

15: The Devils Ransom

Albert Richard Wetjen

1900-1948

Action Stories Oct 1939

This story is set in the late nineteenth century, when Britain, France, Germany, Holland and Australia all had territories in the South Pacific. Featuring those robust adventurers Stinger Seave, Typhoon Bradley, Big Bill Gunther and Jack Barrett. Normally loners all, they have teamed up and are on the rampage.

ON the broad veranda of a large, white-painted bungalow resting on a hillside back of Apia in the Samoan Islands, four men sat around a, wicker table and talked about a fifth. There were glasses on the table, filled but untouched. An anxious houseboy hovered nearby, aware of the gravity of the four white men and wondering at it. Over the veranda rail the level blue waters of Apia harbor could be seen, dotted with craft; schooners, brigs, full-riggers, luggers, barks and native canoes, for Apia at that time was the greatest port of the South Pacific.

Take a chart of that great ocean. Draw a line roughly from Shanghai to Mazatlan, from the coast of China to the coast of Mexico. Drop south some forty-five hundred miles and draw another line from Punta Arenas in the Straits of Magellan to Hobart in Tasmania. Complete the rough square now and you have enclosed an area of sea dotted with islands both great and small, containing vast areas of water unknown even today and thronged with savage tribes, saturated with fevers, swept by typhoons and imbued with calms such as you get only in the tropics.

Within this vast territory five governments held sway. There were frigates, sloops-of-war, cutters and armed yachts to uphold the Administrations. There were even a few of the more modern gunboats, although steam was then young. In palatial residences here and there sat governors who were supposed to give the law, and hold the high, the middle and the low justice. Their word carried weight, and was listened to with gravity— right from their desks to as far as the fences that hedged in their compounds and gardens. Beyond that no one paid any attention. And although they held no titles, were recognized by no governments, the four men who sat around that table in Apia were the real rulers of the South and of the Islands.

It was a rule that everyone except the Administration and a throng of the Pacific scum acknowledged, and there were times when both of these even bent in submission, just as in the early days of the American West, a handful of men ruled a wild, vast territory and made their own law.

THESE uncrowned lords of the Islands had not won their ways by sitting round tables and drinking. They were men of action, sailors of necessity, hard-living, hard-shooting adventurers. And it was by virtue of the fact they were able to shoot straighter, work harder, sail better and endure more than all others that they were famous. They made history in their day.

There was Stinger Seave at the table, little, frail, icy-eyed and chewing his ragged sandy mustache. There was Typhoon Bradley, magnificently built, gray-eyed, calm, the strongest man of his time. There was Big Bill Gunther, almost as tall as Bradley and much broader, black bearded and jovial. Lastly there was Jack Barrett, Captain Hi-Jack as they called him, six feet six of lean height, quiet but crisp. They were all in the tropical whites that were customary. They all wore guns buckled about them, except Seave who affected a shoulder holster, not because they were particularly needed in Apia, but because it was their custom never to be unarmed. There were too many men who would have given much gold to have met any one of them unarmed. The South was wild and the men who lived long were those who never slept, who kept always as alert as jungle animals, who struck swift as a snake when striking was needed, who kept their word, stood by their friends and had only a gun-muzzle for their foes. That was the South in the old time!...

DOWN in Apia itself in Charley Roberts' saloon, men sat and drank and talked of but one thing.

There were the captains and mates of the shipping, planters and traders in for a spree, a few government officials, the officers from a British man-o'-war. It was getting late in the afternoon and normally most of these men would have been taking a siesta because of the heat. But an abnormal thing was taking place, so they sat around and drank and wondered.

"It's never happened before," stated the stocky master of a brig just down from the Marshalls. "They're a bunch of lone wolves and they prefer to play a lone hand."

"That's right," agreed the mate of a Solomon Island "blackbirder." "They've never got together before, at least not all at once."

Charley Roberts leaned his fat arms on the bar and grunted, chewing his toothpick.

"It was Bradley sent for 'em," he said. "And he's been waiting here three weeks for 'em to arrive. Barrett was down in the Paumotus tied up with the pearling but he dropped everything and came. Gunther was sick in bed at Suva but he had himself carried down to Markham's bark that was just leaving for here. Seave was in some sort of a jam in Sydney over the shooting of some Kanakas in Montague Bay last year, but he skipped his bail and came. I do hear he was fired on as he got out of the harbor."

"THEN why don't they arrest him here?" inquired the green young supercargo of a German full-rigger just out from Hamburg. Everyone who heard him laughed and the secretary to the British consul, who was present, stroked his mustache and leaned forward.

"This isn't Sydney," he commented. "If you want to make a lot of money, young 'un, you go up and arrest him here in Apia. He's worth five thousand pounds, dead or alive."

"Good Lord!" said the supercargo. "Then why . . . he's on British territory. There's a warship in the harbor. ... I don't see...."

"Give him another year in the South and he'll see," laughed a brown-mustached trader, jerking a thick thumb at the supercargo.

"Well, it's hard to explain," remarked the secretary to the consul, taking pity on the youth, "but I'll try. Everyone, or most everyone, approves of Seave. He's a good man for this time and place. He's done more to bring the Islands in line than anyone else, except perhaps Bradley. The officers on that warship wouldn't officially see him unless a specific order came from Sydney, and that never will. The governor has Seave to dinner when he's there."

"Then why was he under arrest for shooting those Kanakas?" demanded the puzzled supercargo. He was fresh from civilized countries and none of this made sense to him.

"He went to Sydney of his own accord," patiently explained the secretary. "Some fool official up north had sworn out a warrant for him, and Seave wanted to have the thing cleared up. He doesn't pay attention to warrants if he considers they're justified. When he knows he's done something strictly illegal he expects warrants. But when he feels he's right he goes up and has it out with the Governor and the courts."

"It's really a joke," commented Charley Roberts, still chewing his toothpick. "If he ever did get to trial there wouldn't be a man on the jury who hadn't been with him on some crazy deal. Not a chance for conviction."

"By the way," asked the brown-mustached trader, "what happened to that official who swore out the warrant?"

THE consul's secretary blinked and looked blank.

"I— er— don't know officially."

"Unofficially then?"

"I— er— believe he had an accident. Tried to draw a gun."

"Yeah," drawled Charley Roberts, "they buried him at sea."

"If you really want to make your fortune," said the secretary smiling at the pop-eyed supercargo, "just go up and arrest all four of those men. I'll have you sworn in if you like so it's legal. There's five thousand quid reward for Seave, two thousand for Barrett, fifteen hundred for Gunther and four thousand for Bradley. All payable in gold upon production of said gentlemen before a magistrate. The crimes range from murder, violation of international rights, seal poaching, raiding pearl preserves, piracy, illegal working of Kanakas and so on down to failing to get proper ship papers before leaving port."

"I'll lend you my gun," suggested the trader, getting up as if to unbuckle it. Everyone laughed.

"Don't let 'em kid you, chum," drawled Charley Roberts. "There's no man, no ten men in these parts who could arrest any one of that bunch. 'Less you want to get full of lead you stay here... though I rather think they'd just spank you and send you home. They're the straightest, whitest fellers in the Islands."

"And the best men with guns," someone added. The supercargo wiped his forehead and called for another drink.

"Well, I can understand that now," he said feebly. "But why all the excitement just because they've met here today?"

There was a dead silence at that for a moment, a distinct air of gravity coming to those present. But at last Charley Roberts took out his toothpick and said one word, "Cassidy!"

They all nodded.

"No doubt of it," the trader agreed, nodding sagely and pulling at his mustache.

"Cassidy's one of our Island millionaires," Charley Roberts explained. "Owns more ships and plantations than anyone else. Pioneer. Here before any of us. Getting old now but still full of... well... hell, I suppose you'd call it. That bunch gamming up there on the hill are his best friends and it looks to me like something's going to happen."

"Something will happen," agreed the trader. "And someone's going to get planted. Larsen and Gentleman Harry have bit off too much this time."

Charley Roberts, shrugged.

"Well, you've got to admit they're lucky. They've bucked all of that bunch up there one time or another and got away alive anyway."

"There's always a last time... a time too many," someone observed.

The young supercargo wiped his forehead again and got to his feet.

"I think I'll go on board. This is all too much for me. I thought such times died out with the pirates."

"The place for you is home," said Charley Roberts, and they all laughed again. Be it said in passing that the supercargo, after seeing two men shot in Suva and one knifed in Brisbane did go home. He did not like the Islands at all.

ii

TYPHOON BRADLEY picked up his untouched glass, emptied it at a gulp and set it down.

"Well," he said grimly, "I'm glad you fellers could make it."

"It's about Cassidy, I understand?" put in Seave in his gentle and deceptive voice.

"I heard something about his dropping out of sight," added Barrett picking up his drink.

Gunther hitched at his cartridge belt and grunted.

"What's the old fool been up to now?"

Bradley flicked a black speck from his whites and stared at them, his eyes slowly traveling from face to face.

"I knew I could rely on you fellers," he said at last. "Yes, it's about Cassidy. He's been damned good to everyone of us. Damned white. He's sort of the grand old man of the Islands."

They all nodded.

"So it's up to us, as his friends," said Bradley soberly. He called to the houseboy to fill the glasses. "Let me give you the story as I know it." He waited until the houseboy had retired.

"About a year ago I made an appointment in Sydney to meet Cassidy in Macassar, which I later did, and we went up into the Tomorie Gulf together on a matter dealing with the disappearance of Cassidy's Warwari, and out of which we got a fat haul of pearls. I was laid up after that affair in the mission hospital at Brindai. I'd been shot up pretty bad shooting it out with Gentleman Harry, Clint Murphy and some others. You may have heard."

"Howder of the Laghorn told me the yarn on Ponape two months ago," said Gunther. The rest merely nodded, their eyes fastened on Bradley's calm, strong face.

"Well, anyway," Bradley went on, "I was pretty sick for a while and Cassidy went on round to Port Moresby on some business and sent me a letter about a month later, asking me to join him as he had something first class on. He had, too, and when I joined him he was full of it.

"You know his interests are pretty large and scattered all the way from Shanghai to the Kermadecs, and it's always been his custom to employ two or three scouts to run around and see what's going on. Well, one of these men, named Caradoc, it seems, stumbles on an island, up near Woodlark, to be exact. Seems he had to run into shelter to get out of a blow and had to careen ship, so he spent his spare time exploring the place. It's on the charts, I understand, but unnamed and has never been surveyed.

"Fairly large place, Cassidy said, about six miles by four. Got a lot of good sandalwood on it, some guano on the south end and so forth. But the main point is this Caradoc discovered gold. I saw some samples. Friable quartz literally rotten with the stuff, and Caradoc claimed the vein was big.

"WELL, he reported to Cassidy and Cassidy, of course, is all excited over it.. It isn't that he needs any more money, but he likes the game you know. So he suggests I go with him and help out. As it happened I couldn't. I hadn't been able to attend to my own business for some time, and I had to go to Singapore. And then, the way Cassidy told the yarn, the thing looked like a cinch and I thought he could handle it alone. So I wished him luck and sailed with Caffey on the Frigate Bird. Cassidy, I heard later, left soon after I did with his Sandow and a mess of mining gear. Took Chang, the pearl buyer, with him because Chang knows mining as well as pearls, and is a damned good man to have with you."

"Chang should have been a white man," said Barrett nodding. That was the highest compliment he could pay the Chinaman. Bradley grunted and finished his drink. Seave lighted one of his powerful cheroots and seemed to go to sleep.

"Let me finish," said Bradley lighting a cheroot himself. "I heard nothing for some time, until two months ago in fact, I was all tied up in a lawsuit with old Hoffman over my salvage claim against his Bluebird, and then I was trying to get organized to make a raid on a ruby mine in Borneo. Anyway, one day Kessell of the Water Lily blows into port. He's just come from Samarai and I run across him in Fong's joint... down on the point... you know."

"Women, liquor and opium," observed Gunther, grinning and pouring himself another drink. "I didn't think it of you, Typhoon."

"Shut up!" Bradley snapped. "I was there to haul my mate away. He'd been on a four-day bat... Well, anyway, as soon as Kessell sees me he calls me over and we shake hands. I didn't want to stay, but I owe Kessell a good turn or two so I sat down and bought him a drink. He was well organized already and we talked of this and that for a spell. Then all of a sudden Kessell slaps his leg and swears. 'By God!' he tells me. 'I knew there was something on my mind. I've just come from Samarai and you ought to run over pronto.' 'What in hell do I want to go to Samarai for'? I asked him. 'I'm tied up here for another six months by the looks of things.' 'I thought you and Cassidy were good friends,' he said, and, of course, that made me sit up, especially since I hadn't heard from Cassidy for so long, 'What's wrong now?' I asked him. 'Well, there's a Kanaka in the hospital at Samarai. Roberts brought him in from sea, found him drifting in a canoe. Keeps asking for you they tell me.' 'Got any idea who the man is?' I wanted to know. 'Why yes,' said Kessell. 'Name's Noama, Marshall Islander, so I heard.'... I'm giving you fellers the thing the way it came to me, savvy?

"TO cut a long story short, I got the hunch something was wrong. Noama was the name of Cassidy's bosun on the Sandow. I was all tangled up in Singapore but I settled with Hoffman for about a fourth of what I should have got, appointed Bill Tremlett as my agent, and pulled out for Samarai. When I got there I found Noama in a bad way. Roberts had found him drifting about in a shot-riddled canoe west of Ginetu Island, half dead with thirst, and badly wounded.

"They'd had to amputate his left leg at Samarai, and they told me a bullet had about wrecked him internally. The miracle was he'd lasted as long as he had, but you know how those Kanakas can hang on when they've got something on their mind they want to get rid of.

"He didn't trust anyone apparently. I guess Cassidy had told him not to. The thing was too big. Anyway, as soon as Noama saw me... he knew me... he sat right up in bed, took a little rawhide bag from round his neck where he had it hung by a string, and gave it to me. Then he made me send the orderly out of the room and chattered away in the dialect. I won't give you what he said exactly, because it was chopped up. But I'll tell you the story as I've figured it out."

Bradley paused, poured another drink and slowly sipped it. Seave opened his hard blue eyes and frowned.

"Did you have to drag us all away from our business because of this? You were nearest. Why didn't you go to Cassidy right away if he needed help."

"That's right," yawned Barrett, ruffling his hair. "You must be getting old, Typhoon."

"Wait a bit, wait a bit," Bradley warned them. "I know when a thing's too big for me."

"Go on," said Gunther. "Get to the point."

"All right then," said Bradley bluntly. "Here's the situation in a nutshell. Cassidy and Chang left for this island of gold. Caradoc, the man who found the place, and who was Cassidy's scout, must have thought things over and figured he was a fool for giving away information just for wages and a bonus. He goes to Black Dutch, who happens to be in Port Moresby at the time, and he spills the beans.

"Dutch sees it's a good thing. But he also knows that if he jumps Cassidy he's in bad with all of us. So he runs up to Singapore... right while I'm there too... under my nose so to speak, and he gets hold of Gentleman Harry and Larsen. All of them get their heads together and figure out one of the cleverest plans I've ever heard of... if I'm figuring right from what Noama told me."

TYPHOON BRADLEY looked at each of the three listeners.

"These three blackguards, wanting to be on the safe side, make a bargain with the German governor of Northern New Guinea. They know damned well that Cassidy's bound to raise the British flag and take lawful possession of an unclaimed and unnamed island, later getting a permanent and legal concession on it, of course. So they figure on the German governor, and the German governor agrees it's a good idea to jump the island for Germany and let Dutch and the rest work the gold and sandalwood on a fifty-fifty basis.

"I suppose the governor knew the island wouldn't be recorded yet, so that officially, the British government wouldn't know anything about it, and likely enough wouldn't even know of it unofficially. Cassidy would stick with his mining, of course. He wouldn't trot on back to Samarai or Port Moresby just to register his title and report. He'd wait until he was through, figuring himself that no one was aware what he was up to except Caradoc and me, and trusting both of us.

"So here's how it looks. Dutch, Larsen, Gentleman Harry and Caradoc jump Cassidy and Chang and take possession in the name of Germany The Germans send an armed cutter to sit in the one good harbor the island has... according to Noama... and Cassidy and Chang are held prisoners on the grounds of violating foreign territory, and working mineral there without permission They daren't kill them, of course, since the Germans are in charge. That'd cause complications with the British. But they've got 'em cinched. No court in the world would doubt the word of a German governor and half a dozen other men to the effect the island was newly acquired German property before Cassidy landed. Or rather, the courts damned well would doubt it, but not enough to render a just decision. The thing isn't worth a war, if you get me. With a German armed cutter sitting in the island's harbor, the British governor of New Guinea isn't going to rush over to argue the matter. Black Dutch and the rest have got Cassidy on the hip, and they know it. When they've worked out all the gold, and stripped the place completely, they'll send Cassidy and Chang to a German court and either soak them a heavy fine or put them to work with the slave gangs. ... So there you have it!"

Bradley finished abruptly and flung his cheroot away.

iii

THERE was a long silence. A big fly droned along the veranda and back again. No one moved. The houseboy padded silently to the table and refilled the glasses, and padded as silently away again. And then Stinger Seave sat up with a jerk.

"It's clever, damned clever!" he admitted crisply.

Gunther yawned again.

"First time I ever heard of an island being looted. That reef of gold must be rich."

Jack Barrett got up from his chair and stretched himself.

"When do we start ?" he said quietly. Bradley lighted another cheroot and allowed a thin smile to cross his lips.

"I guess you all savvy now why I called you in?"

"I apologize," snapped Seave. "I apologize, Typhoon. One man can't fight a nation."

"That's what it amounts to," Bradley agreed. "The German governor would call on warships if he had to, and if that gold vein is as good as it ought to be from the samples."

"Cassidy and Chang have been prisoners then for months," said Gunther slowly. "That's damned bad... for someone. I don't like the idea of my friends being prisoners."

"One thing's certain," put in Barrett, hitching up his cartridge belt. "Cassidy's not going to work with any German slave gang in the jungle on a frame-up." Seave did not reply to that but his eyes grew cold as ice and he slowly rubbed his throat with his right hand.

"We could take a dozen shiploads of volunteers up north if we wanted to," Bradley observed. "But I thought it was a job for us alone. If we raided in force it'd embarrass the British government, and we'd be out of luck ourselves if we were ever caught in German waters."

"Right!" said Gunther. It's a job for us alone... done quietly."

Bradley nodded and then he took from his pocket a small rawhide pouch.

"This is what Noama gave me in Samarai," he explained. "He tells me that most of Cassidy's men were killed in Dutch's raid. Cassidy's ship, the Sandow, was confiscated and sent north to Konstantinhafen. They kept Cassidy and Chang and three of their Kanakas, including Noama, on the armed cutter at the island, afraid if they sent them north too soon they might get in touch with friends and raise a stink. Cassidy told Noama to get away if he could... that Kanaka's damned clever... grab a canoe and try for Woodlark Island fifty miles to the south Noama made it, after waiting a month or so, but they spotted him and opened fire, nearly killing him. A fog came up and he lost them in that. Roberts picked him up after he'd been afloat nearly two weeks."

"WHAT'S that?" Gunther demanded as Bradley opened the rawhide pouch and drew from it a ragged-edged square of duck. It was ominously stained in one corner and had evidently been torn from a jacket.

"That's what Cassidy sent," said Bradley simply. "He told Noama to give it only to me. Look!"

He spread the scrap of duck on the table and smoothed it out. And they all bent over and read, printed in shaky letters:

Typhoon. Get the boys and come. Held by Black Dutch gang under German flag. Frameup. You remember island and Caradoc. Extreme caution. Cutter here. Noama knows. Cassidy.

Gunther drew his breath in between his teeth.

"The damned swine!" he rapped, his normally lazy disposition gone. Barrett said nothing but rubbed the palm of his hand over his gun butt. Seave's hard eyes glittered. Bradley folded up the message and put it away.

"I take it we're all agreed then," he said calmly. "If we lose, it'll be a firing squad or a life sentence with the slave gangs. We're butting into something international, and better men than us have been smashed between two empires."

"Better men, hell!" Gunther growled. "I cleaned up on a Russian cruiser once in the Behring and I guess I can take on a coupla empires long as I get enough to eat and drink."

Bradley nodded.

"It's got to be secret, of course. That's understood. And there's no sense the four of us getting into any arguments about it. We ought to take a vote about who's to command."

