PAST MASTERS

NINETY-THREE

26 August 2022

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: A Christmas Story / Sarah Bernhardt

2: The Automaton / C. Ranger Gull and Reginald Bacchus

3: A Full House / Achmed Abdullah

4: The Ruby of Khitmandu / Hugh Kingsmill

5: She Loved to Murder / Laurence Donovan

6: The Pin-Up Girl Murders / Laurence Donovan

7: The Bent Tree / Stacy Aumonier

8: The Arizona Callahan / H. Bedford-Jones

9: An Inter-Planetary Episode / Julian Hawthorne

10: At the Pyramid of the Sacred Bulls / Charles J. Mansford

11: I Married a Torso / Thorpe Feesh

12: The Man Marked For Slaughter / Charlton L. Edholm

13: The Floating Beacon / Edward Ball

14: "Great Minds Run—" / Harold Ward

15: Notice of Dissolution / John E. Rosser

16: Safety First / Herman Howard Matteson

17: The King of the Jerawahs / S. B. H. Hurst

18: The Vanished Freight / E. Florence

Cumulative Index # 61-93

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1: A Christmas Story

Sarah Bernhardt

1844-1923

The Strand Magazine Dec 1893

The Strand Magazine did not identify the translator from the original French of this story. Madame Sarah Bernhardt wrote several short stories which appeared in the Strand Magazine.

THE Chateau de Ploemeuf was the terror of the Bretons. On passing it the peasants made the sign of the cross and murmured under their breath: "The Chateau of the Accursed!" Brambles grew about its boundary walls, which no living soul dared pass. The valets moved about within like shadows, never raising their voices. No one ever spoke to the master.

Alone, the young Comte Robert found grace before the lord of the manor, the old Duc de Kerberzoff, his uncle. At the moment when this recital commences, Robert was at the feet of the old man, who, with livid face, glittering eyes, and marks of fear on all his features, sat in the great ducal chair, listening to what the spectre of terror said to him.

By his side, upon a porphyry column, burned a small golden lamp, ornamented with precious stones, into the flame of which a tall negro poured, minute by minute, a drop of oil. In the old man's rude hand gleamed an axe: the negro would have paid with his life the least forgetfulness of his duties.

The Duke was paler than usual. His long white hair clung to his brow, and from his eyes great tears rolled down upon his silver beard.

"My dear lord, are you in greater pain?" asked Robert, tenderly. The Duke shuddered— listening still. "Christmas! Christmas!" sang voices in the fields. "Christmas! Christmas!" sounded the church bells.

Then, drawing himself up, spectre-like, he said:— "Listen, Robert, listen!"

For twenty years the old man had not spoken. The sepulchral voice resounded in the great hall; the arms, struck by echo, gave out an iron plaint. The young Count felt frozen with fear.

"Twenty years ago, I had a son; handsome, brave, and generous. He loved a young, low-born girl, and wished to wed her; but I refused— I could not consent to such an outrage. My son implored me, but I remained inflexible. My blazon would have been shattered by such a shame! I was wrong, child— I was wrong! Never be arrogantly proud, it is a mortal sin!"

Sobs stifled the old Duke's voice. But presently he went on:—

"The girl was beautiful and virtuous. I offered her gold; she refused it. Then I had her abducted and shut up in a tower of the chateau. Months passed; my son remained faithful to his vows, I faithful to my pride. I therefore resolved to kill the girl. To that end I sent her secretly a message, advising her to escape. A silken ladder was conveyed to her, with minutely detailed instructions as to how she was to fasten it to her window. She prepared to fly— and then I invented an infamous trap!

"Listen, Robert— listen! I caused the stones which supported the window to be loosened, so that it should give way under her and she would be dashed upon the marble pavement of the courtyard below. It was Christmas, the night of that evil deed; and ever since I have slept in fear of God.

"That same night I was transported in dreams into an immense gallery of clouds. Vaults followed upon vaults in millions— extending, ever extending. Under these vaults hung little golden lamps, swaying gently. It would have taken years to count them. Some of them burned brightly, others were extinguished suddenly. Some shone with a violent glare, others flickered and sputtered a long while before they went out.

"Some of these lamps were guarded by angels, white and beautiful as beauty itself. Other of the lamps had angels, black, ugly, and malevolent, who seemed to wait impatiently the moment when the flame should expire.

" 'What does all this mean?" I asked my conductor.

" 'All those lamps are human souls,' he replied. 'Those which burn so brightly are the souls of new-born infants; stainless angels guard them. Here are the souls of those who are at the age when, some think, the Spirit of Evil and the Spirit of Good contend for them; but, at the supreme moment, the last breath almost always returns to the Spirit of Good.'

"I then asked to be shown my own lamp.

" 'Come with me,' said the strange being; and, leading me under innumerable vaults, he made me traverse a great distance. At length, stopping me abruptly, he said: 'Behold! there is your soul!'

"I was petrified with terror. A single drop of oil remained in my lamp; and, above it, an angel with black wings blew upon the flame to accelerate its extinction. I was seized with dread— overtaken by cowardice— yes, cowardice!" said the Duke, trembling in every limb.

"Listen, Robert— listen! Beside me burned a flame of purest light : that lamp of gold, protected by an angel with wings of spotless white. The Spirit of Evil whispered in my ear."

The old Duke stopped— as if the voice were speaking to him again. His eyes became bloodshot, his hair rose on his head with horror, his teeth chattered with affright, and when he continued his voice was almost a shriek.

"I went to the lamp guarded by the angel with the white wings, who looked at me sorrowfully; but the angel with the black wings still whispered in my ears. I saw nothing; I did not wish to see anything. I plucked a feather from the wing of the black angel and dipped it in the brightly flaming lamp and took from it the oil, drop by drop, and poured it into mine. My flame became glittering and red as blood; the other paled, but preserved still the brightness of a star. When but one drop of oil was left in it, the angel that guarded it spread his white wings and would have stayed me; but an angel with pearly wings and bearing a golden sword suddenly appeared.

" 'Let this human being do according to his will— God will judge him!' it said. "I took the last drop of oil! Then fear seized me. 'What lamp is this?' I asked, pointing to the poor flame that was ready to expire, and the voice replied

" 'It is the soul of your beloved son.'

"At the same moment the clear flame of the lamp died out: the white angel took its last breath in his wings and flew away, uttering as he went a cry of distress. The Spirit of Evil replied with a cry of triumph.

"I awoke, frozen with horror.

"In my chamber lay two bodies— crushed, unrecognisable. My son, informed by his fiancee, had tried to protect her in her flight, and my criminal snare had destroyed them both. It was Christmas, twenty years ago!"

Saying this he made a sign to the negro tending the precious lamp to cease feeding its flame.

"I have made confession," he added, "and can now die; but will God forgive me?"

At that moment the bells of the chateau pealed forth and the voices of the singers in the church were heard. The doors of the great hall opened. At the back of the chapel of the old manor, resplendent with lights, the infant Jesus, lying upon his bed of straw, appeared, radiant with celestial glory. The old Duke fell on his knees before the infant Deity.

"Man," said the voice of the priest, "Jesus was born to suffer, and died for the redemption of sinners. You have sinned, you have suffered, you have repented— God forgives you. Your soul pass from you in peace."

Then the old man turned his eyes towards the lamp, above which an angel with white wings was hovering. That angel he recognised— it was the guardian of the brilliant lamp. The angel smiled sweetly and took within his wings the expiring flame, with which he flew heavenwards. The Duc de Kerberzoff was dead!

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2: The Automaton

C. Ranger Gull and Reginald Bacchus

1876-1923, and 1874–1945

The Ludgate, January 1900

C. Ranger Gull and Reginald Bacchus collaborated on several stories in the "strange" category, such as this.  This story is inspired by "The Mechanical Turk" chess automaton which appeared in 1770, and which toured with several owners before being destroyed in a warehouse fire in the USA in 1854.

ABOUT the middle of this century public interest in the game of chess received a remarkable impetus from the arrival in London of a man named Greet, a Jew from Poland, who brought with him an automatic chess-playing figure. This figure had been first exhibited at Prague some six months before, and its subsequent tour of the great cities on the continent of Europe had excited an extraordinary interest. Most of the best-known masters of the game had taken up its challenge in St. Petersburg, Paris and Vienna, but one and all had suffered a defeat, inexplicable in its suddenness and completeness.

Mr. Greet now announced that his figure was ready to play against, and beat, any one in England who should care to oppose it. The Automaton (for this was the name that the public had given to the figure) was exhibited a number of times in London, and on each occasion a crowded and mystified audience witnessed the uncomfortable spectacle of an image made of wood and iron, defeating in an easy and masterful manner several well-known exponents of the most difficult game in the world.

The machine consisted of a large figure or wood, roughly hewn and painted to resemble a man. It was about twice the size of a full-grown human being, and when playing was seated in a chair made on a very open design. It was quite motionless, except for the jerky movements of its arm and of the two long steel pincers that served it for fingers. It made no sound save the one word "check," that rasped out from its wooden throat, and the final "check-mate," pitched in a higher and more triumphal key.

This soulless machine was a master of all the known gambits, and seemed to play them with a supreme inspiration not granted to any living professor of the game. Public excitement about the matter was acute, and speculation ran high as to the probable methods employed to bring about so marvellous a result. Every facility was afforded to the public for inspection. Before and after each game the figure was opened in full view of those among the audience who might care to come upon the stage, and the closest scrutiny revealed nothing but a mass of cogs and wheels, among which it was quite impossible for a man to be concealed. Moreover, Mr. Greet was quite willing to allow the Automaton to be moved about on the stage at the direction of its opponent, so that the theory of electrical communication with a player concealed beneath the platform, had to be abandoned by those who had conceived such an opinion. During the games, Mr. Greet sat or walked about on the stage, but two members of the audience were always accommodated with chairs by the chess table, and it was obvious that there could be no communication between the figure and its proprietor. In this way the public mind became unpleasantly harassed, and Mr. Greet's purse grew to a comfortable fulness With the entrance money of the hundreds who blocked the door at each performance. The uncanny nature of the whole affair attracted numbers to the spectacle who did not even know the moves of the game, and many a man set steadfastly to the learning of chess, and the baffling of the problems proposed in the weekly papers, that he might better comprehend the nature of the mystery that was puzzling London. So with a clientele composed of professors and amateurs of the game, engineers and scientists, and the great General Public that loves a mystery, Mr. Greet might have remained in London for a long period of great pecuniary satisfaction. Then, without any warning, it was announced in the papers that the Automaton had made its last move, for the present at any rate, in the metropolis, and would shortly set out on a tour through the principal towns of the provinces.

Birmingham, Manchester and all the great centres of the North and Midlands were visited with the usual triumphs, and one morning the public were startled at their breakfasttables with the brief announcement that Mr. Greet would back his Automaton against any chess player in the world for £2,000 a side, the match to take place in the Theatre Royal at Bristol within three weeks' time.

No one had been more completely mystified or more intensely amazed at the triumphal progress of the Automaton than Mr. Stuart Dryden, considered by most people to be the leading chess player in Engjand. He had himself refrained from hazarding his reputation in a contest with the thing, for, after carefully watching the easy defeat ot those noted professors who had been bold enough to put its skill to the test, he had been forced to confess that in this machine, by some unfathomable means or other, had been placed an understanding of the game that he could not hope to compete with. He felt, however, that a time must come when he would be obliged to court the defeat that he knew to be certain, and the growing nearness of the contingency embittered every day of his life. He worked ceaselessly at problems of the game, and studied with the greatest care the records of the matches that had been played against the Automaton, but he found it quite impossible to coax himself into the least degree of self-confidence.

Professor Dryden was a bachelor, possessed of a small regular income, which he had always supplemented largely with his earnings at chess by wav of stake-money and bets. He was a man of solitary habit and lived much alone in a small house in the north-western quarter of London. An old woman attended to all his wants; he was surrounded by a large and complete library, and between his little house and the St. George's Chess Club he spent almost the entire portion of his life. It was his custom to rise early every morning, and after a long walk in the Regent's Park to arrive at the Chess Club about noon. There, as a rule, he stayed till about ten o'clock of the evening, when he would return to a quiet supper and several hours with his books.

On the morning that Mr. Greet's announcement had been made public to the world, he left the house very early indeed, before the arrival of the daily papers.

On this morning he was in an exceptionally bad temper. He was by nature a sullen man, and the continued triumphs of this Automaton, that pointed to a probable reduction in his income, had been gradually making him more and more sour. Then, to complete his misery, he found last night on his return from the club, that by the failure of a company, considered sound by the most sceptical, his small private means had been reduced almost to a vanishing point. All night long he had lain sleepless with anxiety, and as he tramped the Regent's Park this morning his head burnt feverishly and his heart was very bitter against the world. The glorious freshness of the morning kindled no spark of happiness in his morose mind, and the cnildren who met him stalking along the pa hs ran nervously from his dour expression. He examined the future with care, but could see nothing but ruin before him, as what now remained of his private income would be quite insufficient for his support. Moreover, in confident expectation of a successful season at the chess-table, he had of late allowed himself many extravagancies, and his creditors were beginning to put unpleasant pressure upon him. Several tournaments, from which he was confident of giin, had been put off, since all interest was centred in the' Automaton, and a mere contest between man and man fell tame after the almost supernatural strife with Mr. Greet's image. Poor Mr. Dryden was unable to compose his ruffled temper or to suggest to himself any plan for the future, and wearying of the monotonous greenness of the park he turned his steps towards the club, though it was much earlier than he was wont to go there.

The St. George's Chess Club was a temple sacred to the upper circles of chess-players. The social or financial position of a member mattered little, but it was essential that he should be a real expert in the practice of the game. In this way a very motley and cosmopolitan gathering was usually to be found in the comfortable club-house situated in an inexpensive street neat Hanover Square.

Mr. Dryden walked straight upstairs to the smoking-room, and was astounded to find it, usually so empty in the morning, quite crowded with an excited throng of members. All of those present had attained or passed the middle age of life. Every face carried some strongly-marked personality, and a rapid conversation was being carried on in different languages.

Mr. Dryden was inexpressibly annoyed. He had promised himself peace and had found chaos, and his ugly face assum d a still more repulsive expression. He looked the very e nbodiment of friendless old age; asour, tired old man whose death would conjure a tear from no single eye.

A little Frenchman was the first to notice Dryden's entrance. He leapt to his feet and waved his hand towards him.

"Tiens, Dryden!'' he exclaimed; "Voilà, notre sauveur." The babble of the room stopped at the words, and all faces turned to the door. The old man stood there, slowly furling his umkrella and looked enquiringly round. Then he spoke slowly.

"You will pardon me, gentlemen, if I do not quite understand. "Why saviour, and of what?"

"Why, our saviour! We're going to try for Greet's dollars," drawled a voice from the corner. "You're the only man for us. We'll put up the chips."

"Once more I am at a loss," said Mr. Dryden; "M. Laroche and Mr. Sutherland, you have puzzled me. I presume you are talking about the only Greet that interests us. What new thing has he or his Automaton done?"

Twenty members shouted the explanation, and, half smothered in newspapers. Mr. Dryden was forced into a chair, and formally asked if he would act as representative of the club and take up Mr. Greet's challenge.

"It has beaten all the rest of us," said the President sadly, "but surely in the first chess association in Europe there must be one player who can get the better of that infernal machine. There shall be one, and you shall be that one, Dryden. You can take a line through this. I know by exactly how much you are my master, and that thing showed about the same superiority over me. So you'll start about square. This is the scheme we've arranged. The club finds all the money it you lose. If you win, you take half and we pocket the rest. That's fair enough, is it not?"

Mr. Dryden did not take long to decide. However sure he felt that he was no match for the mysterious intelligence that guided the hand of the Automaton, the temptation of the money, and his own straitened condition left only one course possible to him.

"I accept," he said; " make all arrangements in my name, and let me know time and place and anything else that may be necessary. For these three weeks I will shut myself up. If there is anything about the game that I do not already know, perhaps in this absolute seclusion I may wring it from my brain. I suppose tnat I shall see you all, or most of you, on the appointed day. Au revoir, gentlemen. I thank you very much for the honour you have done me."

The members rose in a body, a motley crowd of all nations, each one greatly excited, and congratulations in every tongue smote on the back of Mr. Dryden's head, as, shielded by the President, he walked sedately down the staircase.

Left to himself, he set out in the direction of Charing Cross, for he entertained the notion of paying a visit to an old friend in the country. This gentleman, the Rev. Henry Druce, was incumbent of a village cure in Kent, and though nis name was unknown to the public, he enjoyed among the professors of chess a high reputation as a master of the game. In the seclusion of Mr. Druce's peaceful vicarage Mr. Dryden felt sure that he would find rest for his worried brain, and valuable suggestions for the work that he was to do.

The train wandered happily out of the suburbs into the pretty county of Kent, and after many tiresome waits drew up at last at a tiny wayside station, all white in a gorgeous setting of manv-coloured flowers. The glare of the sun's rays that beat back from the glowing platform into Mr. Dryden's tired eyes staggered him for a moment, as he stepped out of the gloom of the carriage. The hot quivering atmosphere was very distinct to the eye, like the hot-air waves that one sees above a shaded lamp. The country was full of dull, murmuring noises, and among them the voices of the porters and the rumble of the train seemed indefinite and unreal.

Mr. Dryden was unable at once to assimilate himself to the new surroundings, and long after the train had banged over the points and glided away into the haze he still stood looking vaguely over the broad fields, scattered with lazy cattle, that lay against the railway on the other side. He was startled into consciousness by a voice asking if he wished to travel on the omnibus that was about to start for the village.

Following the man to where, in the dusty road, a boy in a big straw hat was lazily flicking the flies from the two sleepy horses that stood dejectedly in front of the little yellow omnibus, he was presently jolting into view of the scattered houses of the hamlet.

The vicarage was an old-world house in an old-world garden, and as Mr. Dryden walked up the white-flagged path to the porch, he was afforded a view of Mr. Druce, comfortably disposed for his afternoon nap in a long chair by the window. The vicar was, however, delighted at the intrusion, and very excited by Mr. Dryden's tale of Greet's challenge and his own acceptance. They talked for a while about the mysterious figure and its inexplicable victories, till suddenly Mr. Druce, who throughout the conversation had been somewhat hesitating and shy of manner, turned to his visitor and said:

"It appears to me that in London you have ceased in a measure to enquire into the reason for these wonders. You are beginning to accept the victories of the Automaton as inevitable, and to believe, I am amazed to find, that the thing is in reality an almost supernatural triumph of science. Now surely, Dryden, you cannot think that that steel hand is guided by any other than a human intelligence. It is absurd; you might just as well believe in magic and the black arts. I have not seen it, but I read, and am told, that facility is given to the audience for examination; that it is opened, and is apparently empty of aught save machinery; that it is detached from the stage or its chair; in fact, that its secret is so clever that every-one has been baffled. Now it is quite plain to me that somewhere, either insiae it, or close at hand, is a man, possibly unknown to us all, but obviously a chess player of extraordinary brilliance, who by some means or other plays the Automaton's game. That is quite certain. The problem is, therefore, who is the man? The names and the movements of all the great players are known to us through the papers. I can tell you in a minute where is Iflinski, or Le Jeune, or Moore. Besides, there are not half-a-dozen men in the world who could have played the games so far recorded. Now I have a theory. I am a good Christian, I believe, both by profession and practice, and I have hesitated long in my mind before I was compelled to believe in this theory of mine. It brings me to think evil of a man who has been my friend, and were I not so certain, Dryden, I would never breathe it to a soul. You are the first to hear. Listen. O f course, I long ago gave up the supposition of a wonderful scientific discovery, or anything of that sort. Since then I have dimply been trying to find out the man. I have compared the games played by Mr. Greet's figure with those played by most of the greater living masters, and I have found in one case a striking similarity. Even then I should not have spoken had not coincidence aided me still further; had not, in fact, my friendship for the man I suspect enabled me to follow his movements and be privy of his disappearances. It is— and I am grieved that he should have lent himself to such a deception— Murray."