"I take no vote," said Seave crisply. "It's your game, Bradley. I'll serve under you."

"No argument there," drawled Barrett. "This is no time for any of us to get touchy about taking orders. It's a play that's got to have one head to run it."

Gunther only nodded. And the agreement of those three famous men to serve under a fourth was genuinely a revelation, when it is remembered that each of them were notoriously lone wolves. That each of them was a great captain and adventurer in his own right; that each boasted that they served no man.

But after all, it was Cassidy who was at stake, white-headed old Cassidy whom they all loved and respected. Seave stood up, his five feet two inches of height quite erect.

"Gunther. You've got the biggest craft. We'll commandeer it."

"Don't need t' commandeer nothing," Gunther grunted. "I donate her."

"ALL the expenses are on me," said Bradley, and there was an immediate chorus.

"The hell they are! This party ain't exclusive!"

"We'll split her four ways," suggested Barrett, and that settled that. Bradley coughed and brushed what seemed a little mist from his eyes.

"I'm damned if I ever saw three such damned fools as ready to spend money to go and get shot to death or work in a slave gang !"

"Make it four fools!" said Seave gently.

"It's a good thing to know... that you've got friends who'll stand by you," said Barrett crisply. They looked at each other and then they shook hands. It was all settled. Bradley tightened his belt and his voice tightened with it. He was Captain Bradley now and he had three mates. His orders rapped out.

"Stinger, you go see Bannister and arrange for supplies for six months! Get dynamite! Have everything that will be needed on board Gunther's Sea King before sundown, if you have to blow the town apart!"

"Aye, aye, sir!" Seave grunted.

"Gunther! You'll have the Sea King ready to sail on tonight's tide or I'll want to know the reason! Get on board and make out a list of things needed. You'd better start now. Send the list to Seave at Bannister's!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Barrett! Find out how many men Gunther has in his crew and replace them. This is a white man's affair. Only those close-mouthed. Howard's in port isn't he ? And Carstairs? Pick out some others. Tell them to report to me here and I'll arrange to have their business taken care of. Their mates can run their ships until we get back... if we do!" Typhoon said grimly.

"Aye, aye, sir," snapped Barrett grimly.

"Shall I tell them at the same time what it's about?"

"Tell them Cassidy's in trouble and we're asking them a favor. God knows they owe us enough. We'll tell them the rest when we're at sea. Remember, we said with the night tide.... Got it? Then get out!"

And incredible as it seems those three men who took orders from no man obediently turned and hurried down toward Apia. Bradley laughed, grimly. In his heart he felt rather sorry for Germany, or rather for the Governor who was using her for his own gain and the gain of three of the worst and most notorious blackguards in the Islands!

iv

BLACK DUTCH, so-called because of his swarthy skin and the matted hair on his chest and arms, leaned idly against the bulkhead and held his glass toward the light to admire the sparkling bubbles of the champagne it contained.

"Here's luck!" he said harshly. "By God, we've certainly got it!"

He was a burly man, short but powerfully built, and with a reputation as dark as his name. The four other men in the saloon lifted their glasses and drank with him.

"This is going to be my last clean-up," drawled Gentleman Harry in his modulated voice. He sat sprawled in a long cane chair, immaculate in whites as usual, and with a smile on his scarred face, the face Typhoon Bradley had once changed from a handsome cameo with one blow of his fist. Larsen of Singapore, lean, grim and dark-eyed rested his elbows on the mahogany table and laughed, eying his champagne.

"I'm going to buy a yacht," he said. "A real yacht. Bark rigged and powered. I'll fill her with champagne and girls and just cruise about."

Caradoc laughed nervously. He was never quite able to get over the fear of what he had done, betrayed his employer Cassidy into the hands of these men. He was handsome in a weak way, sensitive, rather tall.

"I'll take Paris," he said. "Paris, women and liquor."

Lieutenant Hoffman, commander of the armed yacht Wilhelmina, in the finely decorated saloon of which they all sat, laughed and twirled his silky blond mustache. He was short, somewhat pudgy, and he had little pig eyes and coarse lips.

"Assuredly, my friends, we shall have all we need. For me Berlin and a wife... to manage my house... ladies on the side, of course. Perhaps I shall marry a Duchess. The Governor talks of St. Petersburg. But whatever it is, we shall all have it. Himmel! I have never heard of such a rich gold vein."

"It's the richest I've seen," drawled Larsen. "We won't need to bother about the sandalwood. We'll clean-up a quarter of a million apiece without it, even after the Governor gets his whack." He grinned.

"It was all so easy too," smiled the lieutenant. "Nothing to do but enjoy ourselves while the ingots pile up in the cutter's strong room. Our dear friend Cassidy obliges us by providing the machinery, even to a smelter of sufficient size. And we find on the island a village of three hundred natives so eager to work for us."

THEY all laughed at that. The natives of that village, the men, the women and all the children able to work, had been laboring under overseers' whips for months now, learning the benefits of German rule.

"So everyone is happy," continued the lieutenant. "Your friend Cassidy and the yellow man will certainly spend ten years at labor when the courts are done. The Fatherland gains a new island and a fine big ship. And we, all of us, become rich." Larsen drained his glass and set it down. "It's been so damned soft it gives me th' jumps!" he declared. "That damned Kanaka Noama getting away!"

"The guard whom he got by received fifty lashes," the Lieutenant pointed out complacently. "He will be very cautious in the future. And besides what if the man did get away?"

"He's not worried about Noama getting the British stirred up," put in Gentleman Harry, his smile vanishing. "I know. It's Cassidy's friends. Seave, Bradley and the rest."

"Pah! I spit on them. We in the north have heard of them but no one dares attack a German possession."

"You don't know this bunch like we do," drawled Larsen. "That's why I'm advising you to keep your guards on the jump. You ought to have sentries posted night and day."

The Lieutenant shrugged.

"How you talk. One cannot make discipline too strict in these parts of the world. No one dare attack us. Himmel! I have a crew of twenty men, half of them white and recruited from the Imperial navy."

"I hope you're right," said Black Dutch moodily. "I know I'll be damned glad to get the thing done with and finished, so we can get away."

The Lieutenant shrugged again.

"We have the heart of the gold ripped out and smelted down. In another week we will have done and you may go. For myself I shall remain to see that the less valuable parts of the vein are fully worked."

"That's right. Another week and we'll be gone," agreed Caradoc. "We've got enough now for that matter."

The lieutenant grew peevish.

"Of what are you nervous? Of these strange friends scattered all over the Islands? If Noama did get away... and I think he was shot before the fog hid him... what of it ? He is only a Kanaka. How can he talk much? Who will believe him? It would take him a long time to find this Cassidy's friends and even then they would not dare attack us."

BLACK DUTCH heaved away from the bulkhead and laughed.

"That's about right," he said with an oath. "We're like a bunch of damned kids. It's the damned heat and monotony of laying around here for months. Let's have some more champagne!"

"Agreed!" cried the lieutenant clapping his hands and reaching for a bell that stood on the table. An orderly appeared, straightened and saluted. "Champagne, Karl. And drive the girls in!"

The man saluted again and departed. When he returned he was roughly ushering before him seven or eight young native women, all but nude and obviously frightened. Each day the lieutenant went ashore to inspect the progress of the mining, and when that was done he picked out fresh girls from the village for the evening's entertainment, tore them forcibly from their huts, sometimes from their husbands.

"There you are!" cried the lieutenant delighted. "Do not say I am not a fine host. Help yourself... but the tall one with the almond eyes is mine!"

Gentleman Harry caught a girl's wrist and forced her on his knee, holding a champagne glass to her lips. And so the nightly orgy began while ashore the red glare of the small smelter lighted the starry sky and in a fenced compound the impressed native workers ate their coarse supper, groaning beneath the eyes of the German overseers and the muzzles of a half dozen guards. From the beach a small wharf had been built, running out into water of a depth where the cutter could lay alongside. At the shoreward end of the wharf there rose a flag-staff from which, by day, the Imperial German eagle floated to make all legal. It was, as Seave had said back in Apia, very cleverly done.

In the small cabin in the cutter's after house that served as a prison, Cassidy gripped the bars that covered a small opening in the door and cursed beneath his breath. He had to use his left hand because his right shoulder was still suffering from the effects of a bullet wound, obtained when Black Dutch and the rest had made their unexpected raid months before, catching Chang and himself utterly unprepared.

"The swine are at it again!" Cassidy rasped. "Hear them, Chang?"

THE slender Chinaman came and stood beside him, almost naked for his clothes had been ripped in the struggle they had had with their jailers when Noama had gotten away, a well-planned thing, that involved the rushing of the guard and the orderly when they brought the evening meal.

"Yes, I hear them," said Chang simply in his clipped English. "It would seem they have possessed every woman in the village by this time."

"Guess they've started in over again," rasped Cassidy. A groan from the darkness behind him halted him and he dropped to his knees to lift the head of a sick Kanaka, the only one now remaining of his crew. There had been two when Noama had left but one had since died.

"The poor devil's got fever bad," Cassidy grated, "and they won't even give us medicine." He arranged his jacket which served for a pillow beneath the native's head, moistened his lips with some lukewarm water and then joined Chang again.

The Chinaman shrugged, impassive as always.

"I am afraid we shall spend many years in a jungle camp," he said at last. "I have no hope now."

"I guess you're right," said Cassidy moodily, and his voice was haggard. He had always bellowed in the old days but when a man has been penned up in a cabin six by eight for some time he is not apt to be in a bellowing condition. "I guess you're right," Cassidy repeated. "Noama must have got it. Or else died of thirst. If he'd gotten away someone would have had a crack to get us."

Chang shrugged once more.

"Bradley, of course, will come when he discovers you are missing for so long, but he will not bother until a year has passed. He knows it is your habit to stay with a task until it is done."

"If Noama had got through the whole gang would have been here by now," Cassidy muttered. "If Bradley comes poking up alone to see what's become of me they'll just throw him in with us.... Damn it!" he burst out. "I've got twenty ships, fourteen trading posts and plantations. I could cash in for three million if I wanted to. I've got friends who'd go to hell for me and here l am... here we are... cooped up in this damned hole and we can't do a thing about it!"

"I THINK," said Chang thoughtfully, "that once Larsen, Black Dutch and Gentleman Harry are gone we can do something about it... but it might cost a lot of money."

"Hell," said Cassidy wearily. "I wanted to offer them a hundred thousand apiece to let us go and you wouldn't let me."

"Of course not," agreed Chang. "That was folly. They would never agree to let us go, not for a million. They would not dare. They know that as soon as we are free there would be a swift repayment. And if they thought this Lieutenant Hoffman was going to accept the ransom... supposing you had made the offer... then the Lieutenant would have discovered us all dead in this cabin one fine morning. Mysteriously dead, you see? As it is they plan for us to spend years as prisoners."

"I still think Larsen and the others are hogs enough to jump at a hundred thousand each!" snapped Cassidy, his anger rapidly mounting.

"Ah, yes," Chang soothed him, "if it were not for the gold. But they are rich men already. Listen to me, my friend. When they have gone we will ask to see Lieutenant Hoffman and he will listen. We will offer him one hundred thousand, two hundred if necessary, to set us free in a whaleboat with food and water, oars and a sail, and nothing more.

"We will offer to sign our notes for one half the amount which he can send a trusted man to Port Moresby to collect from our agents. The other half we will pay at Moresby when we reach there. It is a fortune for the Lieutenant, for it is not likely the Governor will give him other than a small share of this gold here. Anyway, it is worth trying, but not now. Not until Larsen and Black Dutch and the rest have gone. They are more afraid of us than they are in need of money now. You see?" he asked.

"Maybe you're right," said Cassidy at last, after a moody silence. "But I'll swear, if I live long enough, I'll get every damned one of them for this."

Chang nodded and smiled a little.

"I do not even worry whether I go free or not, as far as vengeance is concerned. I have a cousin in Singapore and a brother in Canton. They will learn and discover some day, some time. And then judgment will be done in the way of the East. We Chinese do not like to see any one of our family lose face."

Cassidy chewed on his ragged mustache and began to pace up and down. It infuriated him to hear the noise of revelry from the ornate saloon, to know that at last he, the old pioneer, the old bear, was trapped, at the mercy of his foes. It had never happened before since the days of his green youth. It would never happen again. Not if he got out of this tight.

"I'd give very cent I possess to get that damned Caradoc between my hands!" he swore. "By God, I picked him off the streets of Brisbane, thought I'd made a man out of him, and trusted him!"

Chang sat on the deck of the cabin, folded his arms and stared blankly into the darkness, resigned and patient. His time would come, and if not his time, then the time of his cousin and his brother. Near him the fever-side Kanaka tossed and groaned. Midships the laughter and madness went on. And judgment came up from the south with the wind.

v

"SEAVE!"

"Sir?"

"Get ready the port boat. Swing it out ready for lowering, but hold her with the gripes."

"Aye, aye, sir!" Seave snapped back.

"Masthead there! Gunther!"

"Sir?"

"How are the lights bearing?"

"Port bow, sir. We'll be abeam soon."

"What do you make of it?"

"Small cove or harbor!"

"Right! You can come down!... Barrett!"

"Sir?"

"Douse all our lights! No smoking on deck. Tell Harvey, Wells, Jones and Carstairs to stand by armed. Winchester and Colts!"

Bradley crossed the poop and focused his glasses. Presently he picked up little pin pricks of light low down against the dark loom of an island, the lights Gunther had located from the masthead. The Sea King was running free before a crisp wind, heeled a little, and the water swish-swishing along her hull. Her decks were totally black. Even the compass light had been shut off and they were steering by sense, which a seaman will understand.

"Damn coming up to an unsurveyed island on a pitch dark night!" Bradley muttered to himself. "God knows what reefs there are and what we might run into. Yet we daren't make it by day. And thank God there's no moon!" He turned as a footstep sounded on the poop. "Who's that ?"

"Seave, sir," came the gentle voice. "Boat's ready."

"Provision it for a week... in case. Food and water. Hatches for brush work. Lanterns... though we probably won't need them. Quinine. Spare tarpaulin for rain. Some red flares. Couple of boxes of Winchester shells, same for Colts. Dozen sticks of dynamite... better short fuse 'em ready."

"Yes, sir!" Seave went away. Barrett came up.

"Men you ordered are standing by, sir."

"Good! Lookout's for'ard watching for reefs or breakers ?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Right!... Four points starboard, quartermaster!"

"Four points starboard, sir," said the helmsman who in private life was master and owner of one of the biggest full-riggers out of Sydney. In fact among the fifteen men who manned the Sea King that night, ten were captains and owners, two were wealthy traders, three were planters. The cream of the Island aristocracy sailed that ghostly craft, slipping along in the pitch dark with the loom of the strange island on her port bow.

"Anything else, sir?'' asked Barrett, his bean-pole height dim against the cloudy sky.

"Yes. Tell Seave and Gunther to go below. You go too then. I'll be down."

"Aye, aye, sir!" Barrett strode away, whistling between his teeth. His face was grim. The faces of all the fifteen men had been grim since the night they had left Apia, in silence and with haste, while all the men of shipping had watched, in silence too, and wondered what bloody tale would drift down from the north later on.

BRADLEY waited until the pin pricks of light had slid to the port quarter and disappeared behind some headland. "Keep her as she goes!" he ordered.

"As she goes, sir!" echoed the helmsman.

"Call me if anything like a squall breaks!"

"Very good, sir!"

Bradley dropped down the pitch dark companion that led to the main cabin, which was even darker.

"All here?"

"All here, sir," said Barrett.

"All right. You can light the lamp. Skylight's covered and I've closed the hatch."

A match flickered and revealed Gunther. He lighted the lamp and the shadows receded. Bradley strode to a drawer under the big desk against one bulkhead and drew out a chart. He flung it on the table, flattened it and the rest of them held down the corners.

"Here's the island," said Bradley curtly, dabbing at a tiny unnamed speck north of Woodlark with his pencil point. "From the lights, all activities are centered here, on the south side. We're on this course, roughly." He drew a faint line. "We'll run north twenty miles, well out of sight, unless someone ashore climbs a hill, and you'll take in all upper canvas in case they do. We ought to be in position in two hours. Then we ? ll heave to. Seave, you'll take charge until I get back!"

"Until you get back?" Seave demanded. "I'll see you...." He checked himself and coughed. "Yes, sir!"

"Are you taking the short boat?" Barrett demanded, with heat. "I guess I want to get in on this." Bradley looked at him calmly.

"Do you want to take charge, Barrett?"

The tall man flushed and bit his lip.

"Sorry, sir!"

"But look here," said Gunther mildly. "Not to make any objections... that is, you're the skipper. You ought to stay on board."

"If I'm the skipper I'm in command," said Bradley evenly. Gunther scratched his chin and swore.

"All right, go on... sir!" He swallowed hard. Bradley smiled a little. He knew he had faced a mutiny for a moment. They all wanted to go.

"SOMEONE has to carry on ... if anything happens to me... or rather to those of us who are going. I'm landing to see what the lay of the land is. Once that's done we can plan better. If I'm not back within forty-eight hours... always allowing for bad weather... you, Seave, come next. You can designate who'll follow you. I advise you, if it comes to that, and there's only one of you remaining at last, to sail in and make a raid and chance it. But I think everything will be smooth.

"Now listen to me. It'll take me four or five hours to beat back to the island against this wind but I'll be there well before dawn. By mid-morning I should be able to get to the top of the island and see what's doing on the other side. The following night, if things look good, I'll burn a red flare. You'll run back toward the island after dark, Seave, in case I do, savvy? If there's no flare by dawn go back to your old place. Come in again next night. If no flare then, use your own judgment."

"What if we see your flare?" Seave demanded.

"Show a light in the mizzen rigging. I'll come to you and we'll make our war medicine. Right ?"

"Right, sir!"

Bradley got out a glass and a bottle. He poured four drinks.

"Here's to luck and Cassidy!" They all drank. Bradley tightened his cartridge belt and grunted. "I'll send my gang below for a shot before we go and I think I'll take a bottle along in case we get rained on.... Better shake, boys." He laughed and they all shook hands "Remember," Bradley warned them, "If I get mine it's up to you fellers to carry on."

But he knew he did not need to say that. The Sea King would never leave the vicinity of that island unless she was either sunk or every man on board was dead.

"HERE it is," said Seave shortly,

A standing, in the dark by the weather rail. Barrett and Gunther both stared shoreward and both caught the faint flickering red glow of a flare. "Barrett, you'd better have a man in the chains for soundings. The water may shoal too quickly. Gunther, get a lantern ready in the mizzen rigging.... Ready about, quartermaster!"

They swung the Sea King, and she heeled over and neared the distant shore, the man in the chains monotonously crying, "No bottom, sir! No bottom, sir!" until it seemed they would run right on the beach. And then he got a sounding. "Twenty fathoms, sir!" Seave gave a crisp order and the Sea King hove to.

They all waited then, until presently, there came the muffled sound of oars in rowlocks and a small dot moved toward them.

"Typhoon?" called Seave.

"Stand by for our line," came Bradley's calm voice. The boat came alongside and a dozen hands helped her occupants on deck.

"You're damned close in," was Bradley's first comment. "Not a couple of cable's lengths off shore."

"We've still twenty fathoms under us, sir," said Seave.

"Right!" snapped Bradley crisply. "Lower the anchor, Barrett. Don't drop it and make a racket. Lower it, savvy? And haul it short. If anything happens we'll have to knock the shackle out of it and run."

"What did you find, sir?" Gunther demanded.

"Wait till the others get aft and I'll tell you. Muster all hands."

Fifteen minutes later fifteen men were crowded into the main cabin of the Sea King, grouped about Bradley. He looked them over and nodded.

"All you fellers have been pretty white, giving your time and labor this way," he said. "It's only fair you should be at the final war council. We'll drop all formalities for a while and any suggestions will be welcome."

"Is it going to be a hard nut to crack?" demanded a square-built planter who could write his own check for fifty thousand pounds.

BRADLEY made a characteristic hitching motion with his belt.

"It's a cinch!" he said, with a laugh. "Not a guard this side of the island at all. They're evidently not expecting trouble... for that matter why should they? They don't know Cassidy's Kanaka bosun got clear. Now this is the lay-out!" He rapidly drew a sketch on a sheet of paper while they all watched. "I spent all afternoon spying through the glasses, and I think I've got it right.... The harbor's roughly oval with a large entrance and plenty of water to judge from the size of the cutter that's there. Here's a wharf. Here's a store-house of some sort back of the wharf. There's an armed guard posted there... changing every hour. Back here's a native village, pretty well deserted, and here's a new-built compound with sheds."

His pencil made rapid sweeps and they followed him intently "The mine's up in this ravine and they've got about three hundred Kanakas working there... under whips. There's a smelter here.... I remember Cassidy loading that. All under one guard, that is the smelter The natives at the mine have four, besides overseers, all Germans.

"Here, a hundred yards from the wharf, is Larsen's Water Witch, at anchor. Here, at the end of the wharf, is the cutter, and she's auxiliary fitted too. One gun aft and one for'ard which'd make it tough if she was after us. Judging from the fact that, toward sunset, a guard and a servant of some sort took a big kit of food and a water jar to the after house, I judge Cassidy and Chang are still where Noama told me they were, locked in the cutter's brig.

"So far as I could make out the cutter has three men on guard all the time. One on the bridge, one for'ard and one aft. The gold's in a strong room mid-ships. I saw Black Dutch and Larsen and the rest sprawled on the lower bridge drinking. Apparently they don't go ashore much." He stared round at the intent faces.

"Now, here's what I figure, and I'm willing to accept any advice. After dark the native workers are herded into the compound. You speak about every dialect in the Islands, Barrett, so that'll be your job. You and three men land tonight and get yourselves in hiding ready to jump the compound. If you can grab hold of someone who's left in the village and make him or her savvy beforehand, okay. The idea will be to let the workers out and start them rioting. ... I know it's rotten tactics to set Kanakas on white men but... we're fighting an empire."

THEY all nodded, grim-faced and silent.

"If you can, Barrett, get them to set fire to the compound fence and the huts. I want principally to draw what men I can from the cutter, savvy?"

Barrett grunted.

"Think you can handle that ? Your job's the most difficult."

Barrett rubbed the butt of his gun and grunted again.

"When do I start?" he demanded. Bradley smiled.

"Just as soon as I'm through... unless anyone has a better plan. Well, we leave the Sea King here... if Gunther doesn't mind chancing her dragging or getting blown ashore in a sudden squall!"

"She's in th' pot," snapped Gunther. "Get on with something important."

"All right then," said Bradley. "The rest of us pile into the boats, get round to the harbor and jump the cutter."

Seave grunted.

"You mean we jump the cutter, grab Cassidy and Chang and make a run for it, after dropping some dynamite into her engines?"

"I do not," snapped Bradley. "I mean we take the damned cutter!"

They stared at him, appalled at his audacity, and then the beauty of the thing appealed to them and they all laughed. To take a fine cutter away from the German empire would be good.

"I'll explain why I want the cutter later on... if we get away with this," promised Bradley. "Now then, the whole thing depends on timing. We've got to be in the harbor when Barrett starts his stuff. I figure he ought to get busy just at midnight... that is with the fire. He might be able to get in some work with one of the villagers before that, have the man or woman get into the compound to explain what's going to happen to the Kanakas who are there. Unless I miss a bet they'll be all hot to break loose."

"You leave that to me," Barrett grunted.

"Right then, Barrett times his fire or riot or what he can to start at midnight. The chances are, all but a few guards will be rushed ashore. Chances are Black Dutch and the rest will be rushed ashore. We're waiting in the boats and we jump the cutter. We get her to sea, tow her if we have to. Barrett beats it back across the island as soon as he's done his stuff. Then he pulls out and mans the Sea King until we get alongside and can arrange other things."

HE flung down his pencil and looked around.

"Anyone figure anything better?"

"Perfect if... things go right," said Stinger Seave drily. "It all depends on timing, though."

"That's what I said," Bradley agreed. "Has anyone got a better plan ?"

They looked at each other, questioning, and they all shook their heads.

"O.K.," said Barrett. "Let's get going!"

"The only thing that gripes me," said Gunther, "is that, according to your figuring, none of us get a crack at Black Dutch and the rest."

Bradley smiled thinly.

"It isn't a question of revenge now. It's a question of getting, Cassidy and Chang. The other can come later." The other two nodded.

"In any case," observed Stinger Seave, "it's Cassidy's deal."

"That's correct," Barrett agreed. "Cassidy'll want to even things himself. I never did like spoiling another man's fight."

"Thanks," said Bradley. "As a matter of fact I think losing the gold and being forced to stay on this island until the German governor sends out a relief party will be punishment enough. We'll drop some dynamite into Larsen's craft as we pass her."

"All right," Gunther agreed, shrugging. "But I came north expecting a lot of shooting and I haven't even pulled a trigger yet!"

"Let's hope you won't have to," laughed Bradley. "There are a lot of ways to kill a cat besides drowning it!"

vi

LIEUTENANT HOFFMAN was, as usual, in a jovial mood. He had finished dinner long since and it had been an excellent dinner, considering all things. He had imbibed two quarts of champagne by himself, and he had spent half an hour looking at the gold ingots stacked in the strong room. The night was dark but starry. The wind was cool. The native women he had chosen for the evening were good-looking, though he had not commanded his orderly to bring them yet. It was pleasant to anticipate.

In short, life was good, and Lieutenant Hoffman leaned alone on the for'ard rail of the cutter's deck and stared at the dark, calm water, enjoying himself and twisting his waxed blond mustache. From midships he caught the sound of Black Dutch's voice asking Larsen something, and he frowned.

"It is too bad his Excellency the Governor made the agreement with these pigs," he said regretfully to himself. "We could have shared the gold together... between us. Ah, well!"

He sighed and then something happened that made him straighten and grow rigid as a board. A hard, thin object pressed against his ribs, and an unpleasant voice spoke into his ear:

"Keep quite still!"

Lieutenant Hoffman had no intention of moving. He recognized the muzzle of a gun and he did not want his spine blown in two. Strong hands whipped his arms behind him. Other hands thrust a wad of something into his mouth and fastened it there. In less than thirty seconds Lieutenant Hoffman was helpless. His captors whirled him around and his goggling eyes saw several dark shapes, each of them stripped down to a loin cloth. Muscular, trim bodies, naked save for this cloth, for gun-belts about the waists, blackened canvas shoes, and masks of black cloth fastened about the faces. Bradley wanted no recognitions made... in case things did slip later... and he knew that white duck shows plain on the darkest of nights.

"Got the guard aft there?" Bradley muttered. A lithe little man padded up and grunted. "All clear!"

There was a tight silence. Lieutenant Hoffman wondered how these men had gained his ship without being seen, and he did not understand that every one of the raiders had served his time in the jungle as well as on the sea.

As a matter of fact, the cutter's for'ard guard had been leaning lazily on the rail, gazing toward the shore, when the two boats from the Sea King had slid alongside with muffled oars. The cutter had a low free-board and Seave, the lightest of the party, had stood on Bradley's shoulders and dropped aboard, to lower a line first and then attend to the guard. The rest had been easy so far.

"It's about time for Barrett to start," someone muttered. Bradley grunted.

"We'll give him another five minutes and then we'll go ahead anyway."

"WHAT are we going to do with this?" someone else said, jerking a gun muzzle into Lieutenant Hoffman's side.

"Stick close to him. He's an officer, by his uniform. May come in handy."

"There!" snapped Gunther, pointing, and a red glow leaped to view from the direction of the compound. There was a crackle of rifle shots followed by the dull, ominous roar of rioting natives, and then came the sharp, staccato thud of exploding dynamite. You could always trust Barrett to do a job properly.

A whistle shrilled out on the cutter. A guttural voice barked orders. The, crouching men aft could hear Gentleman Harry's sudden oath and his cry, "The swine're jumping the guards. Grab your guns and come on."

"Where's Hoffman?" came Larsen's crisp tones. "Say, you, go and find the Lieutenant!"

"Come on!" said Gentleman Harry, and they heard him run down the gangway and pound along the wharf. A dozen of the German seamen followed him, trotting in good order under command of an officer. Larsen, Black Dutch and Caradoc followed behind, shouting to each other. It was obvious that three hundred natives could not be allowed to run wild, perhaps burn and destroy all the mining machinery and almost certainly kill all the overseers and guards. A German sailor came running aft calling out for Lieutenant Hoffman and something rose up out of a shadow and hit him neatly under the jaw. He dropped without a word and Bradley grunted.

"All right. Come on, Carstairs, you hang on to that officer. Seave, take four of the boys and work along the port side. Make it quick. Don't shoot unless you have to. I'll handle the starboard deck."

He snapped out the orders.

They were gone then, racing grimly midships. A white-jacketed steward was neatly put out as he came from the saloon to view the shore fire. A grimy-faced engineer was tumbled back into his cabin and securely bound and gagged. It was over in less than ten minutes, and then Bradley was on the cutter's bridge and a horde of nearly naked demons sweated at the bow and stern casting off the lines. Gunther came up.

"The wind's fair enough," he stated. Bradley nodded and started at the sky.

"It's a blind run for us," he said grimly. "We don't know the channel. But we'II chance it."

"Looked wide enough to me as we came in," Gunther grunted. "Can't we get the engine going?"

"Who the hell knows anything about engines?" Bradley demanded.

"Well, there's a coupla fellers below who must. Germans we've laid out. Let me pitch a bucket of water on 'em and talk to 'em."

"Go ahead," Bradley shrugged. "It'll take a long time to get up steam, I suppose, and you might as well start now."

GUNTHER sighed and stalked away, rubbing his gun-butt with the palm of his hand. The cutter was pushed clear from the wharf. One by one her sails went up, filled with dull reports and drew her onward. There was no alarm at first from the shore. Every soul was gathered around the roaring fire of the compound, and around the newer fire that seemed to have taken the native village.

It was not until there came the hard reports of the dynamite bombs that Bradley tossed on board Larsen's ship as he passed her, that those ashore woke up. By then a horde of frenzied Kanakas almost had the white men surrounded, forcing them to retreat to the wharf.

"Am I going mad?" Larsen choked. "Where's the cutter? Look at my ship in flames! That Hoffman!"

The same thought came to each of them. Hoffman had taken this opportunity to slip off with all the gold, leaving them to fight their own way clear as best they could. The night was split by oaths and frenzied threats, but not for long. Another and more serious matter pressed. Leaping, shouting Kanakas were advancing toward the wharf, at the water end of which the survivors of the overseers, the guards and the others, were trapped.

"Steady," growled Black Dutch. He shut the bolt of his rifle. "We'll figure on the cutter later. Let 'em have it!" They smashed two volleys down the wharf and the mob of Kanakas dissolved, and then backed away.

"Never even left us a whale boat!" snarled Gentleman Harry. "Just left us here to be starved to death."

Nobody answered him. There was nothing to say. And out clear of the harbor, Bradley was turning the bridge over to one of the captains.

"Keep her as she goes. I've got something important to do."

"As she goes, sir," grunted the captain and walked to the compass which glimmered beneath its tiny light. Gunther came up from below, rubbing his hands together and chuckling.

"I told you I'd manage it. They promise me steam in another hour and then we can use the engine."

"Good man," said Bradley. "You're appointed Chief Engineer until further notice. But come on with me now. There's something to be done."

He picked up Seave and the three of them went aft, armed with a lantern.

"Know where Cassidy's being held?" Bradley demanded of a man who had been working aft.

"From the way he's cussing, he's in the after house," said the man with a grin. "Been yelling to us to hurry up and let him loose and telling us what he thought of us."

THEY all laughed and went on, and presently Bradley held his lantern up and let the light fall through the bars of the prison door. Cassidy's emaciated and tired face was colored by a purple tinge of wrath.

"Damn you, Bradley! I know your voice. Why in hell didn't you let me go first off?"

"Think we ought to let him go?" Bradley demanded, turning to Gunther. Gunther frowned and spat.

"Don't know as we should. Looks t' me like he's got hydrophobia!"

"I'll... I'll ..." Cassidy choked and then beside him there rose the slender form of Chang and the Chinaman laid a hand on the other's shoulder.

"Be still," he said soothingly. "They only jest with you."

Bradley unlocked the door with a key he had found on Lieutenant Hoffman, and Seave helped Cassidy outside. The old man was very weak, his knees trembling, and they saw he had his arm bandaged to his side, from a wound as he profanely informed them. They took him into the ornate saloon 'midships, Chang following, and they sat him before a stiff whiskey and soda.

"It's a hell of a fine bunch you are!" he spluttered, after drinking. "Where in hell have you been all this time? I've been locked up for months! Months, damn it! You ought to have been here ages ago."

They stood around him and grinned, for they knew he did not mean that. They knew he knew they had come as soon as they had heard, as soon as they could, that they had left their own businesses to go to pieces for his sake. So they grinned and said nothing, and after a while Cassidy stared up at them, his old eyes going slowly from face to face, and then something cracked and two drops welled down his cheeks.

"I don't know what to say..." he muttered.

"Oh, hell," said Bradley. "Let's get out of here for a spell." So they all trooped on deck and, unlocking the strong room, examined the gold ingots which Black Dutch and the rest had so kindly accumulated for them.

vii

IT was just after dawn when the cutter Wilhelmina came alongside the Sea King, still at anchor off the coast, on the other side of the island. That all had gone well was evident, for Jack Barrett's six feet six of lean height could be seen on her poop deck and the men who had been with him waved from midships.

Bradley shouted for them all to come over for a conference, and this was held in the ornate cutter's saloon with all hands present at breakfast. It was a triumphant assembly. They had not lost a man, not even had one wounded. They had lifted a fine, fast cutter, an incredible amount of gold and two important prisoners right from under the noses of their old enemies, not to say right from under the Imperial German flag.

Cassidy was more his old self now, dressed in some clean ducks, his white mustache and his hair clipped and trimmed, a touch of color back in his cheeks. Chang seemed the same as ever, quite as though he had not suffered captivity.

"Well," said Bradley at last, pushing away his plate and lighting a cheroot. "So far so good."

"But we ought to have taken a crack at Black Dutch and Larsen and the others," grumbled Big Bill Gunther. "I don't like th' idea of letting them Kanakas wipe 'em out."

"They won't be wiped out," advised Barrett calmly. "I told the chief of that village that the best thing he could do would be to pile his people and their belongings into their canoes and get to some other island. He said he would. I told him it wouldn't be long before another ship would come with guns and many men, and if it was found there had been any killing and burning there would be a swift payment. I think I got the old boy scared, and he'll beat it as soon as he can gather up the loose ends and get his young men's attention."

"That's a relief to know," said Seave. "I don't like the idea of leaving white men in a jam like that, without even a boat. If the natives beat it, they'll be all right, of course, until the Germans send another craft to find out why all the delay."

"So I can figure on Black Dutch and Larsen coming through, eh ?" said Cassidy, rubbing his hands and beaming. He suddenly straightened his face and glared around. "You fellers just lay off them, see? It's my deal and I'll attend to 'em."

"Don't talk that way, Cassidy," said Bradley after a pause. "You're not as young as you were and you can't go gunning all over the South against a crowd like that. Let me and the boys take the cards...."

CASSIDY exploded.

"Not as young as I was, eh? Well, maybe I can't go gunning around, but there's other ways. I'm not such an old fool as you think and I'll make every damned one of that mob sweat blood for holding me up. You lay off!"

Bradley shrugged and laughed.

"All right!... And now let's figure what next. I think we ought to make it a clean job while we're at it."

"What else is there?" demanded Barrett. "I've got to get back to business."

"Well," said Bradley carefully, "I was thinking that Cassidy's ship, the Sandow, is being held up north. Seems to me, as a matter of honor, we can't leave her. That's why I brought along the cutter, for that little job."

There was a dead silence and then suddenly Gunther chuckled.

"Do you mean to sit there and suggest we sail right into Konstantinhafen and lift the Sandow from under their noses?"

"Why not ?" challenged Bradley. Stinger Seave stared at him and a thin smile twisted his lips.

"Typhoon," he said gently, "I could love you for that!"

And then the tension snapped and they stood up and yelled at him. Someone pulled the cork from a bottle and they all drank. This was something that had never been done before in the South. It was carrying on a private war with a vengeance. They would teach the Imperial Government that it was not a good thing to interfere with free-lance traders and adventurers. And then, when the noise had died down, Bradley took command again.

"We'll transfer the gold to the Sea King. She's to follow behind us. We won't use coal until we're close to the harbor, but I think this cutter can sail about as fast as the Sea King. Anyway, we'll manage it. Barrett, you can pick out eight of the fellers to help you sail her. I'll keep the rest with me. We'll discuss what else later. Right?"

"Right it is," grunted Barrett. "And you want me to tranship the gold now?"

"That's the idea."

Cassidy cleared his throat.

"About the damned gold, we'll split it even all round. Chang's my partner in this and agreeable. You men have lost time and business chasing up here and there's enough of the metal to cover everything."

THEY would have argued about that, but Cassidy hammered on the table with his clenched fists and bellowed at them.

"Shut up! I know what I'm talking about. Damn it, I was sailing ships and looting islands before half of you were born. Share and share alike or I pitch the whole junk overside."

"You're a confounded nuisance, Cassidy," said Bradley at last. "But have it your own way." The party broke up. Bradley went out on deck with Barrett.

"Did you have much trouble arranging that riot ashore?" he asked him. "Hasn't been time to inquire before."

"It was a cinch," answered Barrett. "I caught a coupla Kanakas on the edge of the village, an old man and a young girl. Had a little trouble making them understand I was a friend... they'd been treated pretty rough by the Germans... but once they got the idea they entered into the spirit of the thing. We waited until dark when the other Kanakas, the workers, had been herded into the compound, and then the girl got to making love with one of the guards while the old man shinned over the stockade and explained what was going to happen to the others. It all went pretty smooth. They piled brush up under the sheds around midnight, like I'd fold 'em to, and they set it off about the same time I blew down half the wall with dynamite. Carstairs set a torch to the village and then we all sprayed a little lead around to keep the guards guessing. It was a sweet mess."

They both laughed then and turned their attention to the transferring of the gold.

viii

TO this very day, the real story of the raid on Konstantinhafen has never been explained, at least not to the entire satisfaction of the Imperial Government. There are some facts of the matter, however, that are quite plain, and are very painful remembrances. The thing began when the small launch of the harbor night patrol churned out into the narrow channel that led from the harbor to the sea, her one white occupant and her two native occupants swearing sleepily in their respective languages. Swearing about nothing in particular.

"Ach, for why should any ship come in so late?" demanded the German of the stars. "There is no bad weather outside!"

No one could answer him, and he turned the little wheel, grumbling continuously. It was very close to two o'clock in the morning and he had been sleeping when one of his native crew had reported the lights of a ship coming in. And so here he was running alongside her, and he recognized her almost instantly.

"The Wilhelmina!... We did not expect her so soon." He stopped the launch's engine and let her drift, hailing the cutter. "Lieutenant Hoffman?"

A head and shoulders loomed over the poop rail and Lieutenant Hoffman's voice, strangely hoarse, answered back.

"Ah, Weinberg? Too bad to get you out so late. But I have important news for his Excellency. Is he still here?"

"He is entertaining the officers of the Kaiser Augusta," said Weinberg, scratching his unshaven jaw and wondering why the usually genial Hoffman did not invite him on board. He could not know that a gun was digging into the small of the Lieutenant's back and that that gun was held by a very grim Typhoon Bradley.

"Well, I will anchor and come ashore," said the Lieutenant with effort. "And... ah... Weinberg, where did you place that Sandow I sent north with a prize crew?"

"Over there, in the lee of the Kronprinz shoal," yawned Weinberg, waving in the starlight

"Good. Then will you report me to his Excellency?"

"He doesn't like being disturbed at this hour," grumbled Weinberg but he spun the launch's wheel and chugged back toward the shore. Bradley laughed a little.

"Good work, Lieutenant.... Are the boats ready, Stinger?"

"All ready, sir," snapped Seave. Bradley grunted and holstered his gun. "Better tie Hoffman up again in case he gets heroic and starts yelling.... You've all got your instructions, so beat it!"

GUNTHER and Seave started away.

The cutter slid farther into the harbor, skirted the Kronprinz shoal and stopped across the anchored bow of the Sandow upon which vessel a single light glimmered, showing she had a watchman at least. The cutter had not yet come to rest when two boats dropped from her and were alongside Cassidy's ship. It was quick, sharp work then. The German watchman was asleep below and bothered no one. The sentry guarding the wharf ashore curiously watched the Sandow move toward the sea in the tow of the cutter which he recognized. He did not give the alarm. The patrol launch had been out and was evidently satisfied. There must be some secret scheme in the wind.