Mr. Dryden gave a gasp of astonishment.

"Murray! " he said, " Philip Murray of the Queen's Library, the bibliophile, the old white-haired gentleman who comes sometimes to the club and plays a game or two. I can hardly believe it, Druce."

"It was hard for me to believe it myself," said Mr. Druce, "and I have only told you half of what I know. In my mind the truth of the thing admits of no doubt. I will tell you more of my proofs."

"But the man couldn't have done it," broke in Mr. Dryden; "he couldn't have beaten these men, he couldn't have played the games. I've seen him playing in the club, he is no extraordinary player. No, Druce, find some one else for the spirit of the Automaton."

"Don't be so impatient, and don't be led astray by the idea of Murray's incapacity," said Mr. Druce. " You don't know him properly, neither you nor any one else at the club; but I do. He cares nothing for notoriety. Chess is his recreation, not his business; but I can tell you, Dryden,— and many hundreds of games have Murray and I played together,— that he is the first master of the game in England. Enough for his ability. Listen to these facts. How long ago is it that the Automaton was first exhibited in Prague? Eight months exactly. At that time Murray disappeared from England and was absent for six months, precisely the length of time that Greet was taking his figure through the big cities of Europe. The fact alone of his disappearance may be only a coincidence, but look at this. My sister L izzie's husband is at the Embassy in Vienna. She saw Murray three times in the streets during the time that the Automaton was there. She mentioned the fact in a letter to me, because, she said, he seemed to avoid her in so strange a manner. Tom Rollit, writing from Antwerp, told me how he met Murray in a cafe, and how constrained he seemed. The day was the second day after Greet and his figure had begun their matches in that city. I didn't pay much attention to this at the time, but after the Automaton had come to London, and I had repeatedly called on Murray to have a chat about the thing, and been as often told that he was away, I became suspicious. He is a man who has all his life been most reluctant to leave his home, and after the first time that in my study of the games I had noticed a resemblance between Murray's play and that of the Automaton, my suspicions became very strong. It was then that I remembered his several journeys to Europe just before his long absence. He has always professed an extra distaste for continental travel. I remember too, how I had met Edouard Koulain, the man who has had such an extraordinary success in Berlin as a prestidigitateur, in the hall of Murray's house on the occasion of one of my visits. When I asked him about the man— for I should like to have met him— he changed the subject at once and somewhat rudely. Again— it is really wonderful how so much circumstantial evidence has come my way— he was in Manchester when the Automaton was there. I was calling, and I could not help noticing that the maid who showed me to the drawing-room carried a letter addressed in his handwriting, that bore the postmark of that town. Mrs. Murray put the letter quickly in her pocket, and when I asked her where her husband was, she told me that he had gone to Edinburgh about a book. You must agree with me, Dryden, that that is enough. Well, I've got one last proof, the most conclusive of all. When they went to Birmingham, I followed and took a room that commanded a view of the stage door of the hall. All day long I sat in that window, concealed by the curtains, and every day, sometimes only just before the show, sometimes two or three times during the day, I saw a man, heavily bearded and with spectacles, walk into the hall, with Murray's walk. Once I saw him with Greet, but generally he was alone. That that man was Murray I have no doubt at all. He is the brain of the Automaton. Philip Murray has worked one of the biggest deceptions on the world that has ever been conceived, and I doubt not he has nicely feathered his own nest in the working of it. What do you think of my story?"

"I own that I am fairly astounded," said Mr. Dryden, "and I cannot think how it is done. I tell you I have looked inside the thing, from both sides, and it's full of wheels. I've pushed it about the stage; and I've sat there during the play and never taken my eyes off it."

"Did Greet let you put your hand inside and touch the machinery," said Mr. Druce. "Well, I never thought of doing that, nor, when I come to think of it, did any one e lse ; but I saw wheels, and cogs and springs, as distinctly as I see you."

"That can be arranged by an elaborate system of mirrors, some improvement on the Pepper's Ghost idea. Edouard Roulain is quite clever enough to fool any one by a trick of that sort. It's my belief that Murray gets inside it, I don't think it could be worked by any other means. I expect that the plot was conceived somewhat after this fashion. Edouard Roulain, in the course of his investigations, stumbled on a really exceptionally brilliant idea for an optical delusion. It then occurred to him that this idea might be put to more profitable use than mere exhibition. How he hit on the notion of the chessplaying Automaton, I can't think. He has been a friend of Murray's for some time, I found that out; and very likely he told Murray of his find and asked for suggestions. Murray may have got it from some old book, or perhaps thought it out himself. Wait a minute though, I never told you how I proved Roulain's connection with the affair. When the Automaton was in London, I met him repeatedly about the town; but that was before I was so sure about Murray, and I didn't think much of it. He had grown a moustache, but I recognised him easily. I daresay he's gone now, he wasn't in Birmingham."

"What about Greet?" said Mr. Dryden.

"Oh, he is only a figurehead ; perhaps he doesn't even know the secret. He has been an operatic manager all over Europe and the States ; he took Roulain to New York when he made his first great success there. He is about the best business manager they could have."

"Well, I suppose I must grant you that Murray does work it— exactly now he does it doesn't matter much. What I want to think out is, how does this knowledge help me? Suppose that you or I give the thing away, what do we gain? Have you thought of doing it yourself?"

"No, I have not. T o tell you the truth, I have rather been enjoying the joke, and were it not for my orders, I should have in time thrown down the gauntlet myself. If there is one man in England who knows Murray's play, it is myself, and I think I might have got the better of him. The feeling of mystery that has surrounded the Automaton has helped him immensely ; he would not have had so complete and easy a success if his opponents had not been frightened out of their best game. I could see that by studying the records of the play. As it is, I shall do nothing ; but if this knowledge will be any help to you in your game, you are most heartily welcome to it. Believe me, that I shall so far escape from my seclusion as to be a most interested spectator of the match at Bristol."

"I am immensely obliged to you, old friend," said Dryden; "I will make it no secret from you that I am in a very bad way for money. A totally unlookedfor misfortune has deprived me of the greater part of my regular income, and the interest that has followed this Automaton has caused several of the important tournaments, that I should have made money out of, to be abandoned. If I can win this match, I get £1,000, which will set me straight, and from my victory I shall gain a reputation that will put me in the way of much future gain. If I were to write a book on chess, it would enormously enhance its sale."

"I am sorry to hear of your distress," said Mr. Druce, " which I had never suspected, and I am the more glad that I may be of a little use to you. You will stop to dinner, of course, and before you go I will give you the records of a great many of Murray's games. He nas had enough of his mysterious a triumph, and it is quite time the joke came to an end."

Dinner was quiet and pleasant, and though the presence of Charles Cunliffe, the curate, who was fresh from Magdalen, and cared for nothing except stamped leather bindings and the fine embroidery of a cope, excluded chess from the conversation, the three men found the subject of continental travel a convenient exchange for opinions. Mr. Cunliffe had in undergraduate days paid several visits to Boulogne, and held elaborate ideas on the subject of racial distinctions.

Mr. Dryden bade farewell to the two clergymen in the little station, now cool and pleasant in the moonlight, and during the seventy minutes of his journey to Charing Cross, examined feverishly the bundle of papers that Mr. Druce had given him.

For the next week he kept himself strictly from the world and held unceasingly to his task of investigating Mr. Murray's methods. At the end of that time there came to him the conviction that he had met his master. As before he had known that the uncanny spirit of the Automaton would surely beat him, so now he realised with a pain— all the worse because it swept away the hopes that Mr. Druce's story had inspired— that in the brain of the little old Scotch librarian was the same power, none the less real now that it had lost its odour of mystery.

Meanwhile his creditors had become more instant in their demands, and poor Mr. Dryden, crushed with despondency and overwhelmed with debt, conceived a hatred towards the automatic figure and its inmate that increased in bitterness as each day brought him nearer to the contest which he felt certain would prove his Waterloo.

For the three weeks he kept entirely to his own house and held no communication with the outside world, except for a short correspondence with the President of the club on the matter of the challenge, and the arrangements for day and hour. He received one short letter from Mr. Druce, wishing him good fortune and assuring him that he would be among the audience to watch the downfall of the Automaton.

Whatever mistrust of his powers he might entertain, it was not his own t t money that he would sacrifice by abandoning the match, and in the interests of the club he was bound to go through with the affair.

Four days before the match he came to Bristol and took apartments in a house in the Hot-wells, that faced the river. The coming match had aroused extreme interest in the town, and crowds were continually assembled about the station at Temple Mead, in hope of a prior view of the Automaton.

On the day after his arrival he sat for many hours at the window, watching the tall spars of the ships show stark against the cliffs as the vessels were towed to and from the city. The chatter of the riverside loafers that reached his ears treated always of the Automaton, and the improbable speculations that were hazarded brought a weary smile to his face. About sunset he left the house, and, following a winding path, climbed the edge of the gorge, coming out upon the Clifton Down. For a little while he sat there, watching the silent beauty of the scene. The dying sun had lent a greater glory to the city that sloped from the sides of its seven hills to the hollow beneath him, and the Avon traced a line of rosy flame through the gorge, till it lost itself at last in a forest of masts and the dull smoke-cloud ot the furnaces. Then the sun seemed to grow in size and rush quicker to its bed. For a moment it hung over the Somersetshire woods, firing every tree into a glory of a moment. Then it was suddenly gone, and the white coolness of evening came directly over the country and the town. The majesty of hill, champaign and valley, lent an infinite composure to the trouble of Mr. Dryden's thoughts, and presently he began to take the road to the city, purposing a cheerful dinner at some inn. A merry party of travellers filled the coffee-room at the "Greyhound" in Broad Mead, and their amusing conversation about the Automaton induced Mr. Dryden to disclose his identity. He became the centre and hero of the party, and two hours passed with a pleasant speed.

About nine o'clock, a little rosy with wine, he set out on his way homewards. The mischance of a random turning led him from his proper road, and presently he came out upon the open space of the Queen's Square. The comfortable freshness of the air invited him to stay, and he sat for some time upon a convenient seat. He had come into a pleasant reverie, in which the Automaton played more the part of a comedian than of the villain, when a rumbling noise lifted his eyes to the roadway. A large cart of the strangest conceivable shape, somewhat like the body of a grand piano set upon its edge, was being driven past. It swung round the corner that led to the theatre, which was close at hand, and he heard it clatter for a little over the cobbles before it came to a sudden stop. He had a strong idea that this must be the arrival of the Automaton, and without quite knowing why he did so, got up and followed. On reaching the theatre he saw the cart drawn up a little beyond it. He hesitated to go nearer, and then noticed that the gallery door stood a little upon the jar. In a pure spirit of adventure he pushed it back and made a difficult progress down the long dim-lit passage and up the dark rickety staircase. When a plump of cold air upon his face told him that he had won the entrance into the body of the house, he made his way delicately to a seat and sat awaiting possibilities. He was not long in suspense before he heard distant voices and a considerable noise of a heavy body being advanced over rollers. Then a light came out from the wings and went across the stage. It seemed a tiny speck of flame in the great blackness of the theatre, lighting little save the face of the man who carried it. Mr. Dryden made out a heavy moustache and concluded at once that this must be Edouard Roulain. The man stooped and lit a few of the centre footlights, which turned a square patch of light on the stage. A hand lamp was burning in one of the wings, but through the rest of the house the darkness thickened backwards till it wrapped the gallery, in which Mr. Dryden sat, with an impenetrable gloom. Presently the noise of rollers began again, and two men came into the patch of light, pushing the great painted figure of the Automaton.

One, a person of ostentatious figure, he recognised immediately as Greet, and with a thrill of excitement he realised that the other, a little bearded man of a peculiar gait, could be none other than Murray himself. The language of the three men was deadened by the distance, but he saw that the one whom he supposed to be Roulain was busied about the mechanism of the figure. When the clicking of the wheels stopped, Mr. Murray walked up to the figure and spoke a few words to Greet and Roulain. Mr. Dryden could not hear distinctly, but a loud laugh came from the two men on the stage. Then Mr. Murray took off his coat, opened the Automaton and stepped inside it. Preently its arm began to move and the steel pincers of its fingers to shift about on the table.

He was only inside for a few minutes, and as soon as he reappeared, Mr. Dryden, in the fear that they might make it a business to see to the closing of all doors, began to fumble his way out of the theatre. Providentially the door of the gallery entrance was still open, and when he had gained the street, he hid in a doorway a few yards distant from the stage entrance. The men were talking as they came out, and he recognised Murray's voice at once.

"That will be all right, Greet," it was saying; "you had better come and see me in the morning. I am staying in Bedminster— 42, Leigh Road; it's across thfe river, you must take the ferry."

They passed down the road, and when they had gone out of sight, Mr. Dryden began his journey back to the rooms in the Hot-wells.

Though nothing had been revealed to him that he had not been already cognisant of, the fact of having been with his own eyes privy to the secret of the trickery, made him greatly excited. He was conscious of a distinct hatred for Mr. Murray that he had not before experienced. There was something of jealousy in his anger. He bitterly grudged the old librarian his invention of the Automaton and the money that was coming to him from its exhibition. If he could only beat it, he thought, and then the dreadful feeling of hopelessness, that had left him during the varied excitements of the last few hours, came back and beset him with redoubled force. The much-needed repose of sleep was denied him, for all through that night the nightmare figure of the Automaton was with him in his dreams, and when, late next morning, he left his bed, his face was drawn and haggard and his mind a maelstrom of hatred and despair.

The day was very wild for the season, and continual thunderstorms gathered and broke their fury about the crags ol the Avon Gorge. Mr. Dryden did not leave the house, but watched from his window the thunder-clouds drive through the funnel made by the cliffs, and scatter over the houses and fields beyond. He felt a companionship in the ill-humour of the elements, and the shrieking of the wind played a fantastic accompaniment to the bitter theme of his thoughts. Hatred of Murray was echoed in every scream of the gale, in every splash of the driven rain against the window-panes, while the roaring menace of the thunder fashioned his anger into an ever-growing self-confidence. All through the afternoon, as the rage of the storm grew stronger his spirits rose higher, and at dinner a brilliant idea came to him. He would surprise Mr. Murray in some quiet place on his way to the theatre, and make known to him his discovery of the trick. The knowledge that the secret was out, coming to him at so critical a moment in the career of the Automaton must, he felt sure, have a deterrent effect on Mr. Murray's play, while his own knowledge that within the painted figure his invisible rival was uneasily fearful, would lend a confident strength to himself.

The prospect of meeting the spirit of the Automaton in the flesh awoke other possibilities in his mind, and at first he cursed himself for not having conceived a plot for the kidnapping of nis antagonist. However, it was now too late, and he dismissed the idea with the reflection that even had he thought of it before he could have with difficulty found trustworthy accomplices. About half-past seven he set out for the meeting that he promised himself. The gloom of the day had in no way abated and it was already quite dark. What he had overheard of Mr. Murray's conversation with Greet suggested the river ferry to him as an advisable place, and there, about eight o'clock, he commenced to wait. The match was to be played at 9.30, and the doors were not open to the public till half-an-hour before that time, so he judged it quite certain that Mr. Murray would start for the theatre some time between eight and nine. The loneliness of the place lent horror to the storm, but Mr. Dryden cared little for the drenching rain or the flaming lightning as he staggered against the wind to keep his post by the ferry. Some twenty minutes had gone when a vivid flash lit the surrounding scene into half-a-minute's uncanny radiance, and he saw the figure of a man detach itself from the black shadow of the houses and come to the top of the river bank. Then all was dark again. The wind blew him the sound of a familiar voice shouting for the ferryman, and through the noise of the gale he seemed to recognise the rasping intonation of the Automaton's "Check." A lighted doorway gave up another figure carying a lantern, and he could just see the two grope their way down the greasy flags that led to the boat. The tide was nearly at its lowest, and long oily rolls of mud sloped from the roadway on either side to where the last of the ebb hurried on its race to the sea. The power of the current made the crossing a long one, and he could only see the intermittent twinkle of the lantern through the rain. For a long way it moved slowly up the stream and then edged gradually back towards the opposite landing place. There was a grating noise, the chink of a coin, and Mr. Dryden saw the figure of a man that limped a little come laboriously up the difficult path. He waited in the shadow, and when Mr. Murray came full into the light of the lamp that marked the ferry-place, stepped forward and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Ah, Murray," he said, "we are well met; for though this evening brings us another meeting, I had rather I found you here. I have a matter to discuss with you."

"I beg your pardon, sir," said the other, in a voice that shook with ill-repressed astonishment. "You have made a mistake. I do not know you, nor is my name Murray. I beg you will excuse me, I am about a business that presses."

"Don't be foolish, Murray," said Mr. Dryden. "I tell you I recognise you ; you've as much time as I have for a talk."

"Again, sir, I repeat that you are wrong," said the other. "I am not Murray, and your interference is impertinent. Good night."

"Oh, you aren't Murray, aren't you; you think to face it out!" said Mr. Dryden; " but I know you, you fraud. What about these?"

And, making a rapid step forward, he caught at his companion's beard with both hands. It came away at once, jerking the spectacles with it. They fell and shattered on the pavement.

"Now are you Murray?" shouted Mr. Dryden in a voice of passion. "Damn you, you shall own it! I've found out all about you and the Automaton trick, and I've come here for a little business talk. If you'll only be sensible, we can soon come to terms."

"You have discovered my identity and you have me at a disadvantage," said Mr. Murray. "What do you want of me? Tell me quickly, for the time presses."

"There can be no match till I come, so you needn't hurry," said Mr. Dryden. "Listen. I must have that money, and it's just possible that you may beat me. I didn't come here to threaten, only to frighten you out of your play by discovering my knowledge. It was your refusal to acknowledge yourself that gave me the idea. Now here is my proposal. You let me win, and I say nothing; beat me, and I expose you. An exposure would cost you a lot more than the £2,000 you lose to me."

"I shall do nothing of the sort," said Mr. Murray; "you make a great mistake if you think you can bully me. I had known you, Mr. Dryden, as a gentleman of good manners and repute. I am sorry to find out my mistake. You may do your worst, prove the trick if you can. Now let me pass."

"You refuse then; well, you shan't go. Curse you, Murray, I must have the money. Don't struggle or I shall hurt you. Oh, you will, will you? Take that, then."

Swinging his heavily-mounted stick, he struck the old librarian a crushing blow behind the ear. The old man fell headlong, and, rolling over, came upon the mud slope. Down this he began to slide, gathering force as he went, till Mr. Dryden, who was watching, aghast at his action, saw the stream catch the feet and swing the whole body round into the river. For a second the face showed white above the black water. Then it was gone into the darkness.

For a short time Mr. Dryden stood thinking. He found to his astonishment that he knew no remorse. One thought alone possessed him; that now he must win the match and the money. The conditions of the game distinctly stated that, should the figure make no move, the victory went to its opponent. He gathered up his victim's hat, and the false beard, from where they lay on the ground, and stuffing the dripping hair into the hat, flung it out over the river. Then he turned and walked quickly towards the theatre.

Mr. Greet and Monsieur Roulain arrived at the theatre a few minutes only before the time appointed for the match. Rouiain unlocked the door of the Green Room, which had been reserved for their private use, and they went in to find the Automaton ready seated in its chair. They both concluded at once that Mr. Murray, as was his habit, had arrived earlier and was already concealed within the figure. Roulain contented himself with opening the outer panels, in order to make sure that his invention of mirrors revealed nothing to the public but the accustomed mass of machinery. When he was satisfied he rapped twice upon the back of the figure, and after a few seconds an answering knock came back to him. It was the signal he had arranged with Mr. Murray. Then, summoning two attendants, he had the Automaton wheeled on to the stage.