Right out to the channel the cutter towed the Sandow, men on board of her loosening the sails until she had sufficient canvas up to make her own way. Then the cutter slipped back, to pick up the one whale boat that had remained. This boat had been speeding here and there among the shipping, and there were over a dozen craft of all shapes and sizes lying in Konstantinhafen that night, besides the Kaiser Augusta, the new man-o'-war just out from home for service in the Pacific.

It was neatly and swiftly done. Not over an hour elapsed from the time the patrol launch visited the cutter until the cutter was taking men aboard from the remaining boat, and depositing other men, helpless men, into her.

Cassidy , and Seave and one boatload of men had gone with the Sandow. This remaining boat had been commanded by Gunther, and the big man was shaking all over with laughter when he joined Bradley.

"Cut four of the schooners loose," he reported, holding his side. "By God, there'll be a nice mix-up! I managed to knock the shackles of a big brig and a bark free. Scared to spend too much time."

"That's enough damage for one night," Bradley agreed, chuckling. "Look at 'em!"

The ships which Gunther had cut free from their anchors were drifting toward the shoals and drifting together with the tide. A few scattered shouts and oaths began to rack the night, and the sleepy crews tumbled on deck. Two of the schooners collided with a splintering crash that woke the echoes. The brig rammed into another schooner and sank her. There was a beautiful shipping tangle in Konstantinhafen that was to take many days and several court suits to straighten out.

THE launch of the night patrol came churning from the shore again, Weinberg finally full of suspicions. He ran alongside the cutter and stared up at the many heads looking down at him.

"What damned foolishness is this?" he demanded. "Lieutenant Hoffman...."

That was as far as he got. A heavy snatch block whizzed down and went through the launch's bottom, leaving its three occupants struggling in the water. Typhoon Bradley leaned overside and waved his hand.

"We're just going to cast off a whale-boat we've got trailing astern of us," he said. "Maybe you noticed it? You'll find some of your friends there."

The cutter suddenly picked up speed, leaving a whale boat rocking in her wake. Weinberg and his two natives swam to it and climbed aboard, and there they found Lieutenant Hoffman, bound and gagged, and bound and gagged with him, some half a dozen other men. Weinberg swore when he had got his breath back and then he cut the Lieutenant free.

"Fooled! Fooled! Fooled!" raved the Lieutenant, shaking his fists at the stars. "Weinberg, you have lead for brains!

"They got the cutter and the Sandow. They have wrecked the shipping."

"There's no time to rave!" said Weinberg savagely. "We must do something. There is the Kaiser Augusta in port."

"Ach, yes." Lieutenant Hoffman cooled suddenly and managed a laugh. "The Kaiser Augusta is here. Put out the oars, fool, and pull me to her. She has the newer engines and will catch the cutter and the others. Pull, man!"

"There are no oars," wailed Weinberg. "They left no oars here!"

And so it was the whale boat had to drift for nearly an hour, her crew yelling at the top of their lungs, unheeded because of the clamoring from the drifting ships. His Excellency the Governor came down to view the scene in his flowered silk dressing gown, and he grew more and more apoplectic as reports reached him.

The captain of the Kaiser Augusta was already on board, swearing at his engineers for steam. And finally someone heard the frantic hails from the oarless whale boat and picked it up. Immediately all became plain to the Governor, as Lieutenant Hoffman reported, but even so he wasted a good ten minutes cursing his officer before he hurried with him on to the new man-o'-war where they were casting off the lines and preparing to back out into the harbor.

ON board the cutter the last preparations had been made. All hands were waiting in a boat alongside. The cutter was at rest, both her bow anchors holding her, and a third anchor snaked out aft to prevent the current and the wind swinging her round. She was very low in the water.

"I guess that's all," said Bradley one foot over the rail, and taking a last look around. "That fuse ought to be about burned down."

He dropped lightly into the whale boat and it pushed off. A sail was hoisted and the boat heeled, running for the sea. She had not gone more than a quarter of a mile when a violent explosion came from the direction of the cutter, and a livid splash of flame lit the sky.

"That's finished her," said Gunther shortly.

"The open sea cocks would have been enough," said Bradley, "but I wanted to be sure."

Ten minutes later they were all climbing on board the Sandow that was waiting for them. The whale boat was hoisted and the Sandow ran south to join the Sea King. Together the two ships fled back to their own waters, while behind them, coming out of Konstantinhafen harbor at full speed, the new man-o'-war Kaiser Augusta ran smack into a sunken cutter that blocked the whole channel. She went down in twenty minutes and his Excellency the Governor had to swim ashore. It was an expensive night for the Imperial Government. They lost a warship, a cutter, a launch, a great deal of gold and an even greater amount of dignity.

"Well, that's that!" said Cassidy on the Sandow, pacing up and down the poop with Bradley, Seave and Gunther. "Now all there is left is to settle my private accounts with Black Dutch and the others."

"You'd better let Seave and me handle that," said Bradley bluntly. "You can't go gallivanting around shooting up the Islands at your age."

"Never you mind," bellowed Cassidy. "I've got a few ways of my own!" And he had.

Back in Apia, Cassidy wrote a long and confidential letter to the highest official in the Australian administration, a man he had once had as his supercargo. As a direct result a member of Parliament rose in the House of Commons in London and asked a question of the Foreign Secretary. As a direct result of that his Excellency the Governor was suddenly called home from Konstantinhafen to answer many embarrassing questions while Lieutenant Hoffman was transferred to an obscure African post and permanently forgotten.

IN Brisbane, a police officer tapped Caradoc on the shoulder and arrested him on an old murder charge he had thought forgotten. He drew ten years. Gentleman Harry was rudely and suddenly shanghaied out of Saigon aboard an American whaler, a notorious hardcase packet bound on a two years' cruise of the Antarctic. Strangely enough she already had her full crew when she took the trouble to snake Gentleman Harry aboard.

In Singapore, Larsen's favorite girl, one of whom he was genuinely fond, received a tempting offer from a new admirer, and left for parts unknown. The maddening thing about that was that someone spread the story round the clubs, and someone had made up a little song which the natives sang in the bazaars. Larsen would sooner have been shot than lost prestige that way.

As for Black Dutch, he bought a fine big bark called the Delfdyke while he was in Batavia, and before he had time to insure her, she mysteriously burned to the water-line, so ruining him that he had to ship as second mate of a coasting boat. The coincidences were all remarkable, but just so there would be no mistake each one of the four conspirators received, right after disaster had overtaken them, a little slip of paper in Cassidy's handwriting.

PAID IN FULL. CASSIDY.

"Call me an old man, will they?" bellowed Cassidy. "I'll show 'em!"

_________________

16: Not Down on the Bill

J. U. Giesy

1877-1947

Adventure Dec 1914

THE band stopped playing. Throughout the "big top" there fell one of those pauses which always precede a major act on the bill— a sort of preliminary silence which arrests the attention of the spectators and contributes in a subtle manner to the nerve-tension which the amusement-seeking public now considers synonymous with getting their money's worth.

High up on a spidery tower, midway of the tent, and directly in front of the reserved section, movement occurred. A man arose and approached a black square on which shone polished levers. A second figure arose, cast off a robe which shrouded its outlines, and stood revealed as a girl in pale pink fleshings about supple, pliant torso and limbs.

Viewed from below she looked small, dainty, young and blonde in a gold-and-crimson way. She took up a sort of wand and advanced to the edge of the tower's top, from which a wire stretched down at a slight angle from an upright, beside a little ladder-like set of steps.

The ringmaster raised his hands. The silence continued. All other acts in the three rings below, and on the wires and trapeze above, came to a halt. The announcer's megaphone rang out to all parts of the monster tent:

"Ladies and gentlemen! Mile. Mitchi Maya in her daring performance on the Live Wire! There are five thousand volts of deadly current passing through the wire upon which she works. Five thousand volts! Enough to strike a dozen men dead. A slip— a misstep— ah! Permit me to ask you all to maintain absolute silence during this exceedingly hazardous act. Are you ready, Mile. Maya? Then— go!"

With a crackling sputter, two large arc-lights, one green on the tower, one red above the net where the wire ran down and ended, leaped into life as the man on the tower pushed a shining lever home. The girl bowed. She ran up the little steps to a level with the wire. She bowed again, poised like a diver; then— she stepped out on the wire itself.

A burst of flame came from under her shoe at the contact. The side of her body above the limb she stood on sprang into an outline of tiny parti-colored lights. She advanced a step. Again a flash of blue fire marked her action. Lights outlined the limb and girdled her slender waist on the opposite side.

She put down both feet and stood drawn in colored light. She walked, she ran, she danced on the deadly thing beneath her, turned and ran back to the ladder-like steps, and so down to the tower-top.

Already her assistant was busy. As the avid crowd sighed its relief and gaped for more, he led her to the edge, this time beneath the wire.

She turned back her face and seized something in her mouth. On her back the man was fastening something, one could not just see what; but in a moment one understood. She lifted her naked arms. The wings of a giant butterfly sprang into view. They waved as in preparation for flight, and— she was off!

Hanging by her teeth, arms outstretched, the wings and her body a mass of scintillating brilliance, the wheel upon which she slid and beneath which she clung throwing off sparks like the flare of a trolley from a charged wire!

She flashed down the wire, landed in the net and stood bowing to the wave of applause which greeted her having accom¬ plished the thing once more. Then she slid to the ground on a rope, ran from the ring and so back to the "trapping-room."

The "Human Butterfly" act of the Barnaby Shows was ended.

It was a genuine "thriller." I, who was press agent of Barnaby's Shows, knew all about it. I knew that it had already been the indirect cause of a man's death, and of a wedding; and that it had nearly killed the woman who had just performed it anew and was making her way out of the ring while the audience rustled back to a casual interest in less sensational numbers of the bill.

I glanced into her face and nodded as she passed me in the fly of the big top. She nodded back with a smile. She was as winsome, as fresh near at hand as she looked on the tower. She was young, and seemingly happy.

I remembered the night when her petite body lay unconscious in the net. For the wire on which she worked was really charged as the announcer had claimed. The act was risky. It was genuine— no fake.

Forget that I am a press agent, because the story of the thing is true, on my honor as a man.

WE OF the circus know that about once every so often the public must have a thrill in their bill of entertainment. Human nature stays pretty much the same from year to year. The Romans had gladiatorial combats, and the old barons and such, knightly tournaments. Folks got hurt in those affairs.

Nowadays people like to see men and women go up in balloons and jump off with a few yards of canvas between them and kingdom come, or else see a loop-the-loop, or an airman fly upside down— anything where a mishap will mean sudden death. I don't know why, but it's so. You know it.

And so we amusement-venders have to pull a dangerous stunt now and then. That is how Pitkin came to dope out the "Butterfly" in the first place. He was our electrician. We have a new one now. But he fixed this "thriller" and it gave one audience, at least, a sensation not down on the bill.

Pitkin was nuts on electricity— had all sorts of funny notions about what it could do— was always experimenting with the "juice," and he certainly knew how to make it do what he wanted it to.

He figured that a big act like this, full of blue sparks and things, would make a big hit, and he put it straight up to old man Barnaby himself.

At first Barnaby was shy of the thing. Then his need of a new act and the scheme of the thing itself took hold on him. Pitkin assured him that he could make it as safe as a church during Lent, and he fell for the act and had it built.

Now in itself, the act is all right— if something don't go wrong. That's the whole thing with most of the big stunts, however. It's the thing which sometimes gives the dear public something not down, and it's because of the off chance of something going wrong that they all hold their breaths and hope. But they're not hoping it will.

In working, Mitchi wore insulated shoes and her tights were rubber, too. The mouthpiece of her pulley was made of soft rubber into which she bit. Unless she were to brush the wire with her naked arms or her face she was pretty safe.

She had to be quick at the net, of course, so as to hit it right and not fall against the wire. But that's nothing much for the trained acrobat which she was.

Still, when it came to getting a woman for the act after it was built, Pitkin and Barnaby had some trouble, until they picked up Mitchi Maya out of an aerial troupe.

She'd been with the show for some time and was about the neatest little gymnast you ever saw. She had blue eyes like the flowers of wild flax, and a little straight nose, and a clear, fine skin, with a figure as supple and pliant as a spring. And she had a nerve to match her good looks, which isn't always the rule by a long shot.

The old Hungarian who was head of the aerial troupe had picked her up as a baby, adopted and trained her, and he always kept her with him. There was some story about a widowed mother in the old country, and I know Mitchi used to send money somewhere over there.

Well, when she heard about the "Butterfly" going begging for a woman, I guess she got a bug she could save a lot more money out of the job. They pay big for such stunts. She thought if she earned enough she could get the old dame over here and sort of look after her first hand instead of by correspondence.

First off she had a long powwow with the old Magyar who had raised her, and though he put up some kick about her leaving his act, he gave in in the end like we all do for a pretty woman. Next she goes to the "old man" and says she'll sign on for the big bill; and the first thing we knew Pitkin and she were working the thing up between shows and before performances, after the big top was up.

The act created a good deal of excitement, even among our crowdjthemselves. I remember we all stood around mighty shaky the first time it got a try-out.

Some of the women got pretty pale the first time that little kid stepped out on that hell-spitting wire in her little pink tights, and I know I felt sort of lumpy in the throat myself.

But Mitchi was as cool as a nice icy grapefruit, and she got by with the trial in great shape. Then, too, Pitkin swore there wasn't any real danger.

He explained all about it. It seems that the balancing-wand she carried, with a big brass knob on the end, was a sort of safety device. At least that is what I gathered from his line of talk. He said the knob collected all the surplus electricity which wasn't taken care of by her shoes and suit.

It was something like some sort of jar— Leyden he called it. Anyway, as I understood it, it was a sort of fancy lightning-rod she carried, which caught up all the diffused currents and made her safe. As for the slide, it only lasted a few seconds, and the rubber mouthpiece was built so that she couldn't get hurt.

Still, it sure looked fierce to see that kid frolicking around on the thing. It gave me the willies the first time, and it sort of gets me fussed up now and again, even now. You see I can't just forget what happened— once.

AFTER the trial we all congratulated them, and Mitchi laughed, with her little red mouth open so you could see her strong white teeth. She said it was a lot easier in fact than the trapeze act of the old Magyar's she had left. As for Pitkin, he grunted and let it go at that. Nobody expected anything else from him.

He was a funny fellow, dark as Mitchi was light, and wiry, with a sort of sallow skin and a great mop of black hair which he wore so long it curled up at the back like a duck's tail. He had black eyes, or at least black-brown, and a half-way discouraged mustache. By his own tell he was a Russian who had left the old homestead on the jump, about a hose-length ahead of a Siberian excursion the Czar was getting up for some undesirable "cits."

Pitkin made a getaway and beat the police to the frontier. He'd been what he called a student with progressive thinks in his tank. He had a sort of slow, quiet way about him and wasn't much of a mixer. He'd rather get off by himself and mope around half a day than join a friendly gab-fest or a game of cards. But he sure was studious when it came to using the "juice" for funny effects.

Oh, he was bright all right— only, to look at the chap, you wouldn't ever have thought he had a live wire of feeling coiled up in himself. He just gloomed around and we rather let him alone, most of the time.

But he was human under all his reserve— human in a wild, untrained sort of way, for all his being a student. Dogs, you know, are said to be domesticated wolves, and Pitkin was human the same way that a wolf is a dog.

I fancy the Czar was right— the chap wasn't safe to run with ordinary mutts like the rest of our crowd. We found that out later, too, and it all came about through the butterfly act.

Being with Mitchi like he was, in trying out the act and working it up he saw a lot of the girl. As a matter of fact I don't blame him for getting stuck on that pretty little kid. She was pretty, and game, and on top of that she was a sweet-dispositioned little thing and a prime favorite with our bunch.

The upshot of it was that the Russky fell head over heels in love and wanted to get married right away. Mitchi told him straight out that she didn't care for him that way and that she wouldn't marry any man unless she loved him. He took it mighty badly and grew more sullen than ever.

He was one of those people who have to have what they want, no matter how they get it; and he wouldn't take no for an answer. Every now and then he'd come back with his proposal. And each time he got the same answer he grew a trifle more grouchy about it. He used to go mooning around with his big eyes, black and mournful, except when he was looking at Mitchi, and then they seemed to snap, and dance, and sparkle.

I've seen him stand and eye her, and after a while spread out his fingers like claws and shut them as if he imagined he could grab her and drag her to him. He'd get a sort of hungry wolf-look on him at times like that.

But Pitkin wasn't the only person who had found Mitchi attractive. Before she left her own to go into Pitkin's act, Mitchi had been a member of a Hungarian family. It wasn't a family, really, like some of them are, but a bunch the old Magyar who ran it had picked up here and there and trained. One of them was a young fellow named Collins whom the old man had grabbed just before Barnaby signed the troupe.

He was a mighty good aerialist, was Tom Collins, but instead of a Hungarian he was Irish, with brown hair, blue eyes, and a mighty well set-up figure. Before she left the act he did one of those flying swings and catches with Mitchi. One of the fellows would grab her by the heels and swing head downward with her. After a bit he'd let go and toss her to Tom, who was hang¬ ing by his knees from his bar.

It was a trick calling for a cool head and a sure eye for distance, because the Magyar people worked without a net, and it's a long ways from the bars to the ground. Their apparatus was placed 'way up toward the canvas of the big top, higher even than the top of the tower for the Butterfly number, and a miss would have spelled good night for Mitchi. Tom, like Pitkin, was human— in a more human fashion. He was a good old-dog-Tray sort of human, though his nerve showed up all right when it was needed and made him a bit of the wolf for a time.

You can't expect a man to go on catching a pretty girl in his arms twice a day for months, without noticing what sort of a girl she is. Collins got so he had a hungry look in his eyes, too, those days.

He had a rather romantic respect for the girl, which made his love a wholly different thingirom Pitkin's. Just the same we folks knew he was crazy about her, and Pitkin knew it, too— trust a man like him to sense it!

The result was that one day when Mitchi tinned him down pretty sharply and told him to cut out his nagging in the future, he up and accused her of liking Collins better than she did him.

Mitchi rather lost her head for a minute and told him he was a pretty good guesser, though up to that time, as I know now, Tom had never toldher a word about how he felt. I guess maybe the girl spoke on impulse, right out of her heart. She'd had a chance to notice big-hearted Tom, all right, the same as he had her, and she was a lot nearer his age and more his sort.

Anyway that's what she said, and Pitkin blew up. He swore that before Tom should have her he'd kill him, and added, if that wasn't enough he'd kill her.

Mitchi told him to stop talking foolish because Tom hadn't showed any signs of wanting to marry anybody that she knew of; and she certainly wouldn't marry a man unless he asked her, and not always then.

But Pitkin was too crazy mad to have any sense.

"You want to marry zat peeg, Collins!" he sputtered. "You haf say eet— but you s'all not. I swear it. Me you s'all marry an' no uzzer. Say zat you weel marry me, Mitchi, or I s'all keel zis Collins. I weel keel— keel— even you, Mitchi, my heart— even you!"

He lifted his hands and, clutching into his mane of black hair, waggled his head around and groaned.

At least that's what the ringmaster, who happened to be passing says he did. The ringmaster jumped in and called him down pretty swift, and he moped off.

OF COURSE the thing leaked during the day, and Tom heard all about it. That night in the trapping-room, while everybody was dressing, he walked over to the Russian right before the whole male end of the show and put it to him straight, to let the girl alone. Of course he didn't mention Mitchi's name— Tom wouldn't— but we all knew what he meant.

"Look here, Pitkin," he began. "I've heard a lot of stuff you've pulled about bumpin' me off. Now that's all right. Any time you want to get busy— why, start. But that ain't all. I ain't goin' to mention names, but I'm hep to what's eatin' you, my boy, and I want to tell you that maybe that sort of work goes where you come from, but it's too raw for over here. You want to be careful how you spill any more chatter like that while you're runnin' with this bunch, bo."

For a minute Pitkin didn't answer. He stood with his black eyes snapping, breathing hard, and a look on him like a dog getting ready to jump at your throat, then—

"I say w'at I mean, Misser Collins," he got out between gasps.

Tom gave him back stare for stare.

"I hope not, Pitkin," he says rather slow, "because if I hear of your trying any more of this hazing— of these threats— oh, not about me, Pitkin— but on somebody else— I'll break your-neck."