Directly afterwards the curtain was raised, discovering to the audience, that thronged every corner of the house, the solitary figure of the Automaton in its chair. Mr. Greet stepped forward to its side, his comfortable figure resplendent in an evening suit that glittered with jewels, and after bowing unctuously in response to the plaudits that rang out, made a little speech in which he recapitulated briefly the conditions of the match. He finished with the usual invitation to the audience to come on the stage and examine the figure.

This ceremony was quickly disposed of. People throughout the country had come to accept the mystery of the Automaton, and flocked to the performances merely as amateurs of a new sensation, without seeking to further probe the secret. Some score of folks, chiefly of the lower middle class, sought the nearer view that the stage afforded, and after Mr. Greet had courteously delayed the over-inquisitive fingers of a countryman from Clevedon, he retired, to appear again with Mr. Dryden.

Mr. Dryden, whom the action of the storm had reduced to a condition of unhealthy dampness, appeared in a spare suit of Mr. Greet's, which hung upon his angular figure in a succession of unexpected creases and folds. The audience, unprepared for this element of the grotesque, mingled their applause with a ripple of merriment; but Mr. Dryden, in whom the conflicting emotions of triumph and fear waged an incessant battle, was entirely unconscious of any influence outside his own brain. He bowed to the house and cast a look of surveyal across the floor and round the tiers. In a box that overlapped by some feet on to the stage, sat Mr. Druce, a little hidden by a fold of curtain, the ample contour of his face creased into a twinkle of expectant merriment. Mr. Dryden paid him a mechanical salute and then became conscious of Mr. Greet's voice proffering an introduction to two gentlemen of the press who were to occupy seats upon the stage. He shook hands with the politeness of habit and sat down amid a silence of attention, so great, that the concerted breathing of the audience came upon his ear with a distinct and regular ebb and flow of sound.

The mood of simple curiosity with which former spectators had watched the Automaton's triumphs was on this occasion changed to an intense fervour of interest that threatened in many cases to lapse into hysteria. When on former occasions competitors had climbed the platform, like yokels at a village fair sheepishly certain of defeat from the professional wrestler, the public had speculated pleasantly on the probable duration of the contest, and een content to laugh and wonder at the unusual spectacle. But this was no matter of a lightly-accepted challenge, or of an end which admitted of no serious contemplation. Here were two thousand pounds a side at issue, and the picked chess player of England set down to do battle for fame and fortune against the all-conquering intelligence of the wooden sphinx.

Mr. Dryden sat, his wrists resting lightly upon the edge of the table, gazing intently into the calm feat res of his lifeless vis-a-vis.

The thing was immeasurably unpleasant.

Little attempt had been made to conceive more than the roughest image of man. The forehead sloped backwards, and the long crooked nose that rose above thin tight-set lips and a hard chin had a flavour of the American Indian, while the whole aspect of the morose, seated figure, one arm clasped to the body and one poised forwards with half-bent elbow, conveyed a haunting suggestion of some hawk-faced god of Babylon. A cold sweat came over Mr. Dryden's brow as his nervous fingers stretched over the chessmen, for he was to make the first move. The full disaster of his affairs was unpleasantly real in his mind, and something burning seemed to press on the back of his eyes. Then the scene on the picture-sheet of his brain shifted to the ferryside, and as he saw again the tide catch the body ot Mr. Murray and whirl it out to sea, self-recovery came to him at once. He straightened his arm and advanced a pawn upon the board. As he did so the familiar click of the released mechanism of the stop-watch, brought an aspect of custom, and he sat back in his chair in the tranquil knowledge that the end of the time limit would find the Automaton still motionless, and the wager his. Behind it, at a little distance, sat Greet, in a like comfortable confidence, while the two pressmen, their bodies bent forward, their hands clasped between their knees, brought near to Mr. Dryden the air of intense excitement that hushed the silent hundreds at his side. The stop-watch had marked four minutes when there was a creaking noise in the Automaton. First the shoulder and then the elbow began to move, and to Mr. Dryden's unspeakable horror the pincers of the hand unclasped, and, poising for a moment, clipped the Queen's Pawn and rapidly moved it forwards. The murderer's face grew ashen grey with fear, his eyes blinked rapidly and nis heart stood still.

His first thought was that Murray was not, after all, the guiding spirit of the Automaton, that he had killed an inoffensive man for no reason. He heard again the dull sound of breaking bone, and the sucking noise of the rolling body on the mud. He could think of nothing else, till the far-away voice of the umpire, announcing that four minutes had gone, pricked his brain into a little consciousness. He hastily stretched out his hand and made a rapid, unconsidered move. As he did so his fingers came for a brief moment in contact with the iron paw of the Automaton, and at the moment of touching he knew who his adversary was. He felt so strange and terrible a message flash to his brain that his whole body became cold and rigid in a moment.

He could not keep his eyes from the lens-like eyes of his adversary, and he felt rather than saw the intelligence that looked out at him, for he knew he was playing with no earthly opponent. He made another disastrous and hurried move. Then the head of the Automaton trembled, the lips parted, and it said "Check" loudly and distinctly. The voice was Mr. Murray's voice.

At the end of the five minutes Mr. Greet noticed something strange in Mr. Dryden's attitude. Going hastily up to him, he saw his eyes were wide open but without sight, and when he touched his hand it was cold and stiff. Mr. Dryden was quite dead.

The curtain fell, and they carried the body to the green room, while in a terror-stricken silence the vast crowd left the theatre. Their last footsteps were still echoing on the other side of the curtain when Greet and Roulain came back to the stage. The doctors and attendants were trying to restore the body of Mr. Dryden in the little room at the back.

Greet opened the panel of the figure and called in hoarse, agitated tones to Mr. Murray to come out. There was no answer, and Roulain fetched a candle and they looked into the hollow in surprise.

There was no one there

_________________

3: A Full House

Achmed Abdullah

Alexander Nicholayevitch Romanoff, 1881-1945

People's Favorite Magazine, 10 Feb 1919

R. HARRINGTON shivered.

People usually did when Professor Herschel W. Giddens turned upon them the full battery of his brain, which, beneath a number eight- and-a-quarter, neat bowler hat, topped a wizened body of five feet four.

Not that, from an intellectual angle, he was a bravo, a peripatetic swashbuckler who crushed his antagonists with his knowledge, like a very juggernaut of brilliancy and learning and withering, merciless logic. For, while he argued didactically, even brutally, about the subjects he knew, he was a good listener when it came to those with which he was unfamiliar. He respected the other fellows' specialties and, by the same token, expected a similar courtesy for his own pet domain: psychology; the practical, applied, constructive end of it.

It was there that Mr. Jerome Harrington had made his mistake.

Had he been satisfied with holding forth about galena ore, the percentage of carbon in the Kootenai coal outcroppings, the reason why the Hood River spitzenburg apples were superior to tire Wenatchee jonathans and inferior to the Alberta skookums, or any other of the many details connected with the Northwestern development in which he was a prime factor. Professor Giddens would have listened attentively, his head a little to one side like an intelligent coot, his thin lips lifting sympathetically at the corners, his bright, shrewd eyes glistening underneath bushy, white brows, his pertinacious brain registering and dovetailing the facts as he heard them.

But Mr. Harrington had been rash enough to challenge the other's statements when, over the excellent cigars of the Seattle Civic Club, their conversation had turned to certain aspects of modern civilization and the influence of the science of psychology thereon.

"It was us rough pioneers made this great and glorious Northwest. We just kept on going because your effete Eastern civilization sort of hobbled our hind feet." Mr. Harrington had stated, sublimely oblivious of the fact that his personal pioneering had commenced with his popping across the Washington State line three yards west of a deputy sheriff's spluttering six-gun, squatting on somebody else's undeveloped real estate with a rifle in the crook of his elbow, and selling fire water to the guileless Siwash. "Yes, sir! There wouldn't be nothing at all this side of the Divide, if it wasn't for the number forty-eight chest measures of guys like myself."

"Yes, yes, yes," the professor had replied in his carefully punctuated voice, looking, for all his white hair and wrinkled face, like a precocious child. "Of course, civilization needs brawn— to mulch the ground, so to speak."

"Mulch?" The agricultural allusion had touched Mr. Harrington on the raw.

"What—"

"I said— mulch!" repeated the other, nowise intimidated. "Like dung, you know."

"Like—"

"Dung. Right. But the day of it is past. We know that it is there, that we can use it when we need it."

"Who's we?"

"Men like myself, scientifically educated and trained. To-day brawn is the slave of brain."

Mr. Harrington had snickered. He had poked a stumpy thumb at the professor's thin chest.

"Say, little man," he had exclaimed, "I don't mean to be personal, but I— "

"I get you— to quote the regrettable, though expressive slang of my freshmen. I weigh ninety-eight pounds. I suffer from anaemia, pyorrhea, chronic rheumatism, sinus trouble, varicose veins, and soft corns. But," he had said it unblushingly, yet unboastingly, "I have a mind, and I have made a thorough study of the turns and twists of other people's minds."

"D'you mean to say you back up that precious mind of yours against "

"Anybody. Anything. A thousand years ago, I would have been trampled upon, would have gone under. Today, I, the man of brain, am the king of the man of brawn. For I am an expert at psychology."

Mr. Harrington had stuck out his large, pink chin that passed directly into the strong, full neck.

"Sure, little man," he had said soothingly, as he might to a child. "You want to save your face, as my Chinese cook calls it. But let's talk sense. There's you— and say, I couldn't improve on the description you give o' yourself— and here's me, two hundred and fifteen pounds of meat stripped to the buff. Muscle, strength, guts— that's me! And that's how I made my way. I guess brains are OK in their place, but they're no darned good when you're up against the raw thing. Now, between you and me and the lamp-post, I cleaned up a cool half million out o' that gold mine up the Elk River, and I wouldn't have found that mine if I hadn't been able to outwalk and outwork the rest o' the bunch that was headed in the sathe direction when Ben Williams comes down here with the news o' the pay streak. Why, you poor, dried-up little Boston shrimp, if you'd been up here in the early days, you wouldn't have developed as much as a patch of secondhand peanuts."

"I am speaking of actual conditions, not of what they were twenty years ago."

"Say! Ain't that mine up the Elk an actual condition? Look at the money I have in the bank. Why, I could buy and sell you a dozen times over."

"All very interesting, but not germane to the subject," said the professor.

"Not— what was that word?"

"I mean that your observations are jejune in the extreme. They are flaccid and adynamic."

"They are— what?"

"Don't you understand plain English? All right. I shall put it more simply."

He did. And— we repeat— Mr. Harrington shivered.

ii

HE spoke of it, a few minutes later, to a small hut select gathering of leading citizens who were supporting the club bar, financially as well as phys- ically.

"Ding-dong his ding-donged little, warty, rusty hide!" he said. "He—"

"Who's he?" asked Charlie Baxter, the lumber king from Port Angeles way.

"That there measly professor of psycho somethin' who's been lecturing up at Seattle University for the last three months."

"What's he gone and done to you, Jerome?"

"Nothin' much." Mr. Harrington was heavily ironic. "Just stepped on my face and bit me in the chest— that's all. Yes, sir. Treated me as if I was a dirty-nosed, pap-fed brat of a schoolboy. Told me—!" He choked into his whisky glass.

"What?" demanded Clyde Humphreys, his partner and brother-in-law.

"He told me I didn't know what the hell I was talking about!"

"Surely he didn't use those words?" smiled Clyde Humphreys.

"He did, too. 'You don't know what the hell you're talking about!' Them were his exact words. There he sat, like an abridged edition of a giant, with a contemptuous sneer wrinkling that little knobby, chilblained button of a nose of his, and he sez to me: 'You don't know what the—' "

"Never mind, Jerome," Charlie Baxter cut in soothingly, "he's going back to Boston the end of the week."

"Who told you?"

"He did himself. Said he had learned all he wanted to about the North-West."

"All he wanted to!" Mr. Harrington's wrath surged up again. "All he wanted to— in half a year!"

"From a psychological angle, he added, and he said, speaking from that same angle, that it wasn't so different from the East after all."

A minatory glitter came into Mr. Harrington's pale-blue eyes. "Say," he inquired, "did he say anything about brain bein' better than brawn?"

"He sure did. He allowed that a fellow who's familiar with psychology "

"Meaning himself," cut in Clyde Humphreys.

"Sure. That such a fellow doesn't need anything else. Got my goat good and plenty, he did."

"Mine, too!" from Mr. Harrington.

"And mine!" Clyde Humphreys commented. "Well — let's forget him. He's off to Harvard end of the week. I was at the C.P.R. office when he got his ticket."

"Why don't he take the U.P.?" demanded Mr. Harrington to whom, by this time, the professor's most harmless action was suspicious. "Roundabout way of going to Boston— over the C.P."

"He's going to break his journey at Nelson and go up the Elk River for a week or two. Just to get a bit of mountain air, he says."

"Up the Elk?" Mr. Harrington mused. Then, suddenly, he laughed.

"Brothers!" he said, raising two fingers and a thumb and giving the high sign of a certain lodge which is powerful in social and business circles from Nome to Cheyenne. "I got a idea!"

And to the barkeeper:

"Set 'em up, Jim!"

AN HOUR LATER, he returned to the library where the professor was still sitting, peacefully absorbed in the pale, innocuous mazes of the "Esoteric Review."

"Professor," he asked, leaning above the other, "I hear you're going up the Elk."

"I am."

"Taking a guide?"

"No."

"Darned lonely up there."

"That's all right. All I need is a map, a compass and—"

"That great, grinding brain of yours, eh?" Mr. Harrington curled his lips in a lopsided smile. "Mebbe you're right. But tell me, d'you know anything about cooking?"

"I have a certain rudimentary knowledge, enough for my own modest needs."

"Well, take my tip and go down to the Alaska Grill and ask the chef to give you a few private lessons. Take my tip, little man!"

And Mr. Harrington departed with a crude, untrimmed guffaw which the other, his knowledge of psychology forsaking him for once, blamed on the rich potency of the club's famous special reserve bourbon.

iii

TEN days later, Professor Giddens was well on his way up the Elk.

It was evening, and far on the edge of the ragged horizon a flush of gold and scarlet was fading into twilight, while above Goat Peak the oncoming night was beginning to spread stealthy fingers of purple and black that trickled down to the valley where the Elk lay like a glittering, yellow ribbon across the sooty smudge of the underbrush.

There was no sound except the occasional call of a wild bird. that came out of the nowhere with a whirring of brown wings then vanished into an eddy of cloud, and the dim stir of brittle, fox-red leaves, blown about on the lap of some vagabond wind, chill with the snow of the upper range; and Professor Herschel W. Giddens slung his blanket roll and his knapsack with its compact, scientifically condensed food supply from his back.

He sat down with a sigh of tired satisfaction.

His feet were sore, his shoulders stiff and galled through the rubbing of the knapsack straps, his eyes smarted with the wind that had blown all day; but he was happy and contented.

For he liked the great, gray loneliness of the hills. It swept his mind with the sucking strength of a vacuum cleaner, dusting each last, tiny, cobwebby corner and ironing out the wrinkles in his brain against the coming Harvard semester, when once more he would take up written and spoken cudgels against Professor Elmer T. Blakeslee, his colleague, his best friend, and his chief opponent in matters psychological, and bear down upon him with all his invincible logic in which the truths stood one behind the other, neatly marshaled and irreproachably labeled.

"Linger— longer— Lucy—"

He whistled a long-forgotten song of his student days, those far-away days when, the which was hard to believe, he had been less interested in philosophic psychology than in that distinctly psychological game, called draw poker.

"Linger— longer— Loo—"

But it sounded just a little out of place, here, in the immense, majestic, breath-clogging silence of the mountains, and so he broke off the slangy melody, stretched out his pipestem legs, and lit a mild cigar.

Presently he would prepare his simple supper; a couple of bouillon cubes dissolved in water, with which he had filled his canteen down at the river earlier in the day, heated over his collapsible sterno outfit, a few dry biscuits, and a bar of chocolate, studded nourishingly and engagingly with the humhle peanut.

Then he would roll himself in his blankets and doze off, with the twinkling, yellow stars above him, and the clean scent of the pines in his nostrils. And an early start to-morrow morning— back to Nelson, thence to Boston, to his Alma Mater and the chair of applied psychology—

"Hullo, little man!" a sudden voice boomed out of the trooping, blotched shadows in back of him where a narrow trail, sole memento of some dead and forgotten prospector, twisted up through the gnarled pines and toward a sweep of ragged, fantastic basalt peaks.

Professor Giddens turned, startled, just a little nervous to hear a human voice here in the clogging silence of the hills, and he felt distinctly relieved when he saw that the speaker was Mr. Jerome Harrington, accompanied by his brother- in-law, Charlie Baxter, and Clyde Humphreys.

They were dressed in serviceable Mackinaws and elk-skin boots, rifles in their hands, packs acspss their shoulders, like men out for a long, rough hike; and the professor was really glad to see them after his first start of surprise had passed. For, when all was said and done and in spite of his occasional squabbles with them and other members of the Seattle Civic Club when the talk had turned on the everlasting comparison between the mutuals merits and demerits of homo sapiens Atlanticus and homo sapiens Pacificus, he had become fond of the West, and he said so now, adding with hospitable intent:

"I am about to prepare my modest evening repast," opening his knapsack and bringing out biscuits and chocolate bars and bouillon cubes. "If you gentle- men would care to join me "

"We'll join you all right, all right," cut in Mr. Harrington in a basso voice whose timbre was slightly tainted by a plug of Macdonald's chewing tobacco. "Ain't that so, fellows?" to his two companions, who inclined their heads. Then, again to the Bostonian:

"By the way, little man, did you take my tip?"

"Your tip?"

"Sure. About getting a few lessons in swell cooking before you hit the trail!"

He grinned like the cat that has stolen the cream, his friends joined noisily in his merriment, and the professor, too, smiled, though rather in a puzzled way, since he had no idea what the joke was about.

But, looking up, he read something in the other's chilly, pale-blue eyes which made him feel uncomfortable, which even made him feel afraid.

And instantaneously— for he was just that type of man— his pugnacity rose and bristled.

"Why should I?" he demanded, sticking out his wrinkled old chin like a miniature prize fighter.

"Oh, gee! Why should you?" mimicked Mr. Harrington, and he burst into Gargantuan cachinnations.

iv

THE professor reflected for a moment; then, from his meager store of slang which he owed to undergraduate repartee overheard in campus or hall, he chose what he considered the most appropriate rejoinder:

"What's the joke, you big, fat slob? Go on. Come through."

Mr. Harrington turned an angry red. "As fresh as ever, ain't you, you dried-up little pimple on the face of humanity?" he asked thickly. "But," musing, then returning to his first proposition. "I wish you had taken my tip and had asked that Frenchy chef back in Seattle to give you a few lessons in high-class hash slinging. For you're going to need it, see?"

"Why?"

"'Cause you're going to cook for us!"

"For— whom?"

"For us— meaning me myself and them two able-bodied citizens with me. And may the Lord have mercy on your soul if you burn the flapjacks or don't fry the bacon crisp enough!"

A steely gleam came into the professor's myopic eyes.

"I believe this jest has gone far enough," he said, "and—"

"Aw— shut your trap! This ain't a jest. It's the sober, sad truth. For to-day it's me who's going to do the talking!"

He laughed again, then demanded, apropos of nothing in particular:

"Say, little man, how you feeling about brain and brawn? How you feeling about East and West? How you feeling about psycho something?"

The professor raised his bushy eyebrows.

"I have had no occasion so far to alter my opinion in the slightest degree," he replied.

"You haven't, have you? Well, you will in about two shakes of a lamb's tail. You see, little man, our first lesson in brain and brawn, East and West, and psy-cho-hickamadoodle is for you to get busy right smart and fix us up a whole lot of supper. Hey there, Clyde! Open that pack of yours and take out the raw materials. And now," taking the professor by the neck and shaking him as a terrier shakes a rat, "attend to me!"

The professor twisted and strained and struggled— which did not help him at all.

"This is outrageous!" he cried in his piping, high-pitched voice. "I demand an explanation!"

"Don't understand yet?" guffawed Mr. Harrington. "All right!"

And, quoting the professor's words of ten days earlier with more or less fidelity, he said, "I shall put it more simply. You're going to find out in your own shriveled-up person if it's us guys with the forty-eight chest measure that are needed by civilization to— what did you allow civilization needs us for?"

"To mulch the ground of progress!" cried the professor obstinately, still struggling in the other's iron grip.

"Sure. That was the word. And didn't you say a few kind words about us being dung?"

"I did— and I repeat it!"

"Good enough. And didn't you let drop something about the gink who's an expert at psy-cho-maggugin "

"Yes. And I uphold what I said! Most decidedly so!"

"Sure you do. Well, we'll settle that little argument right now. You see, you're going to be our maid of all work— mine and Charlie's and Clyde's— and I tell you Clyde's mighty fussy. You're going to fry and boil, make coffee and wash up, clean our pipes and lace our boots, and generally try and make yourself more useful than you're ornamental. You're going to find out how much you can do with your brain alone when you're up against nature in the raw."

"Meaning yourself by— nature in the raw?" demanded the professor.

"You got me. And don't you harbor any foolish or rash thoughts, my lad, for we're going to watch you all right, all right. Why, you miserable, wrinkled-up ball of second-hand sausage meat, if that brain of yours is half as great as you say it is— and personally I think you're a liar— you ought to be able to give us the slip in no time!"

"To be sure," said the professor, in quite a matter-of-fact voice. "I can, and I shall!"

"You won't!" roared the other. "We aren't going to take any chances. At night, when we turn in, we're going to hog tie you. And during the day, well"— he chuckled disagreeably and patted his rifle— "we got our little persuaders all cocked and primed. We aren't going to kill you, and I hope it won't be necessary to cripple you for life. But if ever you attempt to skip we're going to pump you so full o' holes that people behind you'll complain of the draft. I give you fair warning, and I just go you a little bet— let's say"— with a grandiose gesture— "twenty thousand dollars!"

"What is the bet?" inquired the professor gently.

"That with all your brain and all that there darned psy-cho-rot of yours, you aren't going to get away from us until you go down on your bended knees and confess the error of your ways— that you aren't going to get away from us until we give the word!" and he released the professor.

The latter smiled. "I'll take that bet," he said simply, and Mr. Harrington and his two friends looked at him and at each other open-mouthed, doubting that they had heard aright.

"And what's more," said Charlie Baxter later on to Clyde Humphreys, while the professor, under the meticulous and blasphemous supervision of Mr. Harrington, was learning how to make coffee which, to quote the latter gentleman, had some guts to it and didn't taste like hog wash, "what's more, I don't think the little runt is bluffing. He means to win that bet. I see it in his eye!"

DURING the next few days Professor Herschel W. Giddens worked as, physically, he had never worked before.

Between spreading and airing the blankets, gathering firewood, drawing fish and feathered game, washing, cleaning up, oiling boots, and cooking for three husky men whose appetites were in keeping with their bodily dimensions, he had hardly enough time to call his soul his own.

He made no attempt to run away. And it would have been useless.

For Mr. Harrington had been in grim earnest. All day the professor was watched by one, or two, or the whole three, while at night he was neatly trussed up.

Mr. Harrington bullied and abused and dragooned him; but the professor, through it all, kept his philosophic equanimity and his faintly ironic ease of manner.

He neither complained nor begged. He rarely spoke. He just attended to his manifold duties— and thought.

Too, he smiled, a maddening, slightly supercilious, entirely self-centered and self-satisfied smile— even when Mr. Harrington baited him on the subject of their old misunderstanding, or when, with a great deal of picturesque profanity, he voiced the hope that the other wouldn't welsh when it came to settling the bet.

v

THUS two days passed, three, and still the professor slaved until his hands were blistered and scratched and cut, his back strained, and all the muscles in his body sore and stiff.

Of course, his three jailers missed the delights of their club and, to make up for it a little, they played draw poker every afternoon, putting the professor between them so that they could watch him during the play; and Giddens rather enjoyed it.

For, as mentioned above, he had been an expert at the great American game during his student years and, even now, every once in a while, he sat down to a modest little penny ante with some of his colleagues and their wives.

It was on the fifth day of his captivity that, looking at Mr. Harrington's hand and seeing him exercise very poor judgment in drawing to his cards, he broke into curt, withering, saturnine laughter.

Mr. Harrington dropped the cards and glared at him.

"Say," he demanded, "with all your other wonderful achievements, d'you per- haps imagine that you can give me a lesson in poker, too?"

"I shouldn't wonder at all," 'came the mild reply.

"Some more psy-cho-bunk, I guess?"

"Exactly. Poker is not a logical game. It is a psychological game. That's why I am so good at it," he wound up, yawning a little.

Mr. Harrington swallowed. "Look-a-here, you little runt," he demanded thickly, "got any money with you?"

"Yes."

"All right. Buy some chips. Charlie is banker. I'm going to trim you and trim you good, you darned little sucker!"

And so the three-handed game changed into a foursome.

All afternoon they shuffled and dealt and drew, and the professor won steadily from the very first.

It would be doing him an injustice to say that it was luck. It was simply that he could play the game. Perhaps he was right; perhaps poker is a psychological game; or, on the other hand, there may exist a distinct genius for poker, not registered by Lombroso, as there exists genius for music and writing.

At all events, Professor Herschel was one of those exceptional men who can split a pair of aces' and draw to a flush, and never change a muscle. His wrinkled old face, when he picked up his cards, showed less emotion than a Chinese cemetery on a rainy day in late autumn; and his voice, when he asked for cards, was as void of human emotion as an ossified bagpipe played by a Presbyterian Highland Scot in a dry county. His strategy was worthy of General Foch. It was never twice alike; and when, once in a while, the others abandoned a pot to him without calling his hand and, afterChristian martyrs inquired what he had, he could lie like a stockbroker with a Levantine mother.

He centered his attacks on Mr. Harrington's steadily diminishing pile, and added insult to injury by insisting on being paid in cash for the three or four piles of chips he sold to him.

"Don't trust me, eh?" demanded Mr. Harrington, grieved, just as, having lost another pot to the professor, the latter mentioned gently that there were five dollars more coming to him.

"Don't trust me?" he repeated, opening his sadly depleted wallet; and then, quite suddenly, he rose, spluttered, and roared like an angry bull. His curses came thick and fast.

Clyde Humphreys pulled him by the sleeve. "Sit down, Jerome, and behave," he said. "Don't be a bad loser!"

"Bad loser— hell! I don't mind losing money in a straight game, but—" and he stammered forth that, two seconds earlier, he had discarded the queen of spades, and that:

"Look! The runt won that last on a full house— three queens and a pair of dooces! And— look! Darn it all— look!" He pointed at the professor's cards which lay face up: "The queen of hearts, the queen of diamonds, and the queen of spades! And he himself dealt the cards! You— you miserable, ornery little cheat! You— you—"

He choked, became incoherent. He took the professor by the neck, shook him, then sent him sprawling into the thick undergrowth that surrounded the camp. "Get out and keep away!" he shouted. "We don't want anything to do with people who cheat at cards!"

He picked up his rifle.

The professor ran down the trail toward the Elk River as fast as his thin legs would let him.

Six days afterward, a telegram dated from Boston was delivered into the hands of Mr. Harrington at the Seattle Civic Club. It read as follows:

Kindly deposit bet wagered to my account Boston National Bank. Take off amount of last pot.  Giddens.

And be it said, in justice to Mr. Harrington, that he laughed and paid— and telephoned to the nearest bookstore for whatever tomes on applied psychology by Professor Herschel W. Giddens they kept in stock.

_________________

4: The Ruby of Khitmandu

Hugh Kingsmill

1889-1949

The Bookman, April 1932

Two parodies for the price of one: Raffles and Bunny Manders versus Holmes and Watson.... And this is the whole story below, including the "synopsis", by the way. Kingsmill wrote it that way as part of the gag.

(SYNOPSIS — The Maharajah of Khitmandu, who is staying at Claridge's, is robbed of the famous Ruby of Khitmandu. Sherlock Holmes traces the theft to Raffles, who agrees to hand over the ruby to Holmes, on condition that he and his confederate Bunny are not proceeded against. Raffles has just explained the situation to Bunny. They are in the rooms of Raffles in the Albany.)

Chapter XV

(Bunny's 'Narrative')

MY HEART froze at the incredible words which told me that Raffles, of all men, was throwing up the sponge without a struggle, was tamely handing over the most splendid of all the splendid trophies of his skill and daring to this imitation detective, after outwitting all the finest brains of the finest crime-investigating organization in the world. Suddenly the ice turned to fire, and I was on my feet, speaking as I had never spoken to living man before. What I said I cannot remember. If I could, I would not record it. I believe I wept. I know I went down on my knees. And Raffles sat there with never a word!

I see him still, leaning back in a luxurious armchair, watching me with steady eyes sheathed by drooping lids. There was a faint smile on the handsome dare-devil face, and the hands were raised as if in deprecation; nor can I give my readers a more complete idea of the frenzy which had me in its grip than by recording the plain fact that I was utterly oblivious to the strangeness of the spectacle before me. Raffles apologetic, Raffles condescending to conciliate me— at any other time such a reversal of our natural roles had filled me with unworthy exultation for myself, and bitter shame for him. But I was past caring now.

And then, still holding his palms towards me, he crossed them. I have said that during the telling of his monstrous decision he had the ruby between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Now the left hand was where the right had been, and the ruby was in it. I suppose I should have guessed at once, I suppose I should have read in his smile what it needed my own eyes to tell me, that there was a ruby in his right hand too! So that was the meaning of the upraised hands! I swear that my first sensation was a pang of pure relief that Raffles had not stooped to conciliate me, my second a hot shame that I had been idiot enough even for one moment to believe him capable of doing so. Then the full significance of the two rubies flashed across me.

"An imitation?" I gasped, falling back into my chair.

"An exact replica."

"For Holmes?"

He nodded.

"But supposing he—"

"That's a risk I have to take."

"Then I go with you."

A savage gleam lit up the steel-blue eyes.

"I don't want you."

"Holmes may spot it. I must share the risk."

"You fool, you'd double it!"

"Raffles!" The cry of pain was wrung from me before I could check it, but if there was weakness in my self-betrayal, I could not regret it when I saw the softening in his wonderful eyes.

"I didn't mean it, Bunny," he said.

"Then you'll take me!" I cried, and held my breath through an endless half-minute, until a consenting nod brought me to my feet again. The hand that shot out to grasp his was met half-way, and a twinkling eye belied the doleful resignation in his "What an obstinate rabbit it is!"

Our appointment with Holmes was for the following evening at nine. The clocks of London were striking the half-hour after eight when I entered the Albany. My dear villain, in evening dress, worn as only he could wear it, was standing by the table; but there was that in his attitude which struck the greeting dumb upon my lips. My eyes followed the direction of his, and I saw the two rubies side by side in their open cases.

"What is it, Raffles?" I cried. "Has anything happened?"

"It's no good, Bunny," he said, looking up. "I can't risk it. With anyone else I'd chance it, and be damned to the consequences, too. But Holmes— no, Bunny! I was a fool ever to play with the idea."

I could not speak. The bitterness of my disappointment, the depth of my disillusion, took me by the throat and choked me. That Raffles should be knocked out I could have borne, that he should let the fight go by default— there was the shame to which I could fit no words.

"He'd spot it, Bunny. He'd spot it." Raffles picked up one of the cases. "See this nick?" he asked lightly, for all the world as if blazing eyes and a scarlet face were an invitation to confidences. "I've marked this case because it holds the one and only Ruby of Khitmandu, and on my life I don't believe I could tell which ruby was which, if I once got the cases mixed."

"And yet," I croaked from a dry throat, "you think Holmes can do what you can't!"

"My dear rabbit, precious stones are one of his hobbies. The fellow's written a monograph on them, as I discovered only to-day. I'm not saying he'd spot my imitation, but I am most certainly not going to give him the chance," and he turned on his heel and strode into his bedroom for his overcoat.

The patient readers of these unworthy chronicles do not need to be reminded that I am not normally distinguished for rapidity of either thought or action. But for once brain and hand worked as surely and swiftly as though they had been Raffles's own, and the rubies had changed places a full half-minute'before Raffles returned to find me on my feet, my hat clapped to my head, and a look in my eyes which opened his own in enquiry.

"I'm coming with you,"

I cried. Raffles stopped dead, with an ugly glare.

"Haven't you grasped, my good fool, that I'm handing Holmes the real stone?"

"He may play you false."

"I refuse to take you."

"Then I follow you."

Raffles picked up the marked case, snapped it to, and slipped into his overcoat pocket. I was outwitting him for his own good, yet a pang shot through me at the sight, with another to follow when the safe closed on the real ruby in the dummy's case. And the eyes that strove to meet his fell most shamefully as he asked if I still proposed to thrust my company upon him. Through teeth which I could hardly keep from chattering I muttered that it was a trap, that Holmes would take the stone and then call in the police, that I must share the danger as I would have shared the profits. A contemptuous shrug of the splendid shoulders, and a quick spin on his heel, were all the answer he vouchsafed me, and not a word broke the silence between us as we strode northwards through the night.

There was no tremor in the lean strong hand which raised the knocker on a door in Baker Street. He might have been going to a triumph instead of to the bitterest of humiliations. And it might be a triumph, after all! And he would owe it to me! But there was little enough of exultation in the heart which pounded savagely as I followed him upstairs, my fingers gripped tightly round the life-preserver in my pocket.

"Two gentlemen to see you, sir," wheezed the woman who had admitted us.

"And one of them," drawled an insufferably affected voice, as we walked in, "is very considerately advertising the presence of a medium-sized life-preserver in his right overcoat pocket. My dear Watson, if you must wave a loaded revolver about, might I suggest that you do so in the passage? Thank you. It is certainly safer in your pocket. Well, Mr. Raffles, have you brought it?"

Without a word, Raffles took the case out, and handed it across to Holmes. As Holmes opened it, the fellow whom he had addressed as Watson leaned forward, breadiing noisily. Criminals though we were, I could not repress a thrill of pride as I contrasted the keen bronze face of my companion with the yellow cadaverous countenance of Holmes, and reflected that my own alas indisputably undistinguished appearance could challenge a more than merely favourable comparison with the mottled complexion, bleared eyes, and ragged moustache of the detective's jackal.

"A beautiful stone, eh, Watson?" Holmes remarked, in the same maddening drawl, as he held the ruby to the light. "Well, Mr. Raffles, you have saved me a good deal of unnecessary trouble. The promptitude with which you have bowed to the inevitable does credit to your quite exceptional intelligence. I presume that you will have no objection to my submitting this stone to a brief examination?"

"I should not consider that you were fulfilling your duty to your client if you neglected such an elementary precaution."

It was perfectly said, but then was it not Raffles who said it? And said it from the middle of the shabby bear-skin rug, his legs apart and his back to the fire. Now, as always, the center of die stage was his at will, and I could have laughed at die discomfited snarl with which Holmes rose, and picking his way through an abominable litter of papers disappeared into the adjoining room. Three minutes, which seemed to me like twice as many hours, had passed by the clock on the mantelpiece, when the door opened again. Teeth set, and nerves strung ready, I was yet, even in this supreme moment, conscious of a tension in Raffles which puzzled me, for what had he, who believed the stone to be the original ruby, to fear? The menacing face of the detective brought my life-preserver half out of my pocket, and the revolver of the man Watson wholly out of his. Then, to my unutterable relief, Holmes said, "I need not detain you any longer, Mr. Raffles. But one word in parting. Let this be your last visit to these rooms."

There was a threat in the slow-dropping syllables which I did not understand, and would have resented, had I had room in my heart for any other emotion than an overwhelming exultation. Through a mist I saw Raffles incline his head with a faintly contemptuous smile. And I remember nothing more, till we were in the open street, and the last sound I expected startled me back into my senses. For Raffles was chuckling.

"I'm disappointed in the man, Bunny," he murmured with a laugh. "I was convinced he would spot it. But I was ready for him."

"Spot it?" I gasped, fighting an impossible suspicion.

"Yes, spot the dummy which my innocent rabbit was so insultingly sure was the one and only Ruby of Khitmandu."

"What!" My voice rose to a shriek. "Do you mean it was the dummy which was in the marked case?"

He spun round with a savage "Of course!"

"But you said it was the real one."

"And again, of course!"

Suddenly I saw it all. It was the old, old wretched story. He would trust no one but himself. He alone could bluff Holmes with a dummy stone. So he had tried to shake me off with the lie about restoring the real stone. And my unwitting hand had turned the he to truth! As I reeled, he caught my arm.

"You fool! You infernal, you unutterable fool!" He swung me round to face his blazing eyes. "What have you done?"

"I swapped them over. And be damned to you!"

"You swapped them over?" The words came slowly through clenched teeth.

"When you were in your bedroom. So it was the one and only ruby you gave him after all," and the hand that was raised to strike me closed on my mouth as I struggled to release the wild laughter which was choking in my throat.

Chapter XVI

(Dr. Watson's Narrative)

I MUST confess that as the door closed on Raffles and his pitiful confederate I felt myself completely at a loss to account for the unexpected turn which events had taken. There was no mistaking the meaning of the stern expression on the face of Holmes when he rejoined us after examining the stone. I saw at once that his surmise had proved correct, and that Raffles had substituted an imitation ruby for the original. The almost laughable agitation with which the lesser villain pulled out his life-preserver at my friend's entrance confirmed me in this supposition. It was clear to me that he was as bewildered as myself when Holmes dismissed Raffles instead of denouncing him. Indeed, his gasp of relief as he preceded Raffles out of the room was so marked as to bring me to my feet with an ill-defined impulse to rectify the extraordinary error into which, as it seemed to me, Holmes had been betrayed.

"Sit down!" Holmes snapped, with more than his usual asperity.

"But Holmes!" I cried. "Is it possible you do not realize—"

"I realize that, as usual, you realize nothing. Take this stone. Guard it as you would guard the apple of your eye. And bring it to me here at eight to-morrow morning."

"But Holmes, I don't understand—"

"I have no time to discuss the limitations of your intelligence."

I have always been willing to make allowances for my friend's natural impatience with a less active intelligence than his own. Nevertheless, I could not repress a feeling of mortification as he thrust the case into my hand, and propelled me into the passage. But the night air, and the brisk pace at which I set out down Baker Street, soon served to restore my equanimity. A long experience of my friend's extraordinary powers had taught me that he often saw clearly when all was darkness to myself. I reflected that he had no doubt some excellent reason for letting the villains go. No man could strike more swiftly and with more deadly effect than Holmes, but equally no man knew better how to bide his time, or could wait more patiently to enmesh his catch beyond the possibility of escape.