Pitkin yelled out in Russian and jumped for him. I was there and saw it. Tom just put out a hand and shoved him back. The boy wasn't looking for trouble.

After a bit we got Pitkin quieted down and the thing blew over for the night; but as it happened later Tom was a bit of a prophet without really meaning to be.

When he was dressed for his act, which went on before Mitchi's, Tom hunted her up, however, and cautioned her to be careful of the Russian, and told her, if she found herself needing help, to call on him. Mother Boone, our "circus mother," says they talked mighty low for a spell after that, and that Mitchi laughed in a rather embarrassed fashion and ran back into the women's section of the tent, while Tom walked off whistling in a rather self-satisfied way.

After that Mitchi began to spend a lot of time with Collins, and Pitkin got so that he went around muttering and mumbling to himself. I think he really was touched a little. It's the only way I can explain the thing he planned to do. I noticed, too, that Tom used to watch the Russian every time the act went off after that.

The aerial act with which he worked, although beginning before the butterfly, stopped while the big act was on. Tom's bar was nearest the tower, perhaps twenty feet away and higher than its top.

Well, he'd sit on his trapeze during the interruption and watch every move the Russian made, and though none of us knew it then, he had planned it all out in case anything should happen while the butterfly act was on.

We made a couple of jumps after the two men had their run-in in the trapping-room, and nothing happened. Everything went smooth, and most of us had about let the matter slip out of our minds. And then the thing hit us like a shock of Pitkin's own "juice" and knocked us off our pins.

WE WERE playing a two-day stand and the business was tremendous. Every performance packed the big top to the canvas. The Butterfly was simply going immense.

It was the last night of the stand. Collins was dressing for his turn when Pitkin rushed into the trapping-room and began to rummage about in his own trunk like a dog clawing for a buried bone. All the time he was mumbling away and sort of chuckling to himself.

At the time Tom didn't give much attention to him, but afterward he remembered and spoke of it to me.

Tom finished dressing and went out to the fly of the big top to wait for his troupe's signal. There he found Mitchi, wrapped in her cloak, waiting for the Russian to join her before they should get their call. Quite as a matter of course, Tom stopped and spoke to the girl.

She seemed rather nervous and hardly herself. He asked her what was the matter.

"I'm afraid, Tom," she told him without any feminine fencing. She'd come to trust Collins pretty fully. "Boris—" Pitkin's name was Boris—   "has been awfully queer all day. He's asked me to marry him twice since morning." She laughed in a forced fashion, and went on: "That's a record. Once a day has been his limit. But ever since the last time, this afternoon, he's gone around muttering to himself— and I don't like his looks. Honest, Tom, I don't believe he's just right. I believe he's crazy—"

Collins grinned.

"He's crazy about you, all right," he said.

"I meant crazy— about me," said Mitchi. "And he's been threatening again, Tom. He says— he'll kill you— unless I do what he wants."

"I ain't nervous," Tom assured her. "He talks too much. Your bad man talks after, not before. But if he don't stop pesterin' you, why— I'll have to marry you myself."

Mitchi laughed in a nervous fashion.

"Then if he keeps it up I'll have a right to break his neck," Collins went on, rather carried away by his words and the girl's demeanor and nearness, and his own love for every atom of her. "I told him I would once."

Mitchi gave him a smile.

"It's all right to joke," said she, "but I'm really nervous tonight, Tom. If you'd seen Boris' eyes—"

Tom rather lost his head for a minute.

"I ain't joking, Mitchi," he informed her in a way which brought her eyes up to his. "An' I tell you what you do. After tonight go to the old man and put it to him straight. He'll call this guy off or tie a can on him. Or— if you'd rather, marry me, Mitchi. As my wife, your bughouse Russky wouldn't have a leg left to stand on. Can't you think of worse things than bein' Mrs. Collins?"

I don't know what Mitchi would have answered to that, because just then Tom's act was called and he had to leave on the jump. Even love has to step down when your number is called in the circus. He joined his troupe, trotted in and was pulled up to his bar.

Later he told me that it wasn't till after that, when the act was really started, that he really began to feel worried. Then it came to him all at once that something was due to happen.

Just why it should be that night he didn't know. All along Pitkin's threats had gone for nothing. In fact Tom rather felt that the man was afraid to start any trouble. But now it hit him all at once that trouble was due.

He says he went through his own act by instinct pure and simple, and all the time something kept telling him to grab a rope and slide down and stop things before the Butterfly was called.

But he didn't. Circus people are pretty loyal to the show, as a class. They know the performance has to go on, no matter what happens; and most of them will suffer a lot of pain, or worry, or sickness, before they'll drop out of their act or make a holler of any sort. And the Butterfly is the big number, of course.

Tom told himself he was foolish; that just because he loved the girl so much he was nervous about her; that Pitkin was merely trying to scare her into the marriage, and he felt better— or at least he decided there was no cause for worry. Still, all the time he was worrying.

He says now that he knew something was coming, only he wouldn't admit it to himself because he couldn't believe anybody would attempt a thing as fiendish as the thing Pitkin did.

Just the same, when Mitchi and Pitkin came in, Tom watched the girl climb the tower, and all his love took hold on him afresh. She was little, and slender, and sweet, and he could see her face looked worried, too.

When the band stopped, and the megaphone barked, and his own and all the other acts in the rings came to a pause, he says now, he had all he could do to keep from yelling out and telling them to stop right there.

All he did do, however, was to draw himself up and sit on his bar, watching Pitkin and Mitchi's little pink figure, with every muscle in him tight with watching.

The act began all right. Mitchi did her stunts on the wire and came back for the slide. Pitkin took her to the edge after he'd fastened on her wings, and held the mouthpiece for her. They did it that way then, though now she always takes the mouthpiece in her teeth first. And there's a reason for that.

Well, Pitkin, who always wore rubber gloves, lifted the mouthpiece for her to bite, and Tom saw him speak to her when he did it. Mitchi shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. The Russian frowned and sort of nodded his head.

Mitchi flapped her wings and tilted back her pretty little face. Even then Tom never suspected anything except that Pitkin had proposed again, which he had— the last time, too, as it happened. I guess in his crazy mind he thought he was giving the girl a final chance.

ALL at once Mitchi goes up on her toes and grips the rubber bit in her mouth, and then, right before the whole tent, she stiffens and seems to stretch out in a sort of spasm. And before anybody could lift a hand, Pitkin pushes her off the tower and down she goes.

You know how a current will produce a spasm of the muscles. Well, that's what happened. When the current hit her through the jaws, they locked into the rubber and she couldn't let go or fall off. Pitkin knew that and figured on it to give the current time to kill her.

She flashed along the wire, hit the net and lay still under the wire, with the bit still fast in her teeth. And she never moved.

It sure was awful. When she hit, some of the lamps she wore broke and cut through her tights, but she never felt it. She just lay there and cooked. She was unconscious.

I gave one look at her poor little huddled shape in the net and turned away— sick.

Then I looked up at the tower. Pitkin stood there with his arms folded and his head back, and the most awful, hellish grin on his face I ever saw.

The whole tent was in an uproar. Several men ran toward the tower as if to climb up and shut off the current. Women were screaming and fainting all over the place, and men were yelling and cursing in excitement.

The ringmaster was trying to prevent a panic in the crowd. Through the megaphone he began barking at Pitkin over the shrieks and yells:

"Turn off the juice! Turn off the juice!"

Pitkin seemed to wake up at that, and looked down. The smile on his devil's face got wider, it seemed. He waved a hand toward poor little Mitchi and pointed to himself, as if to say he had meant to do it, and had succeeded, and defied us to do anything in time to save the life he was taking.

By that time one of the boys was half way up the tower, but he never would have made it in time. Even if he'd got up, he'd have had to fight Pitkin before he could reach the switch.

Right there the band began playing, by orders, to quiet the crowd. It seemed ghastly, too. There they were banging out ragtime, with that girl burning to death before everybody's eyes. I felt sick all over, believe me. It was fierce.

IT WAS Tom Collins, the man who really loved her, who saw the only way out and took it on the jump. While we were yellmg at Pitkin to cut off the current, and he was grinning his hellish triumph, Tom got busy. He let himself down from his bar by his arms and began to swing.

He gave himself a pretty strong momentum and forced himself to wait until it was sufficient. Then he let go. I've mentioned that his bar was higher than the tower and twenty feet beyond it.

When Collins let go, he came down in a straight foot-dive for the top of the tower itself, where Pitkin stood waving his hands and beginning a sort of fiendish clog-dance, right on the edge.

Pitkin's back was toward Tom and he didn't see him coming. I did. I saw him leave the bar and come down like an arrow, holding both feet together. Right in the middle of Pitkin's insane dancing Tom hit the tower, tried to straighten up, and staggered, lurching full into the Russian's back.

Pitkin yelled out once. He screamed like a wounded animal sometimes will— a wild, hoarse, unhuman-like screech. Then, thrown completely off his feet by Collins' impact, he plunged out from the tower's edge and fell over and over into the ring below, to lie awfully still with his black head bent back under his shoulders.

Collins paid no attention to that. He was at the switch. When he bumped into Pitkin it stopped his own fall and straightened him up.

In one leap he reached the switchboard and pulled out the lever.

The lamps sputtered and died, and poor little Mitchi relaxed in the net. I think everybody in the tent sighed at once. It sounded like a gust of wind.

Two of the tent-men were already swarming up ropes to the net, and Tom was racing down the tower. By the time they lowered Mitchi over the edge of the net, he was there to take her in his arms. He caught her and cuddled her up on his breast and kissed her before the whole tent. Then he turned and raced for the exit.

The band was still playing and the other acts started again at the ringmaster's signal. Two hands picked Pitkin up and lugged him out to the trap-room. Collins with Mitchi in his arms passed me at the fly.

There was a wild, fierce look in the boy's eyes. Just for that once I saw the old primitive, human-wolf strain look out. He gave me a glance and ran on into the woman's section of the dressing-tent, without so much as by your leave.

I think he'd forgotten everything on earth but the woman rolled in against his heart. He laid her down and began pumping her arms up and back and down again, like you do those of a man who has drowned. All at once he spoke:

"Get a doctor— a doctor— for God's sake! Ain't anybody got any sense? Get a doctor! She ain't dead! She won't die! I won't let her, I tell you! Get a doctor— quick!"

Some of the girls and Mother Boone tried to get him to let them take charge, but he wouldn't. As it happened, though, there was a doctor in the crowd, and by that time he was coming into the dressing-tent door. He came in and took hold in good shape as soon as Tom would let him.

At first the boy was so rattled he wouldn't let anybody touch her; just knelt there beside her little pink body and snarled, and worked her arms up and down.

I went up and told him the man was a physician, and because he knew me he listened. He looked up at the doctor; then staggered to his feet.

"Take me away, Bill," he mumbled.

I took him by the arm and led him outside the door of the girls' section.

There he balked. He wouldn't go a step farther. We hung around for a good two hours, and though everything else was loaded up for the jump, we didn't strike that tent till Mitchi could be moved. Old Barnaby sure acted white about that. A delay means a lot to show-folks; but Barnaby sure did the handsome. I guess he felt sort of guilty about having let Pitkin fix up the act in the first place, for he paid Mitchi's hospital-bill.

IT WAS about one o'clock when the doctor came out and says he thinks she'll pull through with good care, and that he's going to call an ambu¬ lance. When he heard that, Tom began to laugh all at once.

"I told you she wouldn't die!" he said between chuckles to me. "I wouldn't let her! She's mine! But Pitkin died, didn't he, Bill? I told him I'd break his -neck!"

And with that Tom dropped to the floor in a genuine faint.

He stayed behind, too, when the show went on. All the four weeks Mitchi was in the hospital he hung around. By the time she was ready to come back to the show, the two had decided to sign each other up for a life-engagement. They went off and got married, and Mitchi came back as Mrs. Collins.

But they work under her name. They bill as a brother-and-sister act, and Tom Collins handles the switch.

As for Pitkin, his neck was certainly broken. I think he deserved it for what he did that night. I've mentioned that the man was an electrical expert, and he had planned this thing all out. He'd taken an extra pulley and mouthpiece and soaked the whole thing in a strong copper solution for days.

That night he switched pulleys and put on his copper-loaded one. When Mitchi bit it the current jumped into her like lightning. That, by the way, is why she takes the bite now before her wings go on.

If any josher tried that stunt again, she'd taste it or drop on the tower, at least, even if Tom didn't get it first in his bare hands. He doesn't wear gloves. Tom Collins is sure mighty careful of his wife.

We picked up a new electrician, and nobody wept for Pitkin. Even the coroner, when he'd heard all the evidence we could give, decided his death was due to accidental causes, and nobody kicked on that.

_______________

17: A Cancelled Sale

Arthur Somers Roche

1883-1935

Adventure Nov 1915

FRAZEE, business manager of the Morgantown Sun, entered the office of the paper's editor and owner, a frown on his face and in his hand a letter.

"Well, Chief," he said gloomily, "they've went and gone and done it! Look at this!"

He smoothed the letter flat upon the editor's desk, and the latter read it swiftly.

Minot must have been a good poker-player had he ever taken up that game. Not a trace of emotion, save possibly quizzical good humor, was in his voice as he spoke to Frazee.

"Well?"

Frazee merely stared, an admiration that he could not conceal in his snappy eyes. As if the admiration slightly embarrassed him, Minot turned his head back toward the litter of сору-рарег and proofs before him.

"I'm awfully busy, Jack," said the editor. "And if—"

Frazee exploded.

"Busy! You aren't too busy to take notice of a letter from the Morgantown Merchants' Mutual Association, are you? A letter in which they inform the Sun's business office that until the news and editorial policy of the Sun undergoes a radical change the members of the Association can no longer consider it good business to use our columns for advertising! You ain't too busy—

"Why, Chief, that's the last straw! We've lost the public printing; the city advertising went five months ago along with the printing. The traction Company left us out of all their advertising of the new park at their terminal; the gas company quit us six weeks ago; the electric light and power company has given notice that they'll not renew their annual contract at its expiration next week! All those were bad enough; but if the retail merchants tie a can to us— Chief, we're out on a limb and they're down below with dogs and guns. It's about our cue to climb down!"

Minot drummed on his desk a moment before making reply. When he did speak his voice was calm, inflexible, as determined as on that day to which his words referred.

"Jack," he said, "when I bought this paper six months ago and brought you with me from New York to help me run it, what did I say to you?"

"You said that you'd been a boy in Morgantown; that it had always been уоur ambition to run a paper here. An honest paper! That Morgantown had as rotten a political and business machine as Minneapolis or Philadelphia in the good old days, and that you were going to smash it; that you were going to run an honest paper— not a commercially honest paper, but an ethically honest paper."

"You sum it up better than I could myself, Jack," smiled Minot. "Well, have I ever done anything to make you think I'd go back on my word?"

"No, but—"

"Then why do you expect me to now?"

Frazee hit the desk with a clenched fist.

"Because you invested fifty thousand dollars your uncle had left you for the benefit of people that aren't worth it! You came to Morgantown to lift the people here out of their sloth! To be an expression of the better opinion of the city! You told me that Morgantown people stood for rottenness and corruption because there was no one to lead a fight for better things.

"You bought this sheet for twenty thou- sand dollars. You said you'd spend the rest of your inheritance to awaken the people to civic decency. And they haven't responded to you. You've pointed out rottenness; you've shown how cleanness may be achieved. And what happens? First the big corporations shut down on their advertising and now the retail merchants tie a can to you. Tom, you've got about five thousand left. Are you going to sink that for the benefit of a lot of ungrateful, unappreciative—"

"How do you know that?" snapped Minot.

"Know what?"

"What you said— about the people being unappreciative and ungrateful?"

"Good Lord! doesn't this letter prove that?"

"The retail merchants aren't the people— only a small portion of them," said Minot. "The people— Jack, it's true I've alienated advertising, but I've gained subscribers."

"And you can't run a daily newspaper on subscriptions," said Frazee. "Look here, Tom, you've fought a good fight— against odds. You're down practically to a shoe-string. Another month or so and you'll have to mortgage the plant; then you won't meet the interest, and—"

"Then you advise me to quit fighting the rotten ring?"

"I advise you not to commit suicide," said Frazee.

"Suicide, eh?" Minot smiled faintly. "Suicide? Well, Jack, if fighting the good fight means suicide— then suicide it is! I understand that the Bugle has made you a good offer to go over there. No use sticking to a sinking ship, Jack. I'll release you from your contract, and—"

"Look here, Tom Minot!" cried the business manager. "A little more of that talk and I'll hang one on your ear! Just because I'm a few years older than you and blessed with a lot more horse sense doesn't mean I'm a quitter! You can't stop me from giving you advice; I can't stop you from refusing to take it. But that doesn't mean that I'm not with you. If you've got to scuttle your own craft, why— well, it's your ship, isn't it? Bugle be ——!"

He blew his nose loudly and muttered much profanity in an undertone. He picked up the letter from the Merchants' Association.

"What'll I write to them?" he asked. "Tell 'em to go to the devil and be quick about it?"

"No," said Minot. "I'll attend to that."

He picked up pencil and paper and wrote rapidly. When he had finished he handed the result to Frazee. The business manager whistled.

"Say, Tom," he said, "salt away enough to buy two tickets to New York, will you? I think we'll need them in a few short months."

"Maybe," said Minot, "but, Jack— a good fight, in a good cause— isn't that recompense enough? Even for defeat?"

"It's your money," said Frazee. "And— and—  Tom, as your business manager I can't advise you to throw away your chances for making this paper a success, but as your friend, and as man to man— Tom, I'm proud of you!"

THEIR hands struck together; then, as if ashamed of such emotion, Frazee hurried from the editorial office. Minot struck a bell. A boy entered the room. Minot handed him the letter from the Merchants' Association and the few paragraphs he had penciled on copy paper. The boy left the office.

For a long time young Minot, editor and owner of the Morgantown Evening Sun, stared gloomily out of the window, seeing nothing save the wreck of high hopes, the passing of a proud ambition. An hour passed; then the rumble of the presses in the basement aroused him. With a bitter smile he unlocked a drawer in his desk and took out a bank-book.

It was not the first time he had checked up the balance there after visits from Frazee announcing the withdrawal of advertising. But this time the balance was smaller than ever before. At first, under his editorship, the paper had responded. Morgantown had hailed with delight a livening of the moribund Sun. People had rushed to advertise; but in the last few months receipts were not up to expenditures, and were growing steadily less.

"Five thousand four hundred and eight and forty-three cents," he said with a grim smile. "And election is eight weeks away."

He sighed.

"Well, I suppose I'll have to see if I can borrow ten thousand on the plant. No need of waiting until the last minute."

He clapped his hat on his head and left the office, with a word to his city editor about extra editions if need arose. Then he went to the bank. There he was received with courtesy by the president, and in an hour his business was transacted. The Morgantown First National gladly lent him ten thousand on his note secured by his paper. But he had hardly left the president's office when that dignitary called up on the telephone one Stewart Morris.

"Why didn't you refuse the loan?" demanded Morris angrily, after the banker had finished talking.

"How could I? It's a good business proposition. And if I hadn't, some other bank, here or elsewhere, would have done so. He'd have got the money anyway, so it wasn't up to me to turn down a good piece of paper like his note, was it?"

The man at the other end of the wire was silent a moment. Then he said:

"No, I don't suppose it was, but— oh, well, it's all right, Benson. Much obliged for telling me."

"Not at all; I thought you'd want to know."

"Rather," said Morris.

He hung up his receiver and looked about his small office— ostensibly a place for the transaction of real-estate business, but in reality the seat of the invisible government of Morgantown. He thought a while, then scribbled a hasty note, rang for a messenger and ordered a swift delivery.

The envelope was addressed to Philip Landers, Mayor of Morgantown. Then the boss of Morgantown turned again to the copy of the Morgantown Evening Sun which lay before him. And he read for the third or fourth time the defiance which shrieked from its first page. For there, in a box, was the Merchants' Association's letter to the Sun's business office. Beneath the box was the line: "The Sun's Answer to Dictation." And beneath that was a short editorial by Minot, in which he declared that not all the power of the invisible government of Morgantown could prevent him from continuing to expose the rottenness of the ring that governed the city.