While these thoughts were passing through my mind, I had been vaguely conscious of two men walking ahead of me, at a distance of about a hundred yards. Suddenly one of them reeled, and would have fallen had not his companion caught his arm. My first impression was that I was witnessing the spectacle, alas only too common a one in all great cities, of two drunken men assisting each other homewards. But as I observed the couple in pity mingled with repulsion, the one who had caught the other's arm raised his hand as if to deliver a blow. I felt for my revolver, and was about to utter a warning shout, when I perceived that they were the very men who had just been occupying my thoughts. The need for caution instantly asserted itself.

Halting, I drew out my pipe, filled it, and applied a match. This simple stratagem enabled me to collect my thoughts. It was plain that these rascals had quarrelled. I recalled the familiar adage that when thieves fall out honest men come by their own, and I summoned all my powers to imagine what Holmes would do in my place.

To follow the rogues at a safe distance, and act as the development of the situation required, seemed to me the course of action which he would pursue. But I could not conceal from myself that his view of what the situation might require would probably differ materially from my own. For an instant I was tempted to hasten back to him with the news of this fresh development. But a moment's reflection convinced me that to do so would be to risk the almost certain loss of my quarry.

I had another, and I fear a less excusable, motive for not returning. The brusquerie of my dismissal still rankled a little. It would be gratifying if I could, this once, show my imperious friend that I was capable of making an independent contribution to the unravelling of a problem. I therefore quickened my steps, and soon diminished the distance between myself and my quarry to about fifty yards. It was obvious that the dispute was still in progress. Raffles himself maintained a sullen silence, but the excitable voice and gestures of his accomplice testified that the quarrel, whatever its nature, was raging with unabated vehemence.

They had entered Piccadilly, and I was still at their heels, when they turned abruptly into Albany Courtyard. By a fortunate coincidence I had for some weeks been visiting the Albany in my professional capacity, having been called in by my old friend General Macdonagh, who was now at death's door. I was therefore known to the commissionaire, who touched his hat as I hastened past him. With the realization that this was where Raffles lived, the course of action I should adopt became clear to me. He had the latchkey in his door, as I came up.

"By Heavens!" his companion cried. "It's Watson!"

"Dr. Watson, if you please, Bunny."

The scoundrel turned to me with a leer. "This is indeed a charming surprise, Doctor."

Ignoring the covert insolence of the man, I demanded sternly if he would accord me a brief audience in his rooms.

"But of course, my dear Doctor. Any friend of Mr. Holmes is our friend, too. You will excuse me if I lead the way."

My hand went to my revolver, and as the door of his rooms closed behind us, I whipped it out, at the same time producing the case which contained the imitation ruby.

"Here is your imitation stone," I cried, tossing the case on to the table. "Hand over the real one, or I shall shoot you like a dog."

Accomplished villain though he was, he could not repress a start of dismay, while his miserable confederate collapsed on a sofa with a cry of horror.

"This is very abrupt, Doctor," Raffles said, picking the case up and opening it. "May I ask if you are acting on the instructions of Mr. Holmes? It is, after all, with Mr. Holmes that I am dealing."

"You are dealing with me now. That is the only fact you need to grasp."

"But Mr. Holmes was entirely satisfied with the stone I handed him.

"I am not here to argue. Will you comply with my request?"

"It is disgraceful of Holmes to send you to tackle the pair of us single-handed."

"Mr. Holmes, you blackguard! And he knows nothing of what I am doing."

"Really ? Then I can only say he does not deserve such a lieutenant. Well, Bunny, our triumph was, I fear, a little premature."

A minute later, I was in the passage, the case containing the genuine stone in my breast pocket. Through the closed door there rang what I took to be the bitter, baffled laugh of an outwitted scoundrel. In general, I am of a somewhat sedate temper, but it was, I confess, in a mood which almost bordered on exultation that I drove back to Baker Street, and burst in on Holmes.

"I've got it! I've got it!" I cried, waving the case.

"Delirium tremens?" Holmes enquired coldly, from his arm-chair. I noticed that he was holding a revolver.

"The original ruby, Holmes!"

With a bound as of a panther Holmes leaped from his chair and snatched the case from my hand. "You idiot!" he snarled. "What have you done?"

Vexed and bewildered, I told my story, while Holmes stared at me with heaving chest and flaming eyes. My readers will have guessed the truth, which Holmes flung at me in a few disconnected sentences, interspersed with personal observations of an extremely disparaging nature.

It was indeed the original ruby which Raffles had brought with him, and which Holmes, suspecting that Raffles would attempt to retrieve it while he slept, had entrusted to my keeping. The warning which Holmes had given Raffles not to visit him again was now explained, as was also the vigil with a loaded revolver on which my friend had embarked when I burst in on him.

THE ARREST a fortnight later of Raffles and the man Bunny, and the restoration of the famous ruby to its lawful owner, will be familiar to all readers of the daily papers.

During this period the extremely critical condition of General Macdonagh engaged my whole attention. His decease was almost immediately followed by the unexpected deaths of two other patients, and in the general pressure of these sad events I was unable to visit Holmes in order to learn from his own lips the inner story of the final stages in this remarkable case.

__________________

5: She Loved to Murder

Laurence Donovan

(as by "Larry Dunn")

1885-1948

Private Detective Stories Sept 1942

BRADFORD held the rim of the thin wine glass tight against the wall. Its long-stemmed base was pressed to his ear. That way it was as efficient as a stethoscope applied to a man's breast.

Only Bradford wasn't listening to the kind of heart murmur that would interest a doctor. He could hear distinctly the low voices of the girl and the man in the adjoining room. The conversation had to do with non-physical "heart murmurs."

Bill Bradford was a lot of hard muscle and bone to be listed professionally as a "love detective." That was his own rating, however, and it paid off. Former pals, still in the newspaper police reporting game, referred to it as snooping.

"How's the Snoop today?" was a common salutation that should have burned Bradford, for he was anything but a divorce dick. Brad could afford to grin and take it. He felt he was doing a lot of good in the world. Cautious Pops and Moms came to him. He checked up for them on dubious suitors for their wandering daughters. Moms of glamor girls (they hoped) were his steadiest and best paying clients.

Back to the wine glass heart-detector. Bradford pulled it away quickly. His scowl cut a furrow between his gray eyes. June Lake, the golden pretty in the adjoining room, seemed to be establishing definitely that she was all-out all ways for Clyde Winton.

The murmurs he had heard appeared to prove that all was very cozy between the little gal and the prematurely (perhaps) bald-headed Big Shot from down the coast. This being so, it was an easy grand, plus expenses, for Brad.

"Now, darling, or any time— you don't have to wait— you make it seem as if I didn't trust you, even bringing it up—"

That had been little June's murmur, cooing through the wine glass detector. (Try it some time.)

"I will then— you'll never know how damn' much it means—we will be married, honey— just a little time first to get the family out of the notion of having a daughter who doesn't rate the Blue Book."

Clyde Winton's low-pitched, emotional voice said that. Brad had always disliked men with emotional voices. He discovered now that he had been disliking Winton more and more during the past two weeks.

Sure, Winton was his client. There had to be a check-up to satisfy the snobbish Wintons that little June Lake hadn't somehow been spawned through the mating of some convict with a careless lady of the streets. The worst Bradford had found was that June's immediate ancestors had soaked their shirts with sweat by working for their living, which was almost as bad, but could be forgiven or at least partly forgotten. Especially since June Lake rated half a million.

Anyway, June Lake had come here to the small, obscure hotel to meet Clyde Winton for a final understanding. Winton had put it that way. Bradford had arranged it.

AND now big Bill Bradford was suddenly as sick as all hell about it. He had taken an adjoining room to convince himself this was the real McCoy on June's part for Clyde Winton, Neither June nor Winton knew that Bradford had engaged this "listening" room for himself.

For somewhere along the line, since he had taken this case, Bradford had been learning something about himself. He had found out that one love detective, commonly known as the Snoop, had halfway set himself to doublecross a legitimate client. Only June Lake's dough blocked him. He didn't want any part of it.

Exactly a week ago, having been frequently with June Lake simply as a man she had met at the beach, Bradford had discovered he was all the way up to his over-sized ears in love with the little girl.

And but two days before this time and minute, along had come golden opportunity and deadly temptation to put the kibosh on the planned June Lake and Clyde Winton alliance. Learning of his connection with Winton, another pretty, of a sleeker and much more experienced type than little June, had sought him out.

Putting it straight, she had propositioned him on a little side play involving Winton, the Big Shot.

Maryland (Merry) Arnold had come right out with an unblushing true confession. It seemed, as she had told it, the cautious Clyde of the so circumspect and stuffed shirt Wintons, was looking forward, hopefully, to a future double life. June for her dough. Merry for the polly old hell of it.

"June Lake's the kind of a doll he can put on the family sideboard," was Merry Arnold's story to Bradford. "But he hasn't any idea of tossing away such an old and close friend as myself. Now I'm not one to toy with the idea of slitting little June's lovely, white throat, and I want her to be happy."

That was the way Merry Arnold had put it up to Bradford. And he had figured how nice it would be to have all of this spilled to June Lake. All to the good, the way his own emotions were running away with any conscientious scruples he might have had.

But the way had been made smoother for him than that. Practical Merry Arnold, it seemed, always looked out for herself.

"It's been a nice show with Winton while it lasted," she had said. "But with his darling June for home and family consumption, dear Clyde hasn't the slightest intention of brushing off his good and faithful Merry. Nor does he mean to be brushed off, wedding bells or whatever. And there's another little man with a little million or more who wants to put a ring on little Merry's finger, having no idea of her little affair with Winton."

Then Bill Bradford had more than bent the old ear. For in order to free herself, Merry Arnold had, wisely or unwisely, decided that she must make it clear to Clyde Winton that he was not unique in being a man, or in her life. Bradford could act as "the other man."

"Five nice, new centuries for putting on the act, Bradford," had been Merry's out-and-out proposal. "It's not outside your line as a love detective, and it adds to the old income. Little June gets her Clyde, mad as hell after he discovers, as he'll think, that I'm two-timing him, but free and clear of all encumbrances so far as I'm concerned."

To be sure, considered Bradford, the clever Merry might have passed up the proposition and her little story, if she could have known the off trick his own heart had played him with June Lake.

But what the hell? Five centuries added to half a grand. And it might so happen he could pull a wholly unexpected rabbit out of this double- crossing bag of tricks. Then again, his conscience had got him cold.

If June Lake really was all-out that way for Winton, it was his duty to see that Merry Arnold cleared out of Winton's life. This at least would give the little girl that much of a break when a Winton wedding ring insured her future.

Well, big Bill Bradford had been juggling the thought of what best to do. And it had come right down to convincing himself that June Lake was one hundred per cent for the bald-headed scion of sin who happened to be his client.

HE HAD that assurance now. He wished to hell he hadn't pulled the old wine glass trick of listening in on the adjoining room. He judged it would be smart to fade out now; then, meet Clyde Winton later for the final settlement of his fee and expenses.

His long fingers crushed the detecting wine glass. He failed to feel the pain when the glass cut his hand. His imagination was too vivid concerning the finale of the little scene of meeting for last arrangements, he had planned at Winton's request.

He was burning over Winton's saying it would take a little time to accustom his family to the idea of his marrying June Lake.

"I'm nuts!" he muttered savagely. "June's fixed up nicely. I'll collect the Winton fee, four centuries for expenses, and give Merry Arnold a break for the half a grand she wants to toss away. It'll be worth playing it that way all free for nothing, just to see Clyde Winton when he imagines I have been having fun with the other half of the double love life he has framed for himself."

Bradford was ready to leave, to get out from under. He had withstood the tough temptation to put a few wrong-tailed monkeys in the June Lake family tree at the last minute. He had certified the Lakes as American Class A-1, which was more than he could have done for many of the split syllable names in the current Blue Book.

"I'll still have a clean record; I'll get rid of Winton's friend Merry for June; and June will never know the kind of an ape she's getting along with a family," he murmured.

Little June's evidently unlimited ardor for Winton made his decision grim. He permitted the shattered bits of wine glass to slip through his relaxing fingers.

"Anyway, I  haven't double-crossed my client," he said softly.

"I'm really about to do June a favor before I wipe the whole Lake-Winton case off the books. Only I'm not sure it won't be pulling the double-X on June herself."

"WHEN the one and only love sleuth's alone, what does he talk about?" murmured a husky, mocking voice behind him. ''And why bust up a good wine glass just to show how strong you are?"

"Nice gals always knock when they walk into rooms," said Bradford, facing Merry Arnold.

"Good detectives, even for love, are smart enough to lock their doors,' and Merry yawned just' enough to reveal a sweet, white V that wasn't exactly for victory, under her rounded chin. "If you haven't made up your mind, I've come along to decide for you, Bradford. I've been keeping the eyes open, and the ears in tune, and my darling Winton has a golf reservation for the Pinelpa Hotel tonight. I've also learned that dear, little June is going from here to visit with an Uncle Bob and Aunt Della up in the country as soon as they— as soon as she leaves here. June and I have become good friends without her knowing too much."

Bradford was bitter. He took in Merry's shapely person, and he decided that Winton hadn't been doing so badly before he had met June Lake. Not that he cared for her kind of green eyes, or the burnished saffron yellow hair the blonde Merry had fluffed about her ears.

"You're taking it for granted I'll play along, huh?" he said.

"And what's wrong about that, Snoop?" she mocked, applying the name he hated. "You're honest." She slid into a chair and extended one, curving leg until the nicely rounded knee appeared. "Don't you owe it to June Lake to help me get Winton out of my life? You've checked on her for a price, but—"

"Shut up!" said Bradford grimly. "What I'm doing will be for five centuries, baby. I judge you have some thought of the Pinelpa Hotel as a trysting place, sweetheart? It happens to rate too much on the up and up to be pulling that kind of double time. Any other ideas?"

Movement could be heard in the adjoining room.

"It's still the Pinelpa, Bradford," breathed Merry. "Don't you get it? Darling Winton will be tipped off. He will be put in the way of hearing and seeing plenty, but he won't dare let out a squawk. Not at the Pinelpa. Not a Winton."

Bradford could see that angle. But he had a thought for Merry herself.

"Did you think he might backfire?" said Bradford. "You sure he would drop you cold, instead of maybe leaving you cold and very dead, Merry?"

Her green eyes glittered. The heaving of her bosom was something worth watching, even if Brad didn't go for her type.

"Clyde Winton's pride is bigger than his heart or his soul," she said. "All he needs is to find out that he isn't all the aces there are. He would go through hell rather than let anyone know he had stubbed his toe over a woman anywhere, at any time. Isn't that why he hired the only known love detective to check up on June Lake?"

Bradford saw that. He said, "What's the setup then?"

"You breeze from here and get going to Pinelpa," she said. "I will come along later. Register under your own name. Stay in your rooms an hour. I have it all figured out. Happy loving, Brad."

BIG BILL BRADFORD could see the Pinelpa golf links, the winding saddle path, and one of the salt water plunges in the white moonlight. He had been waiting in his fourth floor suite half an hour. 'Whose family tree you chopping down now?" had been the greeting of Enders, part owner and manager of the million-dollar, swanky Pinelpa. "There's always a big wedding in the wind when you show up."

Brad had grinned a little and said nothing. Scandal in the making would have turned Enders gray-headed.

Brad had been watching the lighted driveway. Merry Arnold had arrived a few minutes before. Her coupé had been parked in the big circle. Brad had not seen Merry, but her light laugh as she spoke to someone was unmistakable.

"In another few minutes I'm due to become a total: heel," muttered Brad. "Should back out while there's time. But what the glory hell? It'll be doing June Lake a favor."

A big car swung into the drive-way. Brad heard Clyde Winton's nasal, top-tone voice. He was directing luggage unloaded. All within hearing knew when the Winton's arrived.

"An' take it right up to four-eight- nine!"

Brad grunted and grinned to himself. He had four-eight-six, almost across the corridor. Not that it mattered. Very soon he was keeping a date with a lady. He judged Merry would have a suite. She was still throwing Winton's dough around, he guessed.

Glancing from the window, he no- ticed that a man walked over, passing by the parked cars. Moonlight showed a bald dome, even four floors down.

"If he's seen Merry's car?" mused Brad. 'But perhaps she intended it that way. It's well for Bill Bradford, love dick, that he's a Winton, and this is the Pinelpa."

He expected a phone buzz any time now. Instead, a discreet rap came on his door. Merry was there, a blue raincoat around her. It was partly drawn up, concealing her face.

"Switchboard girls are nosey," she said quickly. "I used the fire stairs. Come to three-seven-nine in five minutes. The stairs are best. I'll be waiting. A little later darling Clyde will see you leave my suite when he answers a mysterious call."

"That'll be just fine," grunted Brad. "And you?"

Merry smiled a little. Her mouth was curved and sweet. Yet the lips took on a sardonic twist.

"Dear Clyde will just have a glimpse of me at my door, and that will be all," she said. "Il wager another century he'll not even mention it to you later, or to me either. That will be that."

Brad had a brief glimpse of a creamy white leg, a flash of a rounded thigh, as Merry, turned to hurry back along the corridor. It rather took his breath. If she were to be seen like that here in the sacrosanct Pinelpa, Enders would die of apoplexy.

Brad listened, waiting. He heard Clyde Winton come up, enter his room, his nasal voice intended to impress a bellhop. Winton's door closed. The bellhop went away. The elevator whined.

COMING from the fire stairs door on the third floor, Brad had the sudden sense he was being watched. It seemed that a dark shadow at the end of the corridor had moved. He kept on steadily, however, walking directly toward the spot. There was only a blowing drapery, a French window partly open, and a fire escape platform outside.

He saw no one on the platform.

"The old guilty flee and all that," he murmured. "You'd think I was really going to town with my paying client."

The corridor was empty. The door of three-seven-nine opened immediately. The parlor of the suite appeared exotic under soft, yellow lights. It made the golden saffron hair of Merry seem more like a halo.

"A gold-digger's halo," muttered

Brad. "But the gal has something at that." Shades were tightly drawn.

Merry looked at Brad, a mocking smile curving her lips. The V for victory, not virtue, was more ex tended than in the afternoon.

"A love detective should know the answers," said Merry  huskily. "Don't tell me you are so purely commercial you can't like me a little.

Her arms dropped and the robe serving as a negligee slid off her rounded shoulders. Her head was slightly tilted, and she smiled up at Brad.

"Hell, Merry!" He grumped with some effort. "Do we have to put on a show behind the curtain. This was to be a front stage act, remember?"

"I guess you really don't like me," sighed Merry, turning from him with. a provocative swaying of her slender, white back.

Even a love detective is human. Brad attempted to take his fascinated gaze off the dainty, doll-like figure. Merry didn't seem nearly so— tall, and not at all as hardboiled as he knew her to be, walking with a little lift over to the mirror.

Something gave Brad a sudden, vague sense of danger. He had the feeling of having seen some of the things in this room before. He had it now. The silken bathrobe Merry had dropped in a heap on the floor. The robe was the same as June Lake had worn when he had first met her at a beach swimming pool. Well, it had to be a coincidence, but it did look the same. He supposed there were thousands of blue robes.

He was thinking of the shadow he had suspected in the corridor. Then Merry had turned back to him. Again, for a fleeting second, her burnished saffron hair reminded him of June Lake.

"Dammitall!" he grated. "I have June on my mind. To be sure they have the same color of hair, only June's is natural."

One view in the mirror, the other view being Merry herself, Brad had to admit that Winton could not be censored too much for wanting to keep his double life. He was sure that Merry had arranged for what happened, that her toe had probably pulled loose a connecting cord.

The room was plunged in darkness, except for the moonlight at the broad French windows. Merry gave a husky, little cry. Then she was in his arms.

"Brad, darling, we only live once," she breathed softly. "It's my show, isn't it?"

Her parted lips were upon his mouth. Her bare, warm arms encircled his neck. He tried to keep thinking she was staging this whole show. But even his effort to hang onto the mercenary thought that she might be playing to save herself five centuries failed.

"Brad, please, I've been so un- happy—"

That at least he could believe. His arms wanted to comfort her even if his cold, common sense still warned him of some intangible danger. Then his hands slipped along the slender, back and her body quivered close to him—

A minute, two minutes, it didn't matter.

His eyes were upon the white moonlight against the broad, low windows. This time, there could be no mistake. The shadow he saw was the outline of a man's figure.

At the moment, Merry Arnold was stretched lazily upon the divan near the center of the room. As her hands raised above her head in a relaxing gesture, her sigh of contentment was natural.

One hand struck from that position over her head. It seemed impossible she could possess such cat-like, almost brutal strength. It might have been a heavy, metal ball or some other weighty, hard object.

The smash between Brad's eyes was as if his skull had exploded from the inside. He had been looking at the human shadow against the French window.

MOONLIGHT still flooded the French window. Seeping blood was salty in big Bill Bradford's mouth. He must have been a full minute coming to full consciousness. The room was still in darkness. Brad lay still, listening. He could hear regular, deep breathing, a soft sound as from a woman's lips. It was so close that when he reached over, he touched bare, warm flesh, and it was a rounded arm.

"Merry?"

There was no response. Brad's head whirled. His lips was split when he put his hand to his salty mouth. One eye stayed queerly shut, and it was swollen.

Brad came to his feet. He was too cautious to seek a light switch Jim at once. An oppressive feeling of some other presence was heavy upon him. It came to him that it had been Merry who had knocked him out with some weapon or weight she must have had ready in the divan.

His cigarette lighter clicked. He shielded the light with his hands.

"June?"

And hard, bitter oaths stopped just inside his teeth.

He was looking at June Lake's golden hair and her delicate, oval features. She lay upon the thick softness of a brown, bearskin rug beside. him.

The firm, young bosom arose and fell with her steady, natural breathing. The completeness of her sleep bespoke some powerful sedative. But when it came to explaining, that would get only a skeptical laugh.

Brad could but guess how long he had been out cold. He judged it could have been but a short time.

"The damn', no-good tramp!" He had never been more bitter. "Her next move will be to have someone, presumably Winton, come to this room. By hell! That's her play. I'm the prize sucker of the century. She had no intention of giving up Winton, and all this is perfect—"

He was on his feet now, thinking fast. A dread premonition came with sharp recollection. There had been someone outside that French window on the fire escape platform. Merry might have had an accomplice. Or—

A blazing thought came to him.

Could it have been Clyde Winton? Had Winton seen Merry's car and have checked on her room. Or had Winton seen him leave the fourth floor?

Strange that Merry should wait so long before creating some sort of an alarm?

"I must get June out of here," he said grimly. "Damn' that smart Jezebel! She had her asleep in the bedroom all the time. Well, if I can make down the fire escape—"

He did not dare risk a light. Finding the bedroom door, he groped his way in, ready to use his cigarette lighter as a flash. He stepped on something soft, stumbled and half fell.

THE coarse texture of cloth, short hair, and a roughly bearded face touched his seeking hands. There was no breath, no pulse in the man. Brad risked the lighter again.

By the hair, he knew the man probably had come from prison but a short time before. He was free now, his dead eyes staring without sight. His clothes were rough, like prison make.

But what held Brad longest were the two imprints like thumb marks and the bruised line around the man's thick throat. It seemed as if the dead man had been strangled from behind by some powerful killer, who had pressed his thumbs against his larynx.

Yet there was a cut and bleeding contusion at the back of the head, just above the neck line.

"A woman wouldn't have had the strength to choke him like that," said Brad quickly. "Or even to leave the thumb marks after he had been knocked out. Which may put Bill Bradford right behind the well known eight ball."

His brain seemed to be tied in a knot. Removing June Lake became of first importance. He knew now why there had not been an alarm, or thought he did.

Perhaps Merry's little game of loving double-cross had not included murder. That had come unexpectedly. Possibly then Merry had to be smart enough to permit discovery to be more casual than she had intended. Merry, if guilty, must try to build up an alibi.

Or would she send Clyde Wonton in upon this as it was?

The telephone in the parlor sent a chill through Brad. He risked a full light briefly. The first thing he saw was the blue bathrobe. He was convinced now it belonged to June. No doubt Merry had intended to be seen briefly by Clyde Winton in that robe.

He was aware now that some other objects, some jewelry in the parlor had been familiar. They had belonged to June Lake.

The telephone kept buzzing insistently. He could find but the bathrobe. With this he got back to June. She was still sleeping under the drug. He wrapped it about her, and then he became aware of something missing, that he needed to secure the robe.

He recalled the thick silken cord that had been about the robe when Merry had dropped it from her shoulders. Although the phone was still buzzing, Brad was back beside the corpse.

He held a skin magnifying mirror taken from a toilet set on the dresser. Swift scrutiny of the dead man's real death wound, the marks of strangling after he had been knocked out, and then Brad was moving fast.

The phone quit buzzing. Someone might be coming to the door now. He wished he had time to search for that bathrobe cord, but he had much less than an even chance of getting June out of this.

Perhaps Merry would be smart enough to watch outside. He had to chance that. He went over and made sure the door was unlocked. With the robe around June Lake, Brad went up instead of down the fire escape. The iron ladder to the roof at the fifth floor was tough, but he shouldered June's light, limp body and managed it.

"If you'll only stay asleep," he said softly, and he kissed the girl's parted, quiet lips.

June did not stir when he put her down and left her.

Brad saw a skylight and went down that way removing a pane and unlocking the trapdoor.

He gained the fifth floor by the ladder, and the fourth by the fire stairs. It was a game of guessing now. Of trying to outsmart Merry Arnold, or perhaps Clyde Winton.

He was handicapped by ignorance of the circumstances. Could the corpse have been in the bedroom when he first entered?

Or was the dead man the same one who had been spying through the French window? Winton had perhaps identified a parked car.

In another minute he might know that. Clyde Winton had to be the answer. Winton might even be the killer?

CLYDE WINTON responded to his door buzzer. Bradford kept his face partly averted, getting a good view of the bald-headed scion of the big book family.

"Bradford?" exclaimed Winton. "You here? Why didn't you let me know?"

Winton's slight surprise might have been assumed. His whole manner was that of a man who was disturbed by something, but not by anything as serious as murder. His tone was impatient, but in one item Bradford had made a mistake.  Winton proved it, before he had a good look at Brad's face. He knew June was here.

"I'm glad you've come, anyway, Bradford," he said. "That may account for June being here, too. She told me she intended visiting an aunt and uncle when she left today. Has something come up?"

Brad's ears were strained, listening for any sound of alarm in the building, from the floor below. There was none. Then his somewhat clogged brain functioned clearly.

"Yes, June Lake is here," he said. "I would have seen you sooner, Winton, but a car backed into me and smacked me up a bit."

He touched his swollen eye and his split lips.

"Say, man!" Winton was considerate. "Hadn't you better have a doctor look at that?"

"I will, Winton," promised Brad. "But first, I've come onto something too important to wait. I'm sorry, but for once I almost missed-fire on a case. I just found out late today that June Lake hasn't the small fortune she has been credited with. That money from an uncle went to another cousin who, by coincidence, also is named June Lake."

Brad was almost glad he was in this jam. The oath slipping from Winton's hardening mouth told him a whole story.

"You're sure, Bradford? You have proof she has been running a phony, putting on an act to steal the Winton name for herself?"

Brad never had wanted more to sock another man. But it could wait, just for another two or three minutes, if he had luck.

"That's right, Winton," he said. "The proof's down in June's room. Forget your coat and come along. I'll show you."

"This is terrible! That's what a man gets for taking up with any little tramp with a pretty face and a cute figure! I'm old enough to have known better!"

Brad was forced to clench his teeth, to dig his fingernails into his palms. The great Winton was closing his door behind him, still muttering. Brad hoped he could hold back until they reached that murder room downstairs, if they could do it without being discovered.

Just where was Merry Arnold? Who had been ringing that phone?

"I knew June Lake was here when I saw her car parked downstairs," went on Winton, behind him.

That added another angle to Merry's little game. She had come up here in June's car. She had in every way made sure that Winton should discover that June Lake was supposedly keeping a tryst with Bill Bradford. That was why she had become June's friend.

But where did the corpse fit into the picture?

Would Merry be watching to see who might enter the murder room?

Brad had an inspiration. The fire escape platforms crossed the end of the corridors and passed around to the windows of rooms.

Restraining his impulse to slap Winton down, Brad suddenly caught his arm. He didn't like to do this to June Lake, but it was a necessary evil right now.

"Come to think of it, Winton," he said. "If you'll come down the fire escape with me, perhaps you'll find out that June Lake is even worse than you would believe. Right now, I judge she has company in her room."

"Yes? Let's go that way then!"

The avid eagerness in Winton's voice almost got him his well deserved sock there and then.

"WHAT is all this, Bradford?" exclaimed Clyde Winton, staring at the empty parlor as Brad flicked on the lights. "This is June's room, all right, by the perfume. But where is she?"

They had entered by the window from the fire escape.

Winton turned his smooth face with his rather roundish chin to exactly the right position. Brad tried to put every ounce of his one hundred and eighty pounds behind a straight punch.

"Aw'f'f'k!" was all Winton uttered as he collapsed.

Brad's whole arm tingled. Winton would be quiet for several long counts. Brad's eyes were upon the door he had left unlocked. He had Winton's inert body laid out in a crumpled heap close to the corpse in the bedroom when the telephone almost jumped him out of his skin.

He made a shrewd guess now. The phone had been ringing before. Could it be that sweet Merry Arnold was herself establishing an alibi? If she had intended it to appear that June Lake was keeping a tryst with him, then perhaps she had registered June Lake and herself in separate rooms?

Brad sprang to the door and relocked it. He picked up a bottle of Scotch, purposely spilling some of it on the rug. Then he left the overturned bottle there, after making sure he had his own flask of Scotch in his pocket.

Ten seconds later he carefully poured some sticky, scarlet nail polish from a little bottle on the dresser onto his handkerchief. He replaced the bottle as it had been.

The phone had quit ringing again. This time he judged there would be quick discovery. He switched off the lights and went back up the fire escape to the roof, listening as he moved.

As he climbed over the ledge, he heard men's raised voices below. One was the outraged voice of Enders. Brad grinned to himself then.

Enders was thinking of but one thing.

"How— how could they do this to us?" he was screeching.

That any man could be so inconsiderate as to have himself murdered in the exclusive Pinelpa was more than Enders could bear up under.

"Sorry, June, but I have to take a long chance on your reputation now," he said softly to the sleeping girl. "Here's hoping they keep their hullabaloo on the third floor a few minutes."

He got June down the skylight ladder and carried her by the fire stairs to the fourth floor. He made his own room without being ob- served.

Little June was tucked under the covers when Brad made a call to the desk. The clerk on duty was gasping, but he could talk.

Yes, a Miss June Lake was registered alone in three-seven-nine, and a Miss Merry Arnold had-five-three- six, on the fifth floor, and, "For heaven's sake, haven't you heard, Mr. Bradford? There's been an awful murder in Miss Lake's room, and Miss Lake is missing, and—"

"Nearly all murders are awful," cut in Brad, ending that.

He employed his handkerchief a few seconds, where it was still sticky with scarlet nail polish. Then he turned out the room light, locked his door softly and went down the fire stairs to the third floor. He carried June's bathrobe, soaked with liquor from his own flask and touched up with red nail polish.

The doorway of three-seven-nine was crowded. More persons were arriving from the elevator. Brad was just in time to see Merry Arnold, wearing an evening dress and accompanied by an older woman, making her way through the little crowd into the murder rooms. Brad reached the doorway just in time. He heard Merry's cool and assured voice. He had to admire that kind of ice water for blood.

"What has happened?" inquired Merry. "Is my friend, June Lake, hurt? I've been calling the past half hour, and then I sent a bellboy."

Salter, the house dick, apparently knew this ended his job with the Pinelpa.

"If you're her friend," said Salter gruffly, "then perhaps you'll know where she is, how this mug got himself killed, and why Mr. Winton was fighting with him?"

Brad heard Merry's gasp of, "Clyde?"

He kept several persons between him and Merry, as he saw the blood drain from her face. Then she had control of herself.

"For heaven's sake, how would I know about this?" she said. "I left June an hour ago, and I've been having dinner with Mrs. Cornelia. You know Mrs. Cornelia? But—"

Evidently Merry had chosen her course.

"I've never met Mr. Winton," she said. "I knew June was expecting a visitor, well, a man, but—"

At that moment Winton opened his eyes dazedly. He appeared to see Merry first, and he exclaimed, "Merry? You here? Where are we—oh—what—?"

Brad saw Winton's clearing eyes were upon the corpse.

"So you never met Mr. Winton, Miss Arnold?" snapped out Detective Salter. "You're registered as Miss Merry Arnold. Mr. Winton must have access to our register file."

"Well, I do know Mr. Winton then," and Merry was upset. "But that hasn't—"

Salter pursued his advantage very quickly.

"Never mind that!" he said quickly. "Winton, why did you choke this fellow to death, after apparently hitting him on the head with something? I get it! He was a holdup maybe, and you—"

Winton's words broke through his hard swallowing.

"I wasn't here— June Lake was— no— we came down the fire escape—and then—"

Merry Arnold was quick.

"You mean you heard trouble and came down, Mr. Winton?" she said, and Brad saw she was trying to steer him right or shut him up temporarily.

"No, Merry— no— I was told June Lake was with a man and—"

"And so you busted in and there was a fight?" interrupted Salter. "You choked this guy to death, then someone knocked you out, Mr. Winton?"

At that, Brad saw that both Winton and Merry Arnold were at a dead end. Neither could come out with the truth, Winton being in the dark about it all, and Merry showing she was desperately anxious to clear Winton, yet keep herself out of it.

Brad maneuvered himself into a corner of the bedroom without either Winton or Merry seeing him. He spoke quietly from that spot.

"Winton could not have done it," he said. "June Lake saw it happen and ran out. She knew I was here and she came directly to my room. She saw a woman kill this man on the floor. June said that the woman knocked him down from behind, then jerked the cord out of June's bathrobe and used it to strangle him with, after tying two knots in it to make it look like prints of a man's thumbs."

Brad tossed the blue bathrobe over several persons to Salter. Winton was staring at Merry. He was too anxious to get out from under.

"Merry?" exclaimed Winton. "When you worked for me, you said your husband was in prison, a convict, and this fellow looks like—"

Merry screamed then.

"Why, you damn', yellow two-timer! You tryin' to put this on me? I'd say you framed this with that snoop, Bradford! It's a damn' lie, because June Lake was drugged and couldn't talk— she— why, she loaned you nearly all of her money for your plant—"

"I think that about does it, Salter," said Bradford. "And if you'll notice closely, you'll see where liquor was spilled on June Lake's bathrobe from the bottle on the floor, as she told me. The alcohol dissolved some of Merry Arnold's scarlet nail polish, and it's plainly marked on the robe where the strangling belt was pulled out. You see—"

BRAD sidestepped just in time.

Merry had instinctively lifted her hands, staring at her scarlet fingernails. In a flash she had snatched a toy automatic from her bosom and fired.

Brad felt the powder burn. His knuckles tingled from Merry Arnold's rounded chin as she went down cold under his fast punch.

"That's for June Lake," he said under his breath.

Clyde Winton was staring at him, his mouth opening and shutting, but no sound coming out of it. Brad grinned at him. This was due to be a tough spot for a Winton when the story hit the headlines.

Brad turned and started back to the fourth floor. So June had only been talking about a loan to Winton when they had been alone in that other hotel room. That made him feel a lot better over having had to double-cross a client, and lose one whole grand.

Wouldn't June be surprised when she woke up?

_____________

6: The Pin Up Girl Murders

Laurence Donovan

Super-Detective, April 1944

LIEUTENANT DON KEMP stood with his hands clenched in cold fury. His rooms, including the blueprint draughting office, appeared to be in perfect order. But Don Kemp's precise, orderly mind and eye told him that his quarters had been thoroughly ransacked, although every article apparently had been restored to its place.

From habit Don Kemp's slate gray eyes went to the unusual "pin-up girl" on the wall above his drawing table. His eyes became colder and he uttered an oath through clenched teeth.

Now the pin-up girl certainly was not such as to arouse the anger of a red blooded lieutenant of army engineers. The scanty sarong of the pin-up picture proved that she had everything the most discriminating male might demand, from her massed golden hair to slender ankles and tiny feet.

"Smile, blast you, smile!" exploded Kemp audibly. "So my shy, little Tina will be far from the old home town tonight. Yeah! In person! To show off her pin-up charms to all the other boys of the steenth engineer corps! An' I placed you special, before I found out half the wolves in the company had the same picture!"

Don Kemp permitted one phase of anger to overcome the other momentarily. His "barrack rooms" in the swanky Miami Beach hotel had been searched, it was true. But the one item of immense value he had left there could not have been discovered, he was sure.

His own new, secret traction was being tried out back in Everglades. With some changes, it promised to revolutionize the speed and efficiency of Allied tanks. The final prints, with all the necessary changes, had been made.

"Who could have entered these rooms?" muttered Don Kemp, as he stepped over to the pin-up picture he had so carefully mounted on a special black background, and which he so obviously appeared to dislike. "We'll find out any possible spies in the outfit. In the meantime, my dear Tina, besides bringing sweet dreams to a whole pack of wolves, you've been faithfully guarding the plans which may alter the whole outcome of the war and shorten its time."

The lieutenant engineer spoke with confidence. For it appeared obvious that the recent prowler had been seeking other valuables, or, if the tank prints was the objective, it had been missed. Otherwise two rooms overlooking the white beach and the Atlantic would not have been so thoroughly searched.

"My beloved Tina!" he muttered again through set teeth, as he touched the apparently immovable and pasted black cardboard and it slid to one side. "Tina who has become the pet of the engineers, and who—"

The come-on eyes of the golden-haired girl still seemed to be watching him as the black background slid to one side. Her fixed smile was unchanged even as Kemp bit off his words, jerked a hand to the wall, and then started swearing low and steadily.

"Gone?" His gasped exclamation was a question, as if he could not believe it "Gone! They've got the tank plans!"

THE wall safe he himself had installed behind the cardboard of the pin-up girl had a sliding door. He saw that its combination had been solved by an expert. The blueprints vital to all of the tests now being carried on by the—th corps were in alien hands.

Don Kemp slipped the pin-up girl back into place instinctively as he heard footsteps outside his door. Ragged nerves sent his hand fumbling at his revolver holster. The thieving spy would scarcely be returning, but Kemp's brain was seething that such a theft could have been accomplished.

He was compelled to recall that there were civilian employees about the big beach hotel given over to the engineering unit. Of course, all had been checked and double-checked for loyalty. But this war had developed some strange and dangerous enemies, even among those who could prove American birth.

When the steps halted and there was a quick rap at the door, Don Kemp said, "Come in!"

Red-headed, round-faced "Legs" McCarthy, the corps photographer, pushed his good-natured countenance into the crack of the door. Don Kemp was still standing under the replaced pin-up girl, his lean face darkened by his scowl of suspicion and rage.

McCarthy was the only man in the outfit who came from Kemp's small home town of Centerville. The cameraman's face cracked into a broad grin as he saw Kemp's position and the storm of anger in his eyes.

"Holy gosh, Don!" exclaimed McCarthy, neglecting any formal salute. "You still burnin' up over Tina winnin' that big pin-up girl contest an' gettin' her picture in the papers an' pinned up all over the place? Jeeminee! An' with Captain Morgan's girl all out for you! I'd think you'd know that most of the gals that promised to wait have been spreading that same hooey around to—"

"Shut up, Legs!" exclaimed Kemp with an intensity of anger that rubbed off McCarthy's smile. "You been upstairs long? An' if so, did you see anyone—?"

Don Kemp checked his own raging speech. It had come to him that the first report of the tank plans theft must be made to the C. O. Just as quickly it dawned upon him that he did not intend to make that report at once. Not until he had done some investigating on his own, while the spy and thief might still be unaware that the theft had been discovered.

McCarthy slowly recovered his grin. "Sure, I saw someone who might have come calling with the proper escort, Don," he said with a little laugh in his voice. "You missed seeing her then? She's here already for the big show downstairs tonight. And I happen to know she asked Captain Morgan if she could see Lieutenant Don Kemp. That's why I'm here. Tina—"

"Tina?" grated Kemp. "I'm not seeing her. And I'm not seeing the show either."

"Look, Don," reasoned McCarthy. "I'm the only guy in the outfiit that knows the now famous pin-up girl, Tina Layton, is also your sweetheart. I know you were to be married, and that you mailed back her letters unopened after this pin-up publicity came out a month ago. Show some sense, Don."

DON KEMP glanced at the red glow from the sun going down over the Everglades. Dusk and darkness would settle within a few short minutes over Biscayne Bay and Miami Beach.

Legs McCarthy stood there uncertainly. It was like this. Tina Layton, small towner from Centerville, the girl he had intended to marry since high school days, had become a Big Town celebrity. All because of shapely legs and other proper proportions.

Tina Layton had gone to Chicago. She had come out first in a radio "pin-up girl" contest. Don Kemp's memory of her was of a shy, sweet little blonde who had kissed him ardently and promised she would be waiting.

There was a newspaper column clipping in his wallet. One of the latest. It read—

BOBBY LANE, PLAYBOY,

ALL OUT FOR PIN-UPPER

Bobby Lane, of the tungsten millions, is being seen around with Tina, the BYT radio pin-up winner. One more matrimonial splurge seems to be in the offing.

Tina, the pin-up girl, will make a tour of the camps where her saronged person has become well known by photos colored to life. Bobby will trail along.

Lieutenant Don Kemp responded to Legs McCarthy's advice. In the movie-vaudeville entertainment tonight, Tina Layton was to be featured in person. Kemp did not desire to see Tina in person. He had compelled his surface emotions to believe that was over.

In showing some sense, Kemp said, "Get out, Legs. I've work to do. I'm afraid I'll be too busy to be present in person at tonight's blowout. Have a good time, and if Tina talks to you, give her my best wishes."

That was cold and McCarthy's smile slowly died. Kemp's tone had a razor edge. He was fighting back tearing emotions that insisted upon trying to choke his voice.

There was the theft of the tank blueprints. Kemp had learned that the notorious Bobby Lane was accompanying the show. Kemp could take it on the chin, he believed. But he was not making a public effort at proving it.

"Okay, pal," grunted Legs McCarthy, and closed the door.

Kemp debated briefly. He gave the rooms the quick once-over. He was tempted to pull down the pin-up girl's picture and tear it into bits. But he had to show the C. O., Captain Morgan, exactly how the spy robbery had been committed.

Fast semi-tropical darkness was closing in on the dimmed-out beach and Collins Avenue. Kemp switched on lights and checked the rooms.

"That's queer," he said musingly. "The only other thing missing is the Spanish dagger."

He had used the sharp, thin-bladed dagger as a tool for point marking on the blueprint desk. The dagger had a duplicate.

Don Kemp passed perhaps ten minutes in self debate. Regulations called for an immediate report of the loss of the blueprints. He was convinced he was being watched.

"The thief would know when I reported to Captain Morgan," he reasoned aloud. "But if I don't report and appear unconcerned, the spy may think I have not yet found out about the robbery."

A thought hammered in the back of his mind. He alone had planned that wall safe behind the picture of the pin-up girl. No other member of the engineer corps, including Legs McCarthy, knew of its existence.

But when it was being contrived, and while Tina Layton was still the small town girl waiting for him, he had confided in her. That had been on one of his brief furloughs back in Centerville.

Kemp had been given no furlough since that time. The tank traction plan was considered too important. It was a hard, a mean and a sickening thought that now pounded at his brain.

DETERMINED to avoid the patriotic entertainment for the engineers in the hotel ballroom, Don Kemp knew he must appear as usual. The elevator dropped him ten floors. The civilian operator was a colored man who grinned at him.

Kemp decided he must not ask questions. He strolled from the elevator through the lobby. He met Mary Morgan, as if she had been waiting for him to appear. She smiled and her dark eyes looked up at him.

"What gives, Don?" said Captain Morgan's vivacious girl child. "The show's starting soon, and it isn't the direction you're taking. Of course, I wasn't asked, but I thought I'd like to have a look-see at this pin-up girl. I hear they've planned a stunt opening the show that is copied after the very artistic setting little Miss Pin-up has in your room."

Her oval face was uplifted. Her curved mouth was a smiling challenge. The depths of her dark eyes nevertheless conveyed a hint of jealous observation. There was a bit of it in her voice.

Don Kemp liked Mary Morgan. But at this moment he wondered what she would think if she really knew what was pounding inside his mind.

He had a job to do. Somewhere about the swanky beach hotel he was convinced the blueprint thief and spy must be lingering. He could not get his thoughts off the remembrance that only Tina had been told about the concealed wall safe.

It was true, a thorough enemy agent might have accidently tested that pin-up picture. That was something he had to know. His idea of not attending the ballroom show was changed.

Kemp had not known of his own background for the pin-up girl being copied. He had intended to rid himself of the captain's attractive daughter. On an impulse he gave her his arm.

"We have a date to see the show together," he said gruffly.

"Maybe it's the Miami moon makes grouchy bears out of some men," chattered Mary Morgan. "Lost something, Don?"

"Naw, c'mon," he grunted, his breath pulling in at the nearness of her random retort.

He was determined to excuse himself quickly. Mary Morgan laughed musically.

"You know, Don, at times I've wanted to see these pin-up girls in person," she said. "Especially this Tina Layton. And there's that Bobby Lane, too."

Don Kemp saw a partly bald, baggy-eyed man in youthful clothes not far from the ballroom doorway. Bobby Lane was rising from a chair as they entered.

Because of the sudden outcry from the stage, Kemp did not see Bobby Lane suddenly disappear through a side door. And the excitement was confined to those nearest the stage.

Kemp had heard of the show manager, the civilian agent who was making the tour of the camps. And he saw him now. A tall and black-haired man strode quickly to the middle of the stage and he was signaling with both hands.

"Ring it down, boys!" came the show manager's voice.

His name was Lonny Walsh, according to publicity. Now his tone was sharp and hard. Mary Morgan gripped Kemp's arm. Apparently she had seen the same thing he had.

"Don, that isn't funny!" cried out Mary.

IT was not funny. There was an artist's life-size drawing of Tina, the famous pin-up girl. Her shapely person was seemingly vital and living as it stood out against the black background on which the artist had painted his picture.

From golden hair to slender ankles, the figure was one to bring forth an approving applause of the engineers that just as suddenly died out. That was why Lonny Walsh, the camp show manager, was ringing down the curtain. He ordered all stage lights off.

For the green jade haft of a knife showed distinctly where the blade had been driven into the pin-up picture, just where the heart would have been in the living person of Tina Layton. "What the devil?" exploded Kemp, freeing himself from Mary Morgan, "Why, it's my dagger—!"

The exclamation had been shocked from him. He cut it off as Mary's dark eyes widened. But Kemp did not wait He left Mary staring after him as he wedged his way to the side of the ballroom, and the narrow corridor leading backstage.

The shouting in the ballroom had died out. There were angry murmurs coming from the men, frightened cries from the WACS and nurses who had come to see the show.

The corridor was darkened. A shadowy figure brushed by Kemp. Instinctively he struck out with a quick, short left punch. A man grunted and fell down. Kemp kept on going. He had identified Legs McCarthy as he had fallen.

An electrician and some other stage employees were collected in the stage wings. Kemp bore down upon them.

"Where's Miss Layton's dressing room?" he inquired.

"That way," pointed a stage hand. "Who're you— what the devil business—?"

But Don Kemp was not answering questions. He was asking just now.

He saw a door the hotel management had decorated with a gilt star. He tried the knob and the door was locked. He backed off and drove at it with one hard shoulder. Metal snapped. The room was all dark. Kemp cupped his cigarette lighter looking for the button. He kept the light cupped in his hands.

Tina Layton, the pin-up girl, was there. She was alone. As alone as anyone could be with a green-hafted knife driven into her heart.  Her blue eyes were open, unseeing, but they seemed to Kemp to be asking a question— "Why, Don? Why?"

One moment Kemp was down beside the pin-up girl. All she had been wearing was the skimpy sarong. Her body was still beautiful. Her face and her sightless blue eyes were ghastly.

Yet Don Kemp held her in his arms for a few seconds. He scarcely considered the green-handled dagger. He kissed the cold lips, in farewell to the past.

A HAMMERING came at the door he had slammed shut. Kemp snapped to his feet. He moved to one side among a hanging collection of garments. The lights flashed on.

Lonny Walsh, the swarthy stage manager was in the doorway, backed up by others.

"For the love of heaven, look!" Lonny Walsh's voice trembled. "It wasn't just a show stunt. It's true."

Kemp edged slowly toward two big wardrobe trunks.

"The same kind of green jade dagger!" exclaimed Lonny Walsh. "Someone on this stage— no— Tina had that kind of a stabber! What does it mean?"

Don Kemp crouched, considering his next move. The twin Spanish daggers, of Chinese origin probably, had been the gift of an uncle. Don had been in a laughing mood the night he had put a stone upon Tina's finger and one of the twin daggers in her hand.

He had said then, "Here's my heart, Tina. You can bind it to you or use the knife."

She had been unwilling to accept the twin dagger. She had been shy, clinging to him.

He had said, "Every time you see the dagger, you will know its mate is on my desk. You will think of me. It's a swell letter opener."

Far away and long ago that seemed. Lonny Walsh stood with clenched fists. Beside him was the fussy, elegant dresser, Carlos Carnes, civilian assistant manager of the hotel who had remained as a director of other than army activities.

Carnes was rubbing his hand along a thin nose. His light hair appeared to bristle and his mouth quivered.

Several others of the traveling entertainers were crowding into the room. Lonny Walsh waved them back with a soulful oath. Legs McCarthy, one eye swollen, forced his way through the crowd to the inside.

Lonny Walsh was bending down, looking at the death dagger.

"Not a chance of fingerprints," he said. "The jade haft's all carved into little figures."

Carlos Carnes rubbed the back of a hand across his mouth. He seemed to have all the natural instincts of a hotel man, even if the army was in possession.

"Can't the army keep this from being smeared all over?" said Carnes. "It'll be remembered when the hotel's turned back."

Carnes' interest in the dead girl, her body still warm and lovely, was purely business, it appeared.

"Look!" said an entertainer. "Wasn't there a little light like a match or something beside the body when we came in?"

That had been Don Kemp's cigarette lighter.

"Sure thing, and the shock almost made me forget it," said Lonny Walsh. "Tina was killed in the past few minutes. It must have been the killer."

"If it was," said Carlos Carnes, "he could be mixing up right now with the crowd. There was a small light and a man's figure. Seeing the girl and that same dagger that was on the stage a few minutes ago made me forget it."

Baldish Bobby Lane thrust others aside and came in." Bobby Lane's eyes were bagged and his thick lips were too loose. But he appeared to have genuine grief.

He cried out with an oath, then he was on the floor, one arm around the dead girl's shoulders.

"Who's the killer—?" then Bobby Lane barely touched the tip of the dagger haft. "That stabber!" he cried out "Tina had one like it. She said it was a twin to a dagger owned by some engineer named Kemp, Lieutenant Don Kemp, I think. She's—"

Bobby Lane's voice broke convincingly. "—the only girl I've ever really loved."

DON KEMP swore silently, holding to his hiding place behind the trunks. He knew that Bobby Lane had already had four wives and considerable other newspaper notice of woman troubles.

A pair of tough M.P.s used their clubs to get through the room.

"Get away from her, buddy!" rapped one at Bobby Lane. "Nobody's to touch anything. What's that about the dagger belonging to Lieutenant Don Kemp?"

"Yeah, Tina had one of a pair Kemp had given her," repeated Bobby Lane vindictively. "I demand Kemp's immediate arrest."

"But, Bobby," countered Tony Walsh. "It's the same as the dagger someone stabbed into the heart of our life-size pin-up picture. Perhaps a search of the room—"

"You'll leave that to the regular cops, mister!" ordered one M.P. "This isn't a part of the show. It's murder and in the city of Miami Beach!"

Apparently it had not occurred to anyone that the man seen with the light could still be hidden in the room. Kemp's eyes strayed to the dressing table close beside his hideout trunks. A gold, beaded handbag lay there. He noticed that its clasp was open as if the murderer might already have explored its contents.

Or it could have been left that way as Tina made up for the show.

Kemp decided he had to take a chance. If he could reach out and snatch the handbag without being detected, there was a possibility that it might contain some hint of a motive for killing the pin-up girl.

An overalled stage hand spoke up then from the back of the crowd.

"Heard you say that knife was the same as was in that pin-up picture on the stage," he said. "Maybe it's the same one. Anyway while the lights was out that knife was grabbed by somebody an' we ain't seen it since."

"When the city cops get here, we'll pay a visit to Don Kemp's quarters," said one M.P.

Legs McCarthy spoke almost viciously.

"Kemp isn't there! That's where I got this eye! I met him in the stage corridor an' he slammed me one!"

"And what were you doing back here?" Tony Walsh's black eyes glittered and he was quick. "Why— well, you see Tina Layton comes from my home town," said McCarthy, the corps cameraman. "I was back here, yes, but her door was locked and she didn't answer. I was going back out front when Lieutenant Kemp rushed me and slammed me one."

All interest was for seconds centered upon Legs McCarthy. Kemp saw his chance. He possessed the beaded handbag with cat-like quickness.

Homicide men of the city police were coming in.

There was light enough for Kemp to open the handbag. His first find was a half dozen letters, tied together.

Kemp's anger flared. The return marked was—

THOMAS McCARTHY

—th U. S. Army Engineers

Per Government Island

New York City

Kemp had no opportunity to open a letter. But the situation was clear enough. Postmarks showed that Legs McCarthy had been writing regularly to Tina Layton, all letters addressed to Chicago.

"Of all the double-crossing heels—" Kemp whispered it.

Then he stopped. What might Tina have written to McCarthy? Evidently she had been wildly ambitious. Perhaps she was only playing Bobby Lane for a sucker.

Kemp wondered how many war bond purchases might have gone into choosing the winner of the pinup contest?

A SEARGEANT REARDON was in charge of the city homicide squad. Getting a quick review from the M.P.s, Reardon demanded, "Find this Lieutenant Don Kemp. Don't waste time!"

A musical, angry voice came from the doorway. Kemp risked being seen and had a glimpse of pretty, dark-eyed Mary Morgan.

"Lieutenant Kemp was with me outside when this— this pin-up girl was killed!" she announced. "How about asking Bobby Lane some questions? I saw him go toward the stage just before the curtain went up on that dagger in the pin-up picture."

Bobby Lane turned toward her his mouth twisting.

"That's a blasted lie!" he mouthed. "I was outside when the curtain went up, and went into the hotel lobby to make a phone call."

"We'll check with the switchboard operator," said Sergeant Reardon.

"I used the public dial phone in a booth and didn't contact the operator," hastily supplied Bobby Lane. "Why would I want to kill the girl I intended to marry?"

"On the records you drop 'em fast!" snapped hardboiled Sergeant Reardon. "Maybe she had somethin' on you, Lane. One of you take over her things. Where's her handbag? A dame like her always has enough in one to fill a trunk."

Two minutes later the searchers announced that the murderer must have taken the handbag.

Kemp thought, if Legs McCarthy happened to be the man, he would have taken his letters at least.

Then, holding them in his hand, Kemp noticed a few words written across an envelope in Tina's scrawly hand. As he was reading the brief sentence in amazement, Captain Morgan came in.

Mary Morgan was still in the doorway. Kemp heard the C.O.'s low-voiced command to the girl.

"Go home— don't make a fool of yourself over Kemp— we've been in his rooms— that dagger he always used on the draughting table is not there—"

Kemp was still digesting Tina's scrawled writing.

"If anything happens to me, it's because I talked too much to Bobby and Tony about how I would surprise them with what my pin-up picture is hiding in Don Kemp's—"

That was all. The girl might have been interrupted in her scribbling. But clearly she must have had a hunch that she was in danger. She could only have told Bobby Lane and Tony Walsh about the safe behind her pin-up picture, thought Kemp.

And that stunt of the dagger thrust into the life- size pin-up drawing on the stage? Kemp squinted to study the face and small, beady eyes of Tony Walsh.

What a throw-off alibi, virtually spoiling his show, that stabbing of a pin-up picture might have been!

This Sergeant Reardon was tops at picking out what might turn out to be his meat. He rasped an order.

"Clear the room, boys! You, Walsh, Carnes, Bobby Lane, and this girl with Don Kemp's alibi, stick here! Don't any of the rest of you leave the hotel!"

The room was being cleared, except for those the police sergeant had named. Kemp was surprised that Legs McCarthy had not been included with the others told to stick.

The police medical examiner was doing his stuff. The fingerprint boys were completely balked. The dagger haft was too rough to retain impressions. Virtually everything else in the dressing room might have been touched by any number of persons.

The C.O., Captain Morgan, started to exercise his right. Murder was under civil law. But this hotel was military reservation.

"My daughter will go to her room and be on call, Sergeant Reardon," declared Captain Morgan. "She isn't mixed up in this, except by the accidental meeting with Lieutenant Kemp."

Kemp's whole attention was drawn to the girl's flashing eyes and the quality of her sudden defiance.

"I'm staying right here, father," she declared. "They ore trying to put something onto Don Kemp. It's my place beside him, if he is found. You see, this is all foolishness. I'm sorry for Tina Layton, but Don had given her up weeks ago. Don and I expect to announce our engagement."

KEMP really saw Mary Morgan then for the first time. Slim and straight, lovely and daring, she faced her father. Kemp uttered an inward groan. He knew now that this girl had been growing upon him, in spite of his bitterness over Tina's sudden selfish ambition that had made her another person— a pin-up girl.

"Okay, miss!" growled Reardon. "Clear 'em out! You stay, if you insist. Captain Morgan, the circumstances fit Lieutenant Kemp fairly straight. We'll have to hold him when he is brought in."

The room was clearing. The murdered Tina's scrawled words took on sudden, vital importance. Kemp realized that any one of four persons still in this room, although Legs McCarthy was trailing out slowly behind the others, might be the killer.

And one or a pair or more could be involved in the theft of the tank plans from his room.

Tony Walsh and Bobby Lane evidently had been told too much by Tina about his hidden safe.

Legs McCarthy had been secretly corresponding with Tina. Had he made that double-crossing play for the girl, or for what he believed she might know?

Kemp's position could not be maintained much longer. It had been sheer audacity that had kept him behind the big trunks. He must get out, be free to put a finger upon the killer and the thief who had stolen the tank plans.

As the space cleared about the dead girl, the idea came. Kemp looked at the small, brass square around the light button only eight or ten feet away.

"It's one chance and a long one," he whispered. He slid his army .45 into his hand. Always a crack shot, he had no doubt what he could do to that light button and the wires connected with it.

Then he fixed the position of everyone in the room. Legs McCarthy was just going through the door, slowly, as if there was something here that he wanted. It could be those letters.