Though the Sun be stripped of every line of advertising the Sun should still continue to expose the grafters. The Sun bore no ill will toward the members of the Merchants' Association; the Sun pitied them for their cowardice in not daring to defy the boss of Morgantown. And the Sun would continue to shine upon the dark places of the city, despite the shortsighted merchants who could not see that betterment of civic conditions meant betterment of business.

Morris grunted as he finished reading.

"Why couldn't those fools just quit advertising without sending that letter?" he snapped. "That didn't help. Only fools write letters, anyway. Now I'll have to think—"

He was still thinking when he left his office; still thinking when he reached his house, still thinking through his lonely dinner. But thought had brought him a plan at nine o'clock when, in answer to the note of the afternoon, the Мауог of Morgantown slipped quietly into the house of the boss.

"Seen the Sun?" was the boss's first question.

The Мауог nodded.

"It didn't bring him down, did it?"

"No, blast him," said the boss with a tinge of unwilling admiration in his voice. "That Minot is a real fighting guy. Wish he were on our side. But that's out of the question. Smoke?"

He shoved a box of cigars toward the Мауог, and there was silence for a while. The boss did not encourage conversation; naturally taciturn himself, he disliked loquaciousness in others. The Мауог awaited the boss' pleasure. But not until both cigars were half consumed did Morris speak. Then it was to the point, albeit slightly reminiscent.

"When Minot came here last Spring," said the boss, "and started his attacks on you and me— chiefly on me— both of us decided that he, a New York newspaperman, was simply a cagy citizen, trying to put over a little hold-up. Didn't we?"

The Мауог made no reply; whatever the boss said, though couched in interrogatory, was assertion. The boss continued:

"So we sent him a little hint to the effect that he held good cards, and asked him to name what he wanted. But not even the promise of continuance of the public printing, that the Sun had always had, got him. Not even taking it away got him.

"Then you offered him a place on the Finance Commission. He couldn't see that. Then we hit his pocketbook some more. We've been hitting it ever since. Last week the Merchants' Association got the tip that unless they withdrew their advertising from the Sun the city ordinances would be enforced; fire-escapes would have to be built, sidewalks kept clear. Like suckers they write him a letter, and now he's published it.

"The people are beginning to believe that he's persecuted because of his attacks on us. They're beginning to believe in him and— Landers, you won't succeed yourself as Мауог of Morgantown unless he's called off."

The Мауог paled.

"You mean you won't give me a renomination?"

"I'll nominate you all right," said the boss. "But you'll be licked. This young feller will support a Citizens' Ticket and— we'll be licked. I happen to know that his circulation has increased eight thousand in the past two weeks. You know what that means. The people are waking up. And you also know what it means for you to be beaten."

"It would be a poor reward for my services to—" began the Мауог pompously.

Morris cut him short with an oath.

"Your services be —! I'm thinking of my contracting Company! I'm thinking of all the business I'll lose if you're not Мауог. I'm not thinking of glory; I'm thinking of money! And now — Minot's centering his attack on the Morgantown Construction Соmpаnу; he's making that his main issue. He says that everything we build is overpaid and underdone. If a Citizens' Ticket wins, he'll have the new Мауог and council cancel the contracts already made. And if we go to court— we can't go to court."

"Why not?" asked the Мауог. "Your construction соmpаnу — I call it yours, as you do— does good work, doesn't it?"

The boss spat disgustedly.

"Why keep the front up with me, Landers? You know that— well, we do good work, yes. But other companies could do as well—for less monеу, maybe."

"I— I don't care to hear details," said the Мауог hastily. "I—"

"What a swell hypocrite you are, Landers," sneered Morris. "However — never mind. The thing is, you've got to win; Minot must be called off."

"How?" demanded the Мауоr eagerly. Weak, a creature of the boss, Landers, of one of Morgantown's oldest families, prided himself on his gentility. It was not part of his gentility to know the methods of the boss. He closed his eyes to the details always, obeying his orders, and comforting himself with the reflection that politics was different from business anyway.

"Every man has his price, Landers," said the boss sententiously. "Sometimes it's money, sometimes it's power, and sometimes it's woman. We've tried the first with Minot; we've tried the second— that Finance Commission job was enough for any man that'd lived in the city only a couple of months. Now we must try the third."

"But Minot's a gentleman," said Landers.

"I said woman— not women," said the boss. "Minot's clean; I've had watchers on him since the first week he was here. But— did you know he was in love?"

"In love? With whom?" gasped the Мауог.

"That's a mighty pretty daughter you have, Landers," said the boss.

The Mayor glared; he rose from his chair. "Morris, how dare—"

"Sit down," rasped the boss. "You said yourself that Minot was a gentleman, and we know he's clean and honest. What are you kicking about?"

"But my daughter—"

"Yes, your daughter. I happen to know that he's got a photograph of her in his room," snapped the boss. "Cut it out of a newspaper. Has it framed and on his bureau. What more do you want? Get her to invite him to call."

"I'll see you—"

"Cut it," said the boss. "Look here, Landers, you want to be re-elected. I tell you, with Minot against us, there's not a chance. With him with us— or with him just cutting out his уар about construction steals and graft— well, Landers, do you want to quit office or be Мауог again?"

THE weak are very often selfish. Chosen by the boss to be Мауог be- cause of his family's standing, and because personally he was popular, Landers knew that without Morris he would never have held office. And holding office was the breath of existence to Landers.

He could not meet the eyes of the boss when he left his house with the tacit understanding between them that the Mayor's daughter should be used to win over young Minot. Even the weak and selfish try not be lost to a sense of shame. And it is possible that if his daughter had not made an opening for him next morning Landers might have ignored his tacit arrangement with the boss, for he loved his daughter and was proud of her, and the decency within him rebelled at making her an unconscious tool of Stewart Morris.

But she did make an opening, and he knew that a man re-elected to the mayoralty would have a fine chance, two years later, of winning his party's nomination for the governorship; and the governorship was but a step toward the Senate, and— What qualms a wakeful night had brought him were stifled at her first words after her good-morning kiss.

"Father," she asked, as she poured his coffee, "how does one get something printed in the newspapers?"

"Advertisement or announcement of a meeting of the Woman's Club?" he asked smilingly.

"It's an advertisement and a meeting of the Woman's Club— both," she replied. "The club is trying to raise ten thousand dollars to build a recreation ground for children, and we're going to hold an entertainment and—"

"That's news," said the Мауог. "The papers will print that."

"And how do I go about it? That part has been turned over to me."

"Why," and his Honour hid the exultation in his eyes by veiling them behind a morning paper, "I should say that it would be a good idea for you to call upon the editors of the papers. There's Moran of the Bugle, De Witt of the Times, and Minot of the Sun. Go direct to them; I don't think you'll have much difficulty in getting space from them."

She frowned.

"The first two are all right, but Mr. Minot— I'd ask no favors of him. Why, he's abused you and your administration shamefully."

Landers smiled.

"That won't affect his wanting to print news, mу dear. And as regards has attacking me— that's not personal; it's politics. I don't hold it against him. In fact, I've thought of inviting him to dine with us. A fine young fellow.

"You're the hostess of this family, Janet. Mr. Minot, while young and overenthusiastic and too cocksure, has in him the makings of a most valuable citizen. If you don't mind, you might convey to him my desire to have him dine with us, when you see him. There are certain things I'd like to talk over with him. Of course, he's young, but he has brains. Invite him, my dear."

"After what he's said about you?"

"Never carry politics into your private relations with people, my dear," he smiled. She stared at him.

"Father," she exclaimed, "you're the most magnanimous soul that ever lived."

And he winced behind his paper.

"Not at all, my dear, not at all."

THAT afternoon Janet, having been promised plenty of space by the other two of Morgantown's papers, called upon the publisher and editor of the Sun. There was a moment of frantic sweeping of litter behind a screen, a wild straightening of desk and chairs, when her name was brought in by an admiring office boy. Then, slightly flushed, Minot received his fair visitor, the girl whose picture was enshrined in his room, and whom he had worshiped from afar these several months.

He had never seen her as close to as this, and the realization that she was more beautiful than her picture, and that the nearer the view the greater her charm, was enough, almost, to render him tongue-tied. However, he hid his perturbation from her, and, after the request for publicity for the Woman's Club had been proffered and granted, she extended her father's invitation, and, attracted by his open, frank countenance, added to the invitation a little warmth on her own account. And Minot, surprised that the Мауог was so genuinely broad- minded and able to divorce politics from personality, accepted the invitation.

Three nights later he dined at the Landers home. Unfortunately, shortly after the meal, the Мауог was summoned to the telephone and later announced that a most important matter called him down-town. Would Mr. Minot forgive him? It was unpardonable, but— it was extremely important. And—

"Mr. Minot can come again," said Janet. "Meanwhile, if he'd care to stay and be bored by the Woman's Club's plans—"

Minot stayed. Two nights later he called again. This time the Мауог and he had a most pleasant talk, in which the Мауог made no effort to win Minot over to his support, but led the discussion into channels of civic interest apart from Morgantown's own problems. Later Janet played for them and sang. Before leaving, Minot asked permission to call upon the girl. It was granted. Within a week he called again; and this time the Мауог was discreetly absent from the house.

And as he had attacked the rottenness of Morgantown, so did Minot attack the girl's heart. He had reached the age of thirty unscathed by Cupid's darts. So, having been immune so long, he was but the easier victim. Within two weeks he knew that first impressions— pre-impressions, for he had been strongly attracted by her photograph— were in his case but precursors of a lasting love.

For from the bottom of his heart, and with all that was fine and strong within him, he loved Janet Landers. He was not the one to dally; at the end of the third week he told her. And she accepted him, with the provision that her father should approve. And so they went to him. And he, with many an ejaculation of surprise and amazement, and with a secret feeling of shame, gave them his blessing.

"Perhaps," said Landers, "Janet can win you over to our side."

"That's the thing that bothers me, Mr. Landers," said Minot frankly. "I— can't stop rapping the administration, sir. Personally, for you— I have the liking I want to have for my fiancee's father. But— perhaps, on the outside, I see more than you who are in the game, sir. I— I can't stand for the men behind you. I hope—"

"Not another word, sir," said the Мауог benignly. "I should not attempt to influence you for the world."

"Isn't father a noble man?" asked Janet a little later.

"Square as a die," said Minot enthusiastically. And then they talked of other things.

That night Landers called up the boss.

"It's all right," he said softly. "He's ours; we'll tighten the ropes in a day or so."

"Nice work," grunted Stewart. "Your Honor will remain your Honor."

And to Landers's credit, be it known that he grimaced in self-disgust at the twice-repeated word "honor." But politics is politics.  His ambition was stronger than апуthing else within him. And four nights later, with election but a month away, Janet met Minot in the Landers' drawing-room with a smileless white face and in her nervous, shaky hand she held a сору of the day's Sun.

Minot winced as he saw the paper. Good reason! The day before Мауог Landers had been renominated by the machine. A reporter from the Sun, while the convention was in progress, had telephoned the office and asked for a relief. When his relief came, the reporter— his name was Atherton— had left the convention hall. He had not reported to his city editor until the next morning, and then he had written a story that fairly sizzled and that abounded in detail.

It seemed that Atherton had heard a delegate make the statement that "Jim Constant is up in Loring's place, stewed to the guards and anxious to shout all he knows to the whole world. Too bad he couldn't keep sober on convention day. Jim'll break his plate with the boss one of these days."

Atherton was a very shrewd young man. He knew that Constant was a lawyer of parts, whose weakness for drink had made him sink to the level of a henchman for Morris. He knew that Constant's brain had often been invaluable to the boss, and that if Constant wanted to talk— would talk—

Atherton managed, by heavy bribes, to get to the room in which Constant was drinking. It was easy to make the drunken lawyer talk, as Atherton did not scruple to state that he was a friend of Morris's, sent down to keep the lawyer Company. And Constant had stated, in so many words, in the course of his drunken boasting, that Мауог Landers, as a preliminary to nom- ination, had agreed to use his whole influence, if again elected, to swing to the Morgantown Construction Company all city building. In response to a question Constant stated that such an agreement had been a condition precedent to the Mayor's first nomination.

NOW a great many people in Morgantown knew of this— rather, believed it. But it had never been proved, never been admitted. For Constant to admit it was a most vital bit of news. Of course, it would later be denied, but— the Sun had printed Atherton's story. And now Minot faced the girl.

"Of course," she began, "you know what I want to say."

"About that story concerning Constant? I'm sorry, Janet, but— Atherton tells the truth."

"But father says Constant lies," she retorted.

He bowed, but said nothing. Her lips trembled.

"It's— it's been unpleasant, Tom, having you and father on opposite sides; but— I have borne it. But this— this accuses father of being— dishonest."

"I didn't see it until it was printed," said Minot truthfully.

"But if you had— you'd have printed it?"

He was forced to admit that he would have done so. Her voice and manner hardened.

"I've been talking with father. He is the noblest man God ever made. He says to let this attack on him in your paper make not the slightest difference in my feeling toward you. He says not to let politics interfere with love. But I am not as noble as mу father. I can not love a man who calls mу father dishonest, or permits him to be called dishonest."

The great issue was raised, as Minot had known all along it must sooner or later be raised.

"Janet," he said, "if your father does not carry political differences into private life, why should you? Your father and I look at things differently. He thinks that it is all right to promise contracts to Stewart Morris' Company, for it's Morris who owns the Morgantown Construction Company. Now, if Morris' Company built honestly I could appreciate your father's feelings, in a measure. But it doesn't. Every building erected for the city by Morris' Company is weakened by graft. The materials are poor; lives are endangered and—"

"But father says that he made no promise," she said indignantly. "Further, he says that the Construction Company does good work."

"Your father and I differ," he said.

"And so do you and I," she said coldly. She stripped her engagement ring from her finger. "I am glad we did not announce our engagement," she said, "and that few people know of it. For it is ended now."

The ring dropped into his palm and he stared, dazed, down at it.

"Janet," he said hoarseIy, "you can't mean— your father—"

"Father says not to mind; to love you just the same. But— I feel differently about the matter. Good-by."

Now Minot loved the girl, and he knew that she loved him. Theirs had been one of those swift-kindled loves doomed ever to burn brightly. That he or she could ever forget was preposterous. He knew that she was suffering even as himself.  So he pleaded. But she was adamant; she loved him, but— he must cease his attacks on her father and on the party.

Stewart Morris knew men. Tom Minot had his price; it was a woman. When he left her that night she still wore his ring, and he had pledged himself to cease attacking the personal integrity of the dty administration, and to discontinue all articles that insinuated illicit agreement between Landers and the boss.

MINOT did not sleep that night until almost dawn. For he had sold himself. Nor could he blame the purchase— Janet. It was admirable of her to stand by her father. But for him supinely to yield to a woman his honor! Then he thought of the woman. And he went to sleep finally, thinking himself content; that self-respect was well lost for love. And he awoke a bit defiant, a bit contemptuous of all that was right and good. What did they count against a woman's love?

Frazee was in his private office that morning when he reached the Sun. The business manager fairly hurled himself upon his chief.

"Ву heck, Tom," he cried, "we've got 'em on the run! We've got the last piece of meat for the voters to chew on! It's the Citizens' Ticket in a walk and then— my boy, victory! For you— for the Sun, for—"

"What's up?" snapped Minot.

"It's up to you to write the biggest editorial you ever pounded out! The Clinton Avenue School collapsed at five o'clock this morning. If it had been four hours Iater nine hundred kiddies would have gone down beneath it— to death! And the Morgantown Construction Company built it! It proves what you've been shouting all along— that their work is rotten; for the school was only finished two months ago, and—

"But I'm keeping you. I only wanted to be the first to congratulate you, Tom, on your chance to make good; to show the people of Morgantown that you've told the truth about the rottenness of the city. It's your proof that the Construction Company cheats the city. It's the proof that'll make the voters turn against the boss, defeat Landers, and— go to it, Tom, go to it!"

A boy entered, bringing proofs of the first-page story which told of the collapse of the Clinton Avenue School, built by Morris's Company, and so poorly constructed that only the kindly fates were responsible for the fact that a thousand children had not lost their lives. Minot read the story. Then he opened his pocketbook and looked long at a little picture of Janet Landers. He kissed the smiling countenance once. Then he put it away and reached for his pen.

Dear Janet,

Something has happened. The Clinton Avenue School collapsed early this moming. Fortunately no one was inside the building, but you can imagine what it would have been like if the collapse had occurred half an hour from now— at nine o'clock.

Morris's Company built it. Your father sanctioned the letting of the contracts to Morris's Company. Whether because of an agreement, in fulfilling a pre-election promise or not, doesn't matter. What does matter is this: your father and his administration have let Morris have many contracts. If your father is re-elected Morris will have manу more. The city will be robbed and lives endangered. And— and— I can't permit that to happen without a fight on my part.

Dear, I've counted the cost and—the rule of Morris must be broken. The only way to do that is to defeat your father. The only way to make that defeat certain is to continue attacking the Morgantown Construction Company. For your father's administration granted the comрапу the contracts. Your father signed them and— I'm sorry, dear, but— I must do what I think is right. Good-by. Tom.

He sealed the note and sent it on its way. Then, white of face and stem of mouth and eyes, he began writing an edito- rial, the most powerful he had ever written, referring to the collapsed school building, pointing out that this was but a sample of what must occur to city buildings provided Morris's Company continued erecting them, and showing that the Company would undoubtedly continue to erect them if Landers were re-elected.

He finished and rang for a copy-boy. His door opened and he looked up.

"Воу, rush this up-stairs to the composing-room and tell—"

HIS jaw dropped and his words ceased. Janet Landers stood framed in the doorway.

"What is that?" she asked pointing to the sheets of сору-рарег in his hand.

"An editorial attacking your father, with reference to this morning's incident of which I wrote you," he told her.

She closed the door behind her. She advanced into the room.

"Tom! You love me?"

"You know it," he said.

"Then why— Tom, could I mаггу a man who accused mу father?"

"You know better than I."

"Would you ask me to?"

"I've released you," he said. "I thought, of course, you understood that I realized you wouldn't mаrrу me— now."

"And I'm not worth—"

"You're worth— Janet, you're worth life, death, heaven, hell — Janet, you're worth everything; but— Janet, I'd give you myу life; I'd give you all I ever hope to be; I'd sacrifice mу future; I'd do— but, girl, last night I gave you something that wasn't mine to give. I didn't realize it unlil this morning when that collapse of the school showed me what I had done.

"I'd given you my honor; and Janet, that was not mine to give. Му right arm— I'd cut that off for you. But mу honor— God gave me mу honor, clean, untarnished. He gave it to me in trust, to return to Him some day. Janet, I must keep it clean and—"

A copy-boy entered, to stare from girl to man in undisguised amazement. Minot handed him the editorial.

"Take that up-stairs," he snapped.

But the girl put out her hand and took the sheets of paper from the amazed boy.

"Come back in a moment," she said, and gently urged him toward the door, shutting it behind him. She faced Minot.

"Tom, it's youг last chance. Look at me. Would you give me up?"

"Janet, you're more to me than anything except—"

"Then you'll give me up?"

"I must," he said tensely.

One second their glances met, and hers was infinitely sweet. Then she opened the door; she beckoned to the boy and handed him, not Minot's editorial, but another paper.

"Here it is," she said. "Mr. Minot wants you to run it on the first page."

She shut the door quickly.

"You see, Tom—" and she blushed— "I could not give you up. No—" and she raised her hand— "don't call him back. You won't need to print youг editorial attacking father, because he has resigned the nomination and will not run for Мауог. I gave his statement to the boy."

"You mean—"

"I mean that after you called me up I spoke to father; I told him that I knew you were honest. I told him that I was convinced that you would not give me up unless you were sure you were right. And I told him that if you said the Morgantown Construction Company had a hold on my father that— it must be true!"

"Good Lord," cried Minot. "And youг father—"

"Denied it. But I asked him why he let the city give contracts to the Company; if he would do it again in view of what had happened this morning. Tom, Father never got a cent from Morris. You know that."

"Of course," said Minot. "Your father's not a grafter; he likes to hold office, and—"

"But he's resigned his candidacy now," she said. "And so—"

"But why did you not tell me this when you came in? Why—"

"Last night, after you had gone, I thought of what you had done, Tom. Tom, as father —sold himself— for office, so you had sold yourself— for me. And I did not want to mаrrу a man who would sell himself. I would have broken our engagement today. But this morning уоu wrote me and told me that you had not yielded; that you'd do the right. But I doubted, and I came down here to see if уоu would resist a personal appeal. If уоu hadn't— but уоu did, and—

"Tom Minot, are we engaged? If we are, why don't уоu say so, and ask me, and— do something?"

And Minot did something.

It was some time after the Citizens' Ticket had defeated the makeshift slate of the machine, and consigned Boss Morris to political oblivion, that that worthy was asked if he thought every man had a price of some sort.

"I used to think so," said Morris. "I still think so. Only sometimes—" and his еуе took on a far-away, reminiscent look— "the man you've bought will return the price and cancel the sale."

__________________

18: A Question of Rights

Sumner Locke

1881-1917

Western Mail (Perth, W. Aust) 25 Sept 1914

Australian author Helena Sumner Locke was the mother of author Sumner Locke Elliott

THE picnic party clambered out of the open boats and climbed the point of land that jutted into the opal bay, shimmering with sunshine.

Everywhere the party straggled, the men assisting the girls over tarny bracken, and rocky boulder; or laughingly leading them into depth of shrubs where it was impossible to get through, and which necessitated their going back again to the starting point.

The pleasure of the day seemed to be wrought with the spirit of supreme mischief; but the harmless mischief of man and maid whose mind is an open, happy one. Coming round, a nasty jag of iron-stone and blackened ground, one of the girls slipped a little and regained her foot-ing with the assistance of the man next to her. He looked rather disturbed and con-tinued to lead her upwards with the pleasure of something bigger than mischief in his healthy sun-brown face.

The girl removed his hand from her arm and stood looking down upon him from the top-most boulder.

"Please don't think that I require you to look after me..." she said slightly ruffled of face and temper. "It's one of my dearest desires to be able to do things alone."

"Something new — isn't it?" said the young man with half smiling seriousness.

"Perhaps it is, but .... I'd like you to understand it, and to remember, I belong to the new school. Women are gaining sense, thank goodness, and I should say it was about time."

She sprang a little to the left, away from the party, with the deliberate intention of making him follow her like a submissive servant who walks behind.

Later on, the young man caught up to her and began to relieve his mind.

"Look here," he said, "you're not serious."

"Perfectly— about myself," the girl replied, sitting down in the slant of full sun-shine and arranging her skirt over her feet.

"You mean... you're getting ideas from the papers... that's the only place you could. You want to be independent... considered like a man.... It sounds too horrible."

The girl looked calmly at him.

"Naturally to you," she said. "We are beginning to realise at last— we girls— that there has been too much weakness on our part. I suppose it does sound horrible when..." She looked at him with glowing face, "when man knows we are finding ourselves able to do things for ourselves. Naturally it robs him of his superlative power, and destroys any of the so-called chivalry that he might think he has."

She turned eyes upon him that expected to find him full of resentment. His face pleased her. It was the first great battle of her life.

"Seems to me," he said slowly, with all the forces of primitive man in his veins, "that this thing wants going into... that is, the you and me of it ; and what's to come. Now, I've no grievance against the sexes who keep jarring one another about the world for the top place, but I'm just about as unhappy when I think of you joining that sort of thing and pitting me against it, as I suppose I could be."

"But you'll get used to it," said the emancipated girl sticking her fingers playfully in and out of the scrubby dirt of the rocks. The boy looked disgusted.

"Get used to it... to that sort of thing between you and me. Good Heavens! You might as well ask me to get used to allowing my mother to go out and earn her bread."

"Well, that wouldn't be so bad, if she were younger," smiled the girl.

"It's— horrible," and the boy looked into the shimmering sunshine and then threw out his hands.

"Look here... it's all like that to me— the stretch of a woman's life. It ought to be sunshine and glory— glory of the most wonderful thing in the world... the glory of everything that she can do. To speak of her going along unprotected, making her own way, resisting kindnesses and avoiding any help... oh, you're not serious... you couldn't be."

But the girl was serious;  or at least she wa s trying to be.

"I'm a perfectly, strong, healthy woman," she said looking right at him. "Is there any reason for me to suppose, that I need an escort every night, as if I was a child ? That I must have everything carried for me. That I cannot even be allowed to pay my fares. Absurd.... please under-stand me. I may be your friend, but I have every intention of acting for myself alone."

The boy leaned back in the sunlight, and on his open face there came the shadow of lines.

"That means you don't want me to come around, fooling after you, Bessie. That you're thinking for yourself... why, that's been my utmost pleasure ever since we were kids."

"But it hasn't done me any good, Harry. Can't you see it now?"

"Not a little bit."

"Well listen. I've been given a brain for myself, and strength to protect myself. Like things hidden away that go mouldy, those powers are deserting me. When I was a child I could climb to the roof and clamber down again by myself. Now I can't get more than a little way. I'm losing my nerve— that's you. Don't prevent me. I'm going to start all over again."

"You mean climbing?"

"I mean everything. Now it's very likely that you and I will marry, and I want it to be all quite right. There must be perfect trust and freedom— and full license to both. As much as you want to go out in the evening— so do I. As many times as you want to be later than ten o'clock as many times do I."

The boy looked ghastly.  "You mean, you want to go roaming about at nights by yourself, alone— after ten o'clock?"

"It may be so," said Bessie. "And if I do, there is to be nothing said. I want it understood beforehand, that I must be free— as free as you are; because it's my right."

The boy looked across the shimmering bay.

"If I wasn't so fond of you, Bessie, perhaps I shouldn't mind so much, but...."

The girl interrupted. "You've got no right to mind. You really know that you've got no right."

"I have the right of— of my love for you," he said tremulously, "sure that is— something."

He got up off the ground, and walked quietly away. The girl sat on smiling— sure in her mind that she had spoken for both their good.

"We've got to assert our independence, and he's got to take it now." All the same, she felt the first spirit of loneliness stealing over her as the sun dipped behind the sea. The new spirit required getting used to— but she felt certain it would come out all right.

SOMEONE was coming towards her, when she sat, later on a point of rock that over-lapped the extreme shelf of the point. It was one of the party, a gentleman that she had recently met.

"Look here," he said carelessly standing over her and puffing a pipe of glowing weed, "you're the very girl I was looking for. Come and have a climb."

The girl jumped up.

"Rather. I've been simply dying to get a move on. " What way do you wish to go?"

"You're a sport," said the escort. "There's a jolly spot just a bit down here...  I'll go first and you can follow. Look out though, or you'll find yourself in the sea."

For a moment the girl looked after him then she hurried along in the decreasing light.

"That's the way I want to be treated," she said, "as if I was capable, and not just a baby doll."

The youth before her took a few turns into deep flowering bushes, and let her slide and trip behind, showing no care whatever whether she came down too sud-denly or if she got her dress torn. He kept calling to her to keep up to him or she would be losing the way.

"Jump that," he said once, looking back a moment and took her over a boulder that ran sheer for a bit over a second shelf of rock. The girl jumped. It was more than she could manage and she came down on her knees. The youth turned laughing.

"Just what I thought you'd do," he said, "mind the next one, you're liable to break your neck a second time."

But the girl did not break her neck the second time. She climbed round carefully and hoping he would not look behind. He didn't. He was too carefully hunting a place for his own feet.

When they reached the chosen corner he took out his pipe again.

"Perfectly gorgeous," said Bessie looking into the creeping blue of the night. "But we mustn't stay, must we?"

The youth looked at her.

"Why not? There's no hurry. Let them all go home if they want to. I know the way overland, where we can get the train and be home when we want to. What a lark, suppose we do?"

Just the faintest signs of depression set- tled on the girl's face. She began to think she was tired, and the evening didn't look so pleasing to her now.

"There is one thing I like about you," said the youth, "you're so pally. You don't expect a fellow to fool round you or make love. And you don't mind what they say about us," He laughed. "Wait till they're ready to go."

"It seems mean to let them hunt for us," said Bessie.

"Oh I don't know," answered the man.

And the girl sat down again in the spirit of her new strength, which was making her so "pallish" and such a real good "sport" as he thought.

The last rim of the tide sprang forward out of the nothing; and the sun went down in the grey. The boy with the languishing pleasure of all things in his eyes, searched among the party for the girl. She didn't seem to be anywhere and then he remem-bered her words.

Just above the rocks where the two sat watching, he sat down, waiting.... and looking across the sea.

The girl had fallen silent and her companion smoked and talked idly a little away from her.

Presently he crept forward.

"Do you mind if I kiss you," he said, "you've got such a pretty mouth."

The girl shrank backwards and almost raised her hand.

"Of course I mind. Don't you do it. I'd be ever so angry, and don't know what I'd do."

But the youth laughed confidently.

"I'd love to see you angry.Your eyes would just be like stars."

His face was close to hers now and she steadied back against the rocks.

"You do!" she said speaking smartly, "and I'll give you a box on the ears."

Already she was feeling the first new power within her, and she was sorry that the other girls were not there to see. Laughing the youth twisted her hand between his strong one, and with the other caught at her face. Bessie worked her small body away from him but knew that she was absolutely in his grip. Slowly he laughed at her, put his face nearer, and looked into her blazing eyes.

"My word it's worth it," he said. "A little tigress underneath." Then he kissed her and retained his hold to take another from her lips.

Just above, the man who waited, heard the first piercing scream of his dear loved girl. There was a drop of twelve feet to get down to her and there was little time to work a way round. He took the drop, and landed crumpled, but flew at the second man like a fury and hurled him back

against the great dark wall of the ledge. For the moment they struggled, and then the stronger man loosened a hand. He beat upon the face of the second one, and caused him to shift round a bit towards the edge of the cliff. All the time Bessie stood by dumbly, and could not move a foot. Like something breaking, in her mind, she knew, with a terrific shock, that something had happened; that one man had gone over into the sea; but it was only the calm chilly voice of her sweetheart that came to her, when she opened her eyes.

"Glad to be of some service," he said with vibrating harshness in his voice, "but perhaps I should not have dared?"

But the girl was nearly choking.

"Harry, what have you done? It's dreadful— you may have to go to gaol."

"Maybe," he said stiffening away from her and holding a wonderfully manly reserve. Then he swept her a mocking curtsey. "But surely," he went on, "that is at least, my— right."

___________________

19: Intimate Enemies

Evelyn Everett-Green

Western Mail (Perth, W. Aust) 27 Jan 1912

BESSIE RYAN lived on one side of the stream: Leonard Hasting upon the other. For a great many years they saw one another almost every day, and often held conversations together.

They ought to have been intimate friends; but circumstances had made of them intimate enemies instead.

Captain Ryan, who was a retired sea-captain, a widower, with only this one daughter, was a man of violent prejudices, and a very hot temper. He had been mightily feared by his officers at sea, and when he had early retired owing to the death of his wife, and an accident to his foot, which crippled him for active service, he set about ruling his small property on the banks of the Lyfwn, much as he had ruled his ship when he commanded there.

Mr. Hastings had been one of the small landowners of the district. He died five years after the arrival of the Ryans— three years from the date of the events chronicled by this tale. He had been ready to hold out the hand of friendship to Captain Ryan; but almost immediately friction arose with regard to fishing rights; and once the gage of battle had been thrown down, the choleric

Irishman found cause of offence in every thing his neighbour did or left undone, so there were unpleasant and unwelcome scenes when the two met in public; there were petty and irritating actions at law, in which the aggressor seldom gained his case, but which involved his neighbour in that vexatious litigation which his soul abhorred.

Almost all the neighbours sided with Mr. Hastings. The Ryans made few friends. This, of course, was put down to the mali-cious tongues of inhospitable neighbours, and so the feud grew and prospered.

Bessie adored her father, and was the only person not afraid of him. Whatever he said was gospel truth to her; and she regarded the Hastings— father and son— as the very dregs and off-scourings of the earth!

She had been twelve when they came to live in the little stone house by the stream— a wild little puss, with tawny curls, big grey Irish eyes that could flash with anger, light with mirth, or grow soft and tender at sight of suffering in the dumb creation. She was also possessed of a tongue that could never long be still. And so it came about that when she saw the big boy on the other side of the stream, fishing it may be, or disporting himself with his pony or his dogs, she must needs enter into conversation with him, if it were only to abuse and vilify him. For in this way she could kill two birds with one stone— enliven her own solitude and get in as many home truths launched at the enemy as her brilliant imagination could compass at the moment.

As for Leonard, he took her assaults with great equanimity. He liked the sight of the little maid flying along her side of the brook, tossing curls, flashing eyes, and a musical voice that rippled into laughter often in the midst of her fiercest tirades.

Sometimes he leaped or waded the stream and joined battle with her. Sometimes he coaxed her across the stepping-stones or rustic bridge, and a truce was called whilst she came to view a new batch of puppies, or a pair of twin lambs, or more occasionally a new horse added to the limited supply which Mr. Hastings kept for farm or pleasure purposes.

A rough pony lived at the stone house, and Bessie would ride and drive it at her own sweet will. Leonard sometimes joined, her on his better groomed mount. Sometimes saddles would be changed, and the girl would delight herself upon the taller

horse her enemy bestrode. So that intimacy flourished betwixt the young things, albeit the fathers were always more or less at open warfare; and though Bessie would never for a moment admit that Leonard was her friend, he certainly could claim the distinc-tion of that rather unique relationship—an intimate enemy.

But death had suddenly claimed Mr. Hastings. Leonard, just come of age, went abroad with his invalid mother, whom Bessie had never seen, because she never left the house. Two years later, the news of her death reached the dwellers in the little stone house. Bessie wondered whether Leonard would come back. Her father had taken advantage of the absence of the enemy to make many encroachments upon the fishing.

He had established hatcheries, and was making them pay. He had deepened the water along his own bank, to the detriment of that on the other. He had done all he could think of to strengthen and improve his own position. But to Bessie the zest of it all was spoilt because there was no enemy opposite to dispute with, and to fight over debatable ground.

A glorious May morning arrived is due course, and the girl ran bareheaded out of the house, filled to the brim with the glory and gladness which comes to all young things with the advent of each blithe and suuny spring.

"Hullo, Betty! That you?"

Only one person in the world called her Betty, and that was Leonard. She gave a big jump, and her laughing eyes lighted. There he was, by the gnarled old willow on the opposite bank— the same Leonard— only with a difference. For he had gone away a stripling— he had come back a bronzed hand-some man. To be sure he was barely four-and-twenty, but that was a manly age in Bessie's eyes, who had only just passed her twentieth birthday. His air impressed her; but she was not going to let him see that on any account. What line was he going to take up, she wondered? And what line was her father going to adopt towards the son of his old-time enemy? That was the crucial point, for Bessie was nothing if not loyal, and whatever her father did she invariably de-clared to be right in her eyes— whatever her private opinion might be!

"Oh, so you've come back, have you— absentee landlord!" There was a fine note of scorn in the last words, and Leonard laughed.

"Guess Captain Ryan has enjoyed the absentee business! He seems to have been pretty busy in my stream!"

"Yours indeed! I like that!"

"I know you like it, Betty; so does the Captain— all too well. He seems to have forgotten the ruling of the court when the title deeds were examined and the case settled."

Bessie's toss of the head was a triumph of insolence.

"And do you think that we would be caring what your blackguardly English lawyers will say?"

"I think you will have to submit to their rulings, Betty, if I take it into my head to require the removal of those hatcheries!"

She flushed hotly; fire leaped from her eyes. She looked a very splendid little Amazon there opposite him with the tumbling water between.

"Sure but you wouldn't be doing that, Leonard Hastings. Isn't the water as much ours as yours? Would you be daring to meddle with our hatcheries? You'd better not! I'll not be saying what it is my father would do; but 'tis something as you'll not be liking, once you stir up the hot blood of him!"

Leonard's laugh rang out at that.

"Betty, Betty, is that hot blood of his ever at anything but boiling point?"

"Sure and it is when he's let alone in peace. It's the fault of those as will be for ever interfering and making trouble for him! Hark, he's calling me now. He'll have been seeing us talking down here! It's meself as will catch it now, Leonard. For he's always for saying that he'll have nought to do with the son of his enemy, nor let me have aught to do with him neither."

Bessie fled away, leaving Leonard looking after her with a laughing light in his eyes.

"I'll win her yet— the little spitfire!" he said, and, turning on his heel, walked towards his house.

But that was easier said than done. Captain Ryan was in a highly suspicious condition of mind, and most men are who know that their own conduct has been doubtful, and open to criticism and opposition. Some might have eagerly sought to propitiate the injured party, and wave the flag of truce. But not so the choleric old sea captain. He openly flouted Leonard, as he had flouted his father before him. He ordered Bessie to hold no communication with the enemy; but Bessie was not one to be entirely coerced. It was amusing to hold mimic battles with Leonard across the stream, where they both loved to wander on summer evenings or in the golden hours which followed upon the dawn. She liked to tell him her frank opinion of some of his actions. It was fun to toss the word of contention back and forth. His thrust and parry were keen and quick; but she generally carried off the honours of the day— in her own estimation at least. Intimate enemies they had been in the past; the words best described their present relations. Would anything ever come to change his enmity to something else? Whatever Leonard attempted seemed only to end in disaster.

So the summer waned, and autumn came stealing upon the land, with its soft dark nights and glowing red and golden days.

But surely here was a night of red and gold!

Leonard started up wide awake in bed. He slept with raised blind that he might watch the moonlight or the dawn shimmering in the branches of the larch trees outside. But this was no light either of sun or of moon. It was a great palpitating ruddy glare; and in three minutes the young man was up and dressed, tearing down to the swollen brook, which he cleared by a mighty bound.

For it was the stone house which was in flames— red masses of fire and volumes of blinding smoke pouring out of the upper windows; whilst above the roar and crackle of the cruel flames, he heard a wild voice calling.

"Leonard! Leonard! Leonard!"

"I'm here, Betty, I'm here! Where are you? What can I do? Where are you? Call again!"

"Here, Leonard, here round at the back! I have dragged father out of his room, where the fire began. But I can't lift him to the window, and the stairs are all on fire. The oil ran down, and has set them in a blaze."

"I'm coming, Betty, I'm coming!"

Others were coming too. Hasty steps came running up from different points. But Leonard was the first, and he had seized a ladder leaning against an outbuilding, and was swarming up to the window where Betty stood.

The fire had not penetrated yet to the back but the whole house seemed like a cauldron, and there was a lurid glow behind her.

Leonard came swarming up, and there lay the prostrate form of Captain Ryan, where Betty had dragged him out of flame and reek, but was unable to do more— and how fast the fire was spreading!

Leonard's strong arms were round the pros-trate body. Already a sort of faint spluttering as of indignation or remonstrance was feebly breaking from his lips.

"Dear father, let Leonard help you. There is no time to lose. You upset the great tin of paraffin in your room, and the lamp was knocked over, and in a minute the house was all in a blaze. The wainscotting is so old and dry. I dragged you out of your room; and now Leonard is here to help. Oh, be quick, be quick! Look how the rafters have caught!"

"Get down the ladder, Betty, as quick as you can. Send one of the men up to help me."

She obeyed, and the farm hands came swarming up, just in time to receive the helpless form from Leonard's strong grip and get him down into safety. Leonard followed, a singed and scorched figure, but Betty saw nothing but her father's deliverer, aud flinging her arms about his neck she kissed him passionately in her gratitude, before her father's blinking and astonished eyes.

Well, they had to let Leonard take them home, for the stone house was gutted, and only the stone and slate shell remained.

"WHY TROUBLE to build it up?" asked Leonard three days later, sitting by the captain's side, and hearing his long-winded explanation as to how the fire had occurred— no blame being attached to himself; "Betty is coming here to live with me, and we'd like you to make a home with us, if you will. You'd be lost without Betty, and I'm not a dog in the manger. I can't spare her, of course, to go away from here; but if you'll stay here with us—"

It was useless to splutter or anathematise. The old man knew when he was beaten. He simply stared first at the speaker, then at his daughter, and Bessie, with a saucy toss of the head, took up the word:

"Sure, father, dear, and I had to be giving him what he was asking, when he'd saved the life of us both, for I'd never have left you lying there to frizzle in the fire. But you'll see how happy it will be making all of us soon. Leonard and I will be husband and wife, and Leonard and you can go on playing intimate enemies to the end of the chapter!"

_______________

20: The Grey Lady of Lakeside

E. Everett Green

Western Mail, 1 Jan 1910

CHRISTMAS was in the very air, the ground lay white beneath a crisp coating of frost, the trees were powdered with a fairy whiteness, the scarlet berries of the hollies glowed like fire amid the glossy leaves, and the ring of skates along the lake made a music that told of winter's delights.