Bobby Lane was standing beside Tony Walsh, his apparently mournful eyes upon Tina's body. Black-eyed Tony Walsh seemed to be studying everyone who went through the doorway. Carlos Carnes, the civilian manager, was rubbing at his nose in a worried way.

Captain Morgan and Mary were to one side. The C.O. was red-faced with anger and talking in a low tone to the livid girl. She was shaking her head with firm determination.

Don Kemp lifted the army gun slowly. The explosion of the .45 was like a crack of thunder in that small room. There was a blue flash from the wall. Then there was almost instant and impenetrable darkness.

Kemp dropped, crawling a few feet, coming up and diving as Sergeant Reardon roared out an oath.

"Dumbheads! Get him! The killer's been here all the time!"

Reardon's own Police Positive must have cracked and Captain Morgan called out.

"Stop that! Someone will be killed! Block the door!"

Don Kemp made a long dive to where Legs McCarthy was just departing. His hooked arm brought the cameraman of the corps crashing down.

But there was a concerted rush for the door. As McCarthy fell, cursing wildly, a man screamed hoarsely. His death agony was almost like that of an animal.

Sergeant Reardon blazed a flashlight across the room. Kemp let go of McCarthy and rolled. He saw Bobby Lane on the floor with blood pumping from his ripped throat. The millionaire playboy was speechless now and would be dead in seconds.

Tall Tony Walsh had half fallen over the dying man. Kemp's smashing bullet had torn the wiring and blown a fuse. The outside corridor was all in darkness.

Kemp let go of McCarthy and came up. He smashed a left to Tony Walsh's chin. But as Walsh fell, Kemp saw the pudgy white hand that thrust the jade- hafted dagger into Walsh's pocket The dagger had been snatched from the pin-up girl's heart

Kemp smacked the barrel of his gun across the teeth of Carlos Carnes, the civilian manager. As the man went down, Kemp whirled, talking, with Reardon and three other coppers covering him with their guns.

"Lieutenant Kemp reporting, sir!" he snapped at Captain Morgan. "Plans two-four-three were stolen by one of these three men this afternoon! The blood on Carlos Carnes' hand shows who knifed Bobby Lane, possibly because he was afraid he would talk. Before I'm under arrest, I would suggest Carnes' rooms and all of the baggage of Bobby Lane and Tony Walsh be searched."

BEFORE he submitted the scribbled words of Tina, the pin-up girl, Don Kemp separated the envelope from the other letters of Legs McCarthy. McCarthy stared at Kemp as the lieutenant made a swift pass of the letters to him, and then reversed his gun and handed it to Sergeant Reardon.

A little later, Tony Walsh cleared himself. The tank plans were unearthed from under a rug in Carlos Carnes' office.

"Tina told us about a hidden safe behind her pinup picture," explained Tony Walsh. "I tried to stop her. Bobby Lane's reputed fortune has dwindled to nothing. But he had been getting regular remittances.

"Bobby Lane was being paid as an Axis agent. I knew he was already acquainted with Carlos Carnes, here at the hotel. As soon as that stage stabbing stunt and the murder loomed up, I was convinced either Bobby Lane or Carnes was the killer. I kept quiet for the time, waiting to see how the frame-up might be pinned upon Lieutenant Kemp.

"I congratulate you, lieutenant, on being smarter and quicker than these Axis stooges. I've an idea Carnes killed Bobby Lane and Tina. He would figure that Kemp would know or guess where the information had come from about his hidden safe. No doubt Carnes was planning to take quick leave of this place."

"You're all technically under arrest," announced Sergeant Reardon a little later. "However, we have checked with the F.B.I., and they are fairly certain Carnes is one of the Axis agents who slipped out of their trap up in Detroit nearly a year ago."

Don Kemp faced the C.O. a short time after that. "I should have you up and drummed out for keeping priceless information to yourself," grunted Captain Morgan. Then his rugged face cracked into a grin.

"However, if what Mary says is true, I'll guarantee you'll never again hide anything behind the picture of a pin-up girl," added the C.O. "By the way, Mary is waiting up for you. After what she had been through, I ordered her to get to bed. So she's waiting up. My boy, Mary doesn't take orders and I've never known her to miss what she goes after."

Don Kemp smiled a little. He snapped a salute and stepped out into the room where Mary was waiting, her dark eyes lifted to meet him.

Don Kemp heard Captain Morgan mutter, faintly, "An' may the good gods have mercy on your soul."

_______________

7: The Bent Tree

Stacy Aumonier

1877-1928

Pan, Oct 1920

THE CALL was irresistible. I had tramped for nearly two hours along the white road, when suddenly a long stretch of open heath with sparsely-scattered trees and high gorse bushes invited me to break my journey and to seek the shade of a wood that fringed it on the western side. The ground sloped upwards at a steep gradient and I was soon among the cool shadows of the larch trees. After climbing for nearly half-an-hour I found myself on a kind of plateau, looking down upon one of the most beautiful sights in the world, the Weald of Sussex trembling in a grey heat mist framed through a thin belt of trees. I pushed forward, determining to rest in this most attractive spot. Nearing the fringe of this little clump, I observed a bent tree in a clearing. As I approached it it occurred to me that the subject before me was curiously like Corot's famous masterpiece. It was indeed a wonderful and romantic spot. Beneath me a river rambled through the meadows and became lost in the grey-blue distances. There was no sign of civilisation except sleepy cattle and the well-kept fields, and occasionally a village nestling in the hollow of the downs. The only sound was the movement of leaves, the drone of bees and the lowing of cattle in the distant meadows.

I sat down on the bent tree, and as I looked around it occurred to me that the spot I had chosen was like a little arbour. It might have been the home of some God of ancient Britain, who could have lived here undisturbed through all the generations. I was wondering whether anyone else had ever penetrated to this glorious retreat from the world when my eye caught a small square of white paper pinned on the trunk of the bent tree. I examined it, and lo! on it was written in ink:

GONE TO LUNCH

BACK IN 20 MINUTES

Now if there is one thing that makes me wretchedly unhappy it is the action of people who find pleasure in disfiguring nature, in carving their initials on tree-trunks, in scattering paper and orange peel about the countryside; but somehow, when I caught sight of this absurd city office formula pinned to a tree in this most inaccessible and romantic spot, I must confess that "my lungs did crow like Chanticleer." I felt that here indeed was the work of a vast and subtle humorist. The formula was so familiar. How often had I waited hours in murky passages, buoyed up by this engaging promise! It seemed so redolent of drab staircases, and files and roll-top desks, that its very mention out here struck a fantastic note. That anyone should suggest that he carried on a business here, that his time was precious, that after gulping down a cup of coffee, he would rush back, cope with increasing press of affairs, seemed to me wonderfully and amazingly funny. I must acknowledge that I made myself rather ridiculous. I laughed till the tears streamed down my face, and my only desire was for a companion with whom to share the manna of this gigantic jest. I looked at the card again. It was comparatively clean, so I presumed that the joke had been perpetrated quite recently.

And then I began to wonder whether the jester would return, whether, after all, the slip had any significance. Was it the message of a poacher to a friend? Or was this the secret meeting place of some gods of High Finance? I determined in any case to wait the allotted span, and in the meantime I stretched myself on the stem of the bent tree, and, lighting a cigarette, prepared to enjoy the tranquillity of the scene.

It was barely ten minutes before my siesta was disturbed by a man coming stealthily up the slope. He was a medium-sized, sallow-faced fellow, with small tired eyes set in dark hollows. He was wearing a tailcoat and a bowler hat. He shuffled quickly through the wood, pushing the branches of the trees away from him. His eyes fixed me furtively, and as he entered the little arbour, he took off his hat and fidgetted with it, as though looking for a customary hook on which to hang it.

"I hope I haven't kept you waiting?" was his greeting.

"Not at all," I found myself answering, for lack of a more suitable reply.

"Did Binders send you?" he asked tentatively.

"No," I replied, pulling myself together. "I just happened to come here."

A look of disappointment passed over his face. "Oh!" he said, walking up and down. "I sometimes do a bit with Binders and his friends, you know"— he waved his arms vaguely— "you know, from Corlesham."

Corlesham I knew to be a village rather more than two miles away, a sleepy hamlet of less than fifty souls.

"Oh, I see," I replied, more with the idea of not discouraging him than because any particular light had come to me.

He looked at me searchingly for some moments, and then, going over to a thick gorse bush, he knelt down and groped underneath and presently produced a thick pile of papers and circulars.

"I wonder whether you would like to do anything in these? These West Australians are good. They're right down to 65. If you can hold on, a sure thing. If you would like a couple of thousand now..." he was nervously biting his nails; then he said, "Could you spare me a cigarette?"

I produced my case and handed him one.

"Thanks very much," he said. "They don't like me to smoke at home," and he waved his hand towards the north. I followed the direction, and just caught sight of the top of a gable of a large red-brick building through the trees.

So this was a solution.

"This is a glorious place," I said.

This seemed a very harmless platitude and one not likely to drive a being to despair. But it had a strange effect on my individual, for he sat down on a broken branch and burst into a paroxysm of invective.

"Oh, Gawd!" he said. "I hate it, hate the sight of it! Day after day— all the same! All these blinkin' trees and fields— all the same, nothing happenin' ever."

I found it very difficult to meet this outburst. I could think of nothing to say, so I kept silent. After a time he got up, puffing feverishly at the cigarette, and walked round the little arbour. Every now and then he would stop and make a gesture towards the shrubs. I believe he was visualising files and folios, ledgers, and typewriters. He made a movement of opening and shutting drawers.

"You've been a bit run down, haven't you?" I said at last, with a feeble attempt to bridge the gulf.

He looked at me uncertainly, and wiped the perspiration from his brow.

"I was unlucky," he said sullenly. "I worked like a nigger for thirty years, but so do the others— lots of them— and they're all right. Just sheer bad luck, if you know what I mean. I can do it now when they let me. That's why I come here. Binders helps me a bit. He sends me people. And, do you know?" he whispered to me confidentially, "I've got the postman on my side. He delivers me letters here at twopence a time. Look! here is my mail-box!" He stooped down and lifted a large stone and produced a further pole of correspondence and circulars. "Would you like to buy some of these Trinidads? I could work it for you."

He looked at me anxiously, and I made some elaborate excuse for not seizing such a splendid opportunity. He sighed, and placed the papers back under the stone.

"Have you ever dealt in big things?" he asked.

"I'm afraid not— in your sense," I answered, nurturing an instinctive sense of outraged superiority against this person who, I felt, despised me.

"You know what I mean by big things," he said fiercely. "Millions and millions, and the lives and works of millions of people! Do you know why I come down here to this rotten little clearing? Because it sometimes reminds me of my office off Throgmorton Street. Look! It was just this size. I had my desk over there. Horswall, my secretary, had his desk here. Here was the fireplace. The press just here by the window. Here the shelves with all the files. Can you imagine what it's like to have been there all those years, to have worked up what I did— all out of nothing, mark you!— to have got the whole rubber market in the hollow of my hand!—and then, oh, God! to be condemned to— this!" and he made a gesture of fierce contempt towards the Weald of Sussex.

"For nearly two years now," he continued, "I've been living in this hole."

"Nature has a way," I said, in my most sententious manner, "of coming back on us."

"Naycher! Naycher!" he almost screamed. "Don't talk to me about Naycher! What sort of friend is Naycher to me or you? Naycher gives you inclinations and then breaks you for following them! Two men fall into a pond— what does Naycher care that one man was trying to drown his enemy while the other was trying to save a dog? They both stand their chance of death. Naycher leads you up blind alleys and into marshes and lets you rot. Besides, isn't man Naycher? Isn't it Naycher for me to work and make money, as it is for these blighting birds to sing? Aren't roll-top desks as much Naycher as— these blasted trees?"

He blinked savagely at the surrounding scene. The smoke from a distant hamlet drifted sleepily heavenwards, like incense to the gods of the Downs.

"My father was a turner in Walham Green, and he apprenticed me to the joinery, but I had my ambitions even in those times." He nodded knowingly, and mopped his brow. "At eighteen I was a clerk in a wholesale house in St. Paul's Churchyard. For three years I worked there underground, by artificial light. Then I got made sub-manager of a wharf at the South end of Lower Thames Street. I was there for five years, and saved nearly three hundred pounds out of a salary of £120 a year. Then I met Jettison, and we started that office together, Jettison & Gateshead, Commission Agents. Work and struggle, work and struggle, year after year. But it was not till I got on to rubber that I began to make things move. That was eight years after. Do you remember the boom? I got in with Gayo, who had lived out in the Malay Straits— knew everything— we got the whole game at our fingers' ends. We knew just when to buy and just when to sell. Do you know, I've made as much as four thousand pounds in one afternoon, just talking on the telephone! And we done it all in that little room"— he gazed jealously round the little arbour in the hills, and scowled at me. Then he produced a packet of cigarettes and lighted one from the stump of the last one.

"In those days, through Gayo's friends, we followed the whole course of the raw stuff. Then Gayo went out to Malay, and he used to cable me every few days, putting me on to the right thing. My God, he was a man! It went on for two years, when suddenly a cable came to say he was dead— fever, or something, up-country. That was the end. The slump came soon after. I worked hard, but I never got control back. Down and down and down they went, as though Gayo was dragging them through the earth." His lower lip trembled as he rolled the emaciated cigarette over.

"Lord, what a fight I had, though I sat in that office there, in my shirt-sleeves, day and night for months on end, checking tapes, cabling, lying, faking, bluffing"— he chuckled with a meditative intensity. "I'd have done it then, if they'd given me time. But they closed in; there were two Scotch firms, and a man named Klaus. I knew they meant to do me down. There was a set against me. I wasn't there in the end. I was sitting in the office one night..." He passed his hand over his brow and swept away a wasp that had settled there. He sat silent for some moments, as though trying to recall things, and twice started to speak without framing a sentence.

"My brother was very good to me," he said suddenly, waving his hand towards the red-brick gable in the trees. "He was very good to me all through." Then he added, with a sort of contemptuous shrug, "In the cabinet-making he was; got a little works at Bow— made about four hundred a year— married, and five children."

He sat for some minutes with his head in his hands, and then he sat up and gazed upon the joyous landscape with unseeing eyes.

I ventured to remark, "Well, I'm sure this place ought to do you good." He turned his melancholy eyes upon me, and sighed.

"Yes," he said, after a pause. "You're just the sort. I've seen so many of you about. Some of you have butterfly nets." He kept repeating at intervals, "Butterfly nets!" One felt that the last word in contumely had been uttered. He sank into an apathy of indifference. Then he broke out again.

"I tell you," he uttered fiercely, "that I had millions and millions. I controlled the work and the lives of millions of men, and you come here and talk to me of Naycher. Look at these damned trees! They go green in the summer, yellow in the autumn, and bare in the winter. Year after year, exactly the same thing, and that's all there is in it. I'm sick of the sight of them. But look at men! Think of their lives, the variety! What they can do! Their clothes, their furniture, their houses, their cities! Think of their power! The power of making and marring!"

"You mean the power of buying and selling," I ventured.

"Yes, that's just it!" he said, feeling that he was converting me.

"The power of buying and selling! Of making men rich or poor!" He stood up and waved his thin arms and gazed wildly round him. "Not chasing butterflies!"

At the moment we both became aware that a third person was on the scene. He was a well set-up man, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. He was dressed in a dark-blue serge suit and a tweed cap. He stepped quietly through the trees, and went up to my companion, and said:

"Ah! there you are, Mr. Gateshead. I'm afraid it's almost time for your afternoon nap, sir." And then, turning to me, he nodded and remarked: "A warm afternoon, sir!" He spoke with a quiet, suave voice that somehow conveyed the feeling of the 'iron hand in the velvet glove.' His voice seemed to have a sedative effect on Mr. Gateshead. My companion did not look at him, but he seemed to shrink within himself. A certain flush that had accompanied his excitement vanished, and his face looked old and set. He drew his narrow shoulders together and his figure bent. He stood abstractedly for a few moments, gazing at the trees around him, and then, with a vague gesture that was characteristic of him, he clutched the lapels of his coat, and with his head bent forward he walked away towards the building. He did not cast a glance in my direction, and the man in the serge suit nodded to me and followed him leisurely.

I clambered down the slope of the wood, and for some reason felt happy to get once more upon the road.

About half a mile from Corlesham I met the postman coming up the hill, wheeling his bicycle. He was a sandy-haired man, splendidly Saxon, with grey-blue eyes and broad mouth. I asked him if there was a foot-path to Corlesham, and he directed me.

"Do you have a long round?" I asked.

"Three or four mile, maybe," he said, looking at me narrowly.

"It's a good pull up to the Institution," I ventured.

"What institution might that be?" he said, and his mild blue eyes disarmed me with their ingenuousness.

"The house with the three red gables," I answered.

"Oh!" came the reply. "You mean old Gateshead's."

"Does he own it?" I said incredulously.

"Ay, and he could own six others for all the difference it would make to his money. He owns half the county."

"And yet what a strange idea," I murmured insinuatingly. "To own a large house and yet to have one's letters delivered in a wood!"

The postman swung his bag into a more comfortable position and looked across his machine at me with a grin.

"Those as has money can afford to have any ideas they like," he said at last.

"I'm afraid his money doesn't make him very happy," I ventured, still groping for further enlightenment.

The postman gave his right pedal a vigorous twirl as a hint of departure. He then took out a packet of Navy Cut cigarettes and lighted one. This action seemed to stimulate his mental activities, and he leant on the handle-bars and said:

"Ay, if one has no money maybe one can make oneself happy thinking one has. And if one has money, maybe one can make oneself happy by thinking one hasn't." He blinked at me, and then added, by way of solving all life's mysteries: "If one— puts too much store by these things."

I could find no remark to complement the postman's sententious conclusions, and, dismissing me with a nod, he mounted his bicycle and rode off up the hill.

__________________

8: The Arizona Callahan

H. Bedford-Jones

1887-1949

Blue Book, March 1924

NELLY CALLAHAN was the only one to see just what happened. Everyone else in camp had gone down the island that day to get a count of the half-wild cattle among the blueberry swamps.

The wild drive of rain and low clouds to the westward hid Garden Island from sight and lowered all the horizon, until Lake Michigan seemed a small place. Beaver Island was clear vanished, and so was High Island with its colony of Israelites. Nothing was, to be seen from this north end of Hog Island except the foaming shallows and the deeper water beyond, and the huge rollers bursting in from the Wisconsin shore— with two other things. One, as the keen blue eyes of the watching girl could make out, was or had been a boat; the other was a man.

She had heard shots, faint reports crack- ing down the wind, drawing her to the point of land to see what was happening out there toward Garden Island. For a long while there was nothing to see, until the boat came into sight. It was only a blotch, rising and then gone again, gradually sink- ing from sight altogether. Few would have seen it. Nelly Callahan, however, was an island girl, and her eye was instantly caught by anything outside the settled scheme of things. So she knew it for a boat, and after a time knew that it had gone down entirely.

Presently she made out the man. To her intense astonishment he was sitting in the stern of a canoe, and paddling. Canoes are rare things in the Beaver Islands these days; here in the center of Lake Michigan, with thé nearest land little more than a mirage above the horizon, there are other arid safer playthings, and life is too bitter hard to be lightly held.

Yet here was a canoe driving down the storm, a rag of sail on a stumpy mast forward, tarpaulins lashed over freight-rolls amidships, the man paddling in the stern. What connection was there between him and that sunken boat, and those shots behind the curtain of rain and mist?

That he was trying to get in under the curving line of exposed ledge and shoal that ran out from the point was obvious. If he missed, he would be carried on out to the open lake, for once around the point his chances of getting to land were slim. Nelly Callahan watched him admiringly as he fought, gaining inch by inch, now leaning hard on his paddle, now