The great hospitable house beside the lake was bedecked with greenery. The mistletoe bough hung suspended overhead in the centre of the big panelled hall. Mirth and laughter set itself to the rhythm of flying feet through the merry evening hours, whilst by day there were coverts to shoot, the lake to skate upon, and tobogganing down one steep, sharp north slope, where a coating of frozen snow yet lay, impervious of the glitter of the low sun in the south.

And Rex was coming for Christmas! That was the climax to the delight of a great houseful of cousins and friends. Young Sir Reginald Cantacute was the idol of his family; and since he had no brothers and sisters, he had adopted the whole Ramsay family in that capacity. His aunt had mothered him in his orphaned boyhood, and he had never forgotten the debt he owed her.

And he had never seen Lakeside! He had been wandering about the world for three whole years. He had shot big game in Africa, had stalked grizzly bears in the Rockies. Sometimes he had enjoyed life in the midst of civilisation, and anon had plunged into the wilds of desert or arctic desolation, as the spirit moved him. But he had never once come home. His own house he had let for three years to some American friends; and the Ramsays had moved into Lakeside during the period of his absence.

Before they had lived in London: but Mrs. Ramsay's health had become frail. Now they were settled in a charming region of wild rocky glens, tumbling water courses, and pine woods running up the sides of the hills. The lake beside which the house was set was itself a mountain tarn, and the water fell in a great cascade from the lower end, and went leaping and dancing into the valley below.

Queer little stone-built cottages were perched here and there along the hill sides; some of these were so hidden away in clefts of the rocks, and up little narrow gulleys that the family lately installed at Lakeside came upon them suddenly and at unawares. They had rented the house furnished, through a firm of solicitors, with the possibility of taking it on lease later if the place suited Mrs. Ramsay. This was their first winter here, and mightily they were enjoying it. Summer and autumn had been delightful; but they were not sure that the delights of the winter season did not transcend all else. And with Christmas, Rex was to come! That was the crowning satisfaction and joy of all.

"And he's coming back just as he went— not married, or even engaged! That's such a comfort!" cried Marjorie. "We none of us want him ourselves, I think. He's too much like a big brother. But I should hate for him to bring back a wife in tow. Men are so stupid when they are in love! And Rex would never marry if he wasn't!"

"He'd be a charming lover, you know," spoke Norah, who was herself engaged, and therefore an authority on the subject. "When I was in pig-tails and short frocks I was engaged to him for a whole year. We broke it off by mutual consent, when I called him a beast for shooting his first rabbits, and he called me a little nincompoop for weeping over them. But he was very charming even then!"

"Perhaps he'll fall in love this Christmas," suggested Bertha. "We've got some rather taking girls here for him to choose from— to say nothing of ourselves!" And the three handsome sisters laughed wholeheartedly together, for though devoted to Rex, none of them had been sentimental over him— since the brief episode to which Norah had alluded.

In the dusk of the winter's afternoon Rex arrived. He stepped out of a scurry of snow and whirling wind into the warmth and glow of the holly-decked hall. A chorus of welcome greeted him. He was hugged and patted on the back, led hither and thither to be looked at and greeted.

He was introduced right and left to the merry party of relatives and friends. He looked about him at the Christmas greenery and glowing Christmas fires, and snatched a kiss from laughing Marjorie under the mistletoe before the whole assembled company.

They all gazed at him in loving admiration. How bronzed he was— how filled out how splendid-looking. All hard muscle, without an ounce of superfluous flesh, but so big and strong and comely! His clean-shaven face was a little thin, as though he had been through privations and fatigue; but the eyes were alight with pleasure and satisfaction, and he was willing to tell travellers' tales in response to eager questions, and kept the company hanging on his words till the boom of the dressing gong dispersed them hither and thither.

That evening, whilst the dancing and fun were going on he sat with Norah a little apart. He had to congratulate her upon her recent engagement; and having done so he suddenly fell himself into a reverie, which seemed to carry him to some region far remote from her.

"Rex— where have you gone to? Tell me!"

"I was thinking of last Christmas Eve." In his face she read something which his lips had not sought to put into words. Norah had the gift of sympathetic intuition. She had sat next to him at dinner. She had been taking observations.

"Rex— won't you tell me— about— her?"

"Norah— you were always a bit of a witch!"

"No, but you used to like to tell me your secrets once. I never betrayed them— did I?"

"Never; and there's no such wonderful secret here. Most fellows go through it, you know. I thought I had found the right woman— at last. I thought she cared— and all the rest of it. I believed that, though she seemed just to hold me back, that it was coming nearer every day. Then the bubble burst— that's all."

"Ah, Rex, I am sorry. Can you tell me how?"

"I saw her in another man's arms. And she was quite alone in the world— that was her pose. She might have been getting rid of an ineligible lover before securing the position of Lady Cantacute for herself. I do not know, I had seen enough. A woman does not breathe out the words I heard— 'Darling, darling, darling'— save to her lover."

"You were not engaged?"

"No; but she had won my love and she had tacitly surrendered her own to me. I knew there was some mystery, some impalpable barrier; but every day I promised myself to demolish it. Then I saw what I have told you."

"And what did you do next?"

"Packed my bags and left at sunrise next morning. I have never seen her again— and do not wish to."

"Rex, dear— was not that rather precipitate? Why not have asked her for an explanation?"

His mouth was grim.

"I had no right. She had promised nothing."

Norah was not entirely satisfied. Rex had always been so impetuous. It was part of his charm; but it made for distaster occasionally.

"It might, perhaps, have been— a brother."

"She told me she had none— was quite alone in the world. No, Norah; she was but playing with me; amusing herself till her lover joined her! Some women like breaking hearts— it's their idea of sport, I suppose. I'm not going to think of her again. It's Christmas time, and I'm going to enjoy myself. Come and dance!"

Rex was merriest of the merry these next days— full of ideals for fun and frolic; the best skater, the most skilful manager of toboggans, the finest shot in all the company. He could also tell the most thrilling tales over the fireside at dusk; and his stories of adventures, or weird legends of the places where he had lived, held the circle of listeners spell-bound.

On Christmas Eve, when story-telling had gone on long after dark, Rex turned to his cousins and said,

"Now it's somebody else's turn to talk. Surely a house like this can raise a legend of some sort! Every self-respecting old house has some sort of a spook attached! If you can't hear of one— surely you can invent one!"

"Oh, there is a grey lady who is supposed to prowl about the place; but none of us has seen her so far; and I can't find out much about her. I think she comes indoors sometimes, and sometimes walks by the lake, but I can't get at much detail."

"By the lake," repeated one of the guests. "Why, two nights ago, when I was looking out at the moonlight, I saw a figure flitting along by the water. I threw up the window and called out. I thought it might be one of the fellows fooling. It was rather grey and phantom-like, now you mention it; and it disappeared in the shadows of that group of pines beyond the boathouse. I never gave the matter another thought. Wonder now, was it your grey lady?''

"Come to think of it," spoke another guest, "I saw a dim sort of flitting figure the other night, when I went out to smoke a pipe last thing before turning in. It was pretty late, too; we'd been playing billards till past midnight and talking afterwards. But my phantom was of flesh and blood; for I saw footmarks in the snow. It had a small foot— a woman's I should say. I took it for some gardener's wife or daughter."

"Why, this is quite exciting!" cried Marjorie. "We've heard vaguely of this gray lady all the time we've been here; but we've never seen a sign of her yet. And now— two of you—"

''Perhap's she's a Christmas spook, and only gets on the spree at the festive season," suggested one laughing lad. "Wish I could clap eyes on her! I'd give chase and no mistake! I've always wanted to sight a spook. Bet my bottom dollar I'll lay the lady by the heels when I get my chance!''

They all laughed; but Norah noticed that Rex seemed to have fallen into a brown study. When they rose to find their way upstairs to dress she lingered to speak with him; he was generally the last to move, and to-night sat gazing at the great Yule logs as though he were seeing pictures in the dancing flames.

''Rex, what is the matter?"

He started, then rose stretching himself, and smiling kindly down at her.

"I am a bit of an ass, Norah, that's the fact. I can't get that woman out of my head. It was those words of Marjorie's set me off— the grey lady. That's what I used to call her in my thoughts before I spoke to her, before I knew her. She always wore grey, soft and flowing; with sometimes a flower at her throat or in her waistband. My beautiful grey lady, that's how I thought of her. So the name brought it all back."

"I'm so sorry, Rex. I wish it could come right. I would like your Christmas to be really a happy one. I know you're not as happy as you pretend."

"I'm an ass not to clear the whole thing out of my head and heart. Oh, I'll be all right; don't you be afraid! My heart isn't broken yet. Now come along and dress, and let's forget everything except that Christmas only comes once a year!"

Nevertheless, though Rex spoke gaily, and was the life of the party that evening, he felt small desire for sleep when he went up to his room that night. The chimes of the Christmas bells for which they had sat up, were floating sweetly up from the little church in the valley below. Rex flung up his window and leaned out into the clear frosty night. He had doffed his evening coat in favour of a comfortable smoking jacket, and as his room was rather over-warm, he enjoyed the freshness of the outer air, and the glint of moon and stars overhead. They recalled powerfully the wonderful nights of the previous winter, when in a tropic garden he and his beautiful grey lady had paced to and fro; and where upon Christmas Eve itself, he had seen a sight which sent him flying first from the township and then from the island, in a fume of disgust and disillusionment.

Softly he apostrophised the absent charmer.

"Frailty, thy name is Woman; but oh, Clare! how I loved you! And you knew it, and deceived me!"

Suddenly he gave a great start. Some-thing below was moving under the wall of the house. He gazed down, holding his breath; for the very ease and graceful undulating walk of that tall, slim figure robed all in grey, seemed to set itself to the beating of his heart, recalling other images to his reeling brain.

"The grey lady— the grey lady!" he whispered the word over and over again, craning out of the window to watch her progress. The tall, slender figure reached a certain spot in the wall beneath— and vanished. He rubbed his eyes; he looked this way and that. She had gone, just as though the earth had opened its mouth and had swallowed her up.

Thoroughly aroused, and consumed with curiosity, Rex resolved to make a thorough search for himself. He put on his ulster and cap, armed himself with a stout stick, and lighted a small lantern of the bull's eye pattern, which was part of his traveller's kit. It was now nearly one o'clock, and the house was wrapped in silence and darkness. He opened his door noiselessly, and stepped out into the corridor. This long gallery was lighted by a row of narrow lancet windows, over which no blinds or curtains were drawn at night. The moonlight made a chequerwork of brightness alternating with black patches of shadow, and just as Rex stepped forth from his door, he saw to his immense astonishment the grey lady gliding slowly towards him!

Shadow blotted her out one moment, the next she appeared in a bar of moonlight; again she disappeared and again she stood revealed. Rex flattened himself against the door in the little recess to watch her approach. Her face seemed shrouded beneath the folds of the grey veil she wore about her head, but the very fashion and fall of those soft folds set his heart beating wildly, as did each movement of the oncoming figure.

At the end of the corridor was a great uncurtained window, and the moonlight was pouring in here. The grey lady made straight for this window, and Rex crept after her like a shadow, when she had passed him. Here in the clear white light she lifted her face and stood revealed, and a gasping cry escaped Rex's lips.

"Clare!"

She made no sign; she gave no start; she only stood gazing out with wide, wistful eyes, which looked like pools beneath a star-lit sky. This was either Clare Arden herself, or her ghost. Fire flamed in Rex's heart; he forgot everything save that his love stood before his eyes. He made a for-ward step, as though to clasp her to his heart. Then he stopped short; for she turned quietly, without so much as seeing him, and began to retrace her steps with the same gliding motion.

Then he understood that she was walking in her sleep, though whence she had come and whither she would go he knew not and could not guess. But he instantly re-solved not to let her out of his sight until he had got to the bottom of this mystery.

The grey lady moved away down the passage towards its farther end. Rex followed like a shadow, treading softly, but feeling as though the beating of his heart must surely wake the sleeping house. At the end of the passage opposite the window was an archway, with no visible door. Certainly the present inmates of Lakeside knew of none, for Rex had put the question. But the Grey Lady put her hand to one of the trefoils carved upon a pillar, and instantly the pillar revolved in some strange fashion, revealing a narrow aperture, pitchy black, into which the phantom slipped. Rex by a dexterous movement slipped in, too, and felt the closing of the orifice behind him. He whipped off the cover of his little bull's-eye and flung a gleam of light downwards. For now he felt the steps of a cork-screw staircase beneath his feet, and heard the soft swish of draperies against the stone. He stepped down quickly himself, just in time to note the opening of a doorway below, through which a shaft of moonlight streamed, so soon as it was opened by the soft touch of his mysterious guide.

Luckily for him, the Grey Lady paused for a moment in the doorway ere she step-ped, with Rex after her, into the moonlight night. She saw him not, for her eyes were without speculation, though they met his burning glance full as she turned to close the door. This door was also masked in a shallow archway, just where he had seen from above the phantom figure disappear.

Consumed with a burning curiosity, he followed her through the grounds, along the shore of the lake, through a belt of dense pine wood, and then into a little wild ravine, where waters raved and shouted, and he was not afraid to tread boldly, for she could hear nothing but the voices of the glen.

Then suddenly she stopped. What he had taken for a mass of rocks took form as a stone-built cottage. And even as they approached a door opened; light shone out, and Rex beheld the bent form of a man, who at sight of the Grey Lady's approach, uttered a sharp, short exclamation of mingled distress and relief.

The girl passed him by with the same unseeing action, and before the door could be shut Rex was standing in the shaft of light and confronting a man who looked as though his earthly pilgrimage was well-nigh run. At sight of the stranger he started and seemed to tremble all over. The face bore a look of Clare— ravaged and worn though it was. Rex stepped in and closed the door behind him.

"Pardon me, sir; but I saw the lady walking in her sleep. I did not know what might happen to her. I could but follow her into safety. She bears a very strong resemblance to a lady I knew in the West Indies last year. I confess to a great curiosity—"

Rex felt his arm suddenly gripped by a hand which for all its attenuation was like one of iron.

"Sir— is it possible— can you be the man who first won— and then went nigh to break— the heart of my only, my beloved child? It was just a year this very night that out in a fairy isle I came to her! Oh! I had suffered— suffered unjustly— cruelly— but at last I was free. I thought that heaven had opened its gates to take us in. She told me of the happiness that had come to her— even in her exile; of the noble heart she had won. She was waiting for me to come to tell him all the tale; but she did not— could not doubt his love. Then on the morrow— he was gone— without a word or sign...."

"Stop, stop!" cried Rex, holding his head between his hands. "I must get the hang of all this. What is your daughter's name?"

"Clare Arden."

"And who was the man who held her in his arms a year ago to-night, whom she clung to with endearing words of love?"

"That man was myself— her father!"

"Father! She told me she was alone."

"She was, poor darling; for a bitter fate had overwhelmed me. I was suffering in prison the sentence passed upon me for the guilt of another. Then death claimed the other— and he confessed. My darling child always said that one day the truth would out. Meantime I had pledged this house and property for her sake and for legal expenses. And when this grief fell upon her in the loss of her lover, we came hither to hide our heads in this remote shelter where none should find us. I knew myself for a stricken man; but I craved the freedom of the mountains I had loved. She only wanted me—"

"This your property— the Lakeside house?"

"It will be hers at my death, and that will not be long distant now. O, sir, if ever you have loved my child—"

"I have never ceased to love her. It was all a ghastly blunder. I was a fool; and she has suffered—"

"Ah, yes, she has suffered; but she is young; life for her will bloom and blossom again. But this sleep-walking troubles me. It comes from trouble on the mind. Hark— she is moving once more in her room. She will come in to see that all is well with me, I know."

The door of communication opened, and in the opening stood— the Grey Lady, but with the light of tenderness shining in her eyes.

"Dear father, did I hear you speak?"  Then she stopped short; for Rex had risen to face her, and his arms were outstretched.

"Clare, can you forgive me?"

She gave a great start, recoiled a moment, and then joy and love and rapture all strove together for mastery, in her fair face.

"Ah— but it is for you to forgive. I had kept back something.... I wanted him to be with me to tell all the truth...."

She could not say more; she was in his arms, pressed to his heart, lying there content and at rest.

"O, Rex, how I love you!"

"My darling! My treasure! My own!"

And as they stood the sound of the Christmas bells came floating once again through the silent night; and Rex with many kisses tore himself away.

"But till to-morrow only!''

Norah met him on the morrow, and exclaimed at sight of his transfigured face.

"Rex, you look as thought you had found— Her!"

"A Happy Christmas to you, Norah; yes, you are right. I have found Her— and your Grey Lady of Lakeside also. Come and see."

________________

Index to Past Masters Nos 61-82

The "Author Index" to Issues 1-60 has been uploaded separately.

Achmed Abdullah

The Mystery of the Talking Idols 63

Cleve F. Adams

Default With Doom  81

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

A Tricycle Made For Two 82

Mark Allerton

A Christmas Mix-Up 70

The Stanhope Scandal 70

Frederick Irving Anderson

The Signed Masterpiece  82

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

Alice and Claude Askew

Heritage of Lucille Rivers 82

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

James Barr

The Man in Moccasins  82

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

The Spy 81

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

The Green-eyed Remedy  82

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

The Pass of Nolan's Welcome 81

Edward Dyson

A Golden Shanty 65

The Third Chair 65

Fred Engelhardt

Heritage of Osiris 75

George Allan England

Drops of Death  68

A Question of Salvage 81

Ribbon of Fate 81

Charles J. Finger

The Lizard God 81

The Shame of Gold 81

Howard Fitzalan

The Red Hand 78

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Three Hours Between Planes 65

Francis Flagg

By the Hands of the Dead 81

The Master Ants 81

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

The Cruise of the Vega  82

The Snake Strikes 81

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

J. U. Giesy

Not Down on the Bill  82

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

Evelyn Everett Green

The First Class Passenger 82

The Grey Lady of Lakeside 82

Intimate Enemies 82

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

M. R. James

Canon Alberic's Scrap Book  82

Malcolm Jameson

The Anarch  69

Tricky Tonnage 81

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

A. W. Kapfer

The Phantom Drug 82

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

Sumner Locke

A Question of Rights 82

H.P. Lovecraft

The Colour out of Space 81

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

Julia Magruder

The Secret of the White Castle 65

William J. Makin

The Death Barge 73

The Planes that Never Returned 73

Charles J. Mansford

The Brigand of Kairouin the Holy  82

The City of the Scarlet Scarabeus  82

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

The Warburton Mystery 82

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

A Feminine Stand 81

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

Anna Steese Richardson

Morrell's Memoriser 81

Edith Rickert

The Chair That Smiled 74

W. Pett Ridge

The Fixing of Mrs. Farwell  80

Expert Interference  82

Walter Ripperger

The Cardboard Clue 62

School For Murder 69

Morley Roberts

The Egregious Goat 73

Arthur Somers Roche

A Cancelled Sale 82

In the Money (novelette) 67

Michael Romain

Genesis   76

Anthony M Rud

The Invisible "Blinker" 73

Duncan Campbell Scott

The Witching of Elspie 78

Chris Sewell

The Intruder 82

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

The Devils Ransom 82

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: A Tricycle Made For Two / W. L. Alden

2: The Signed Masterpiece / Frederick Irving Anderson

3: Canon Alberic's Scrap Book / M. R. James

4: The Brigand of Kairouin the Holy / Charles J. Mansford

5: The City of the Scarlet Scarabeus / Charles J. Mansford

6: The Man in Moccasins / James Barr

7: Expert Interference / W. Pett Ridge

8: The First Class Passenger / Evelyn Everett Green

9: Heritage of Lucille Rivers / Alice and Claude Askew

10: The Intruder / Chris Sewell

11: The Green-eyed Remedy / K. R. G. Browne

12: The Phantom Drug / A. W. Kapfer

13: The Cruise of the Vega / Lieutenant Edgar Gardiner

14: The Warburton Mystery / Clarence Herbert New

15: The Devils Ransom / Albert Richard Wetjen

16: Not Down on the Bill / J. U. Giesy

17: A Cancelled Sale / Arthur Somers Roche

18: A Question of Rights / Sumner Locke

19: Intimate Enemies / Evelyn Everett-Green

20: The Grey Lady of Lakeside / E. Everett Green

Cumulative Index #61-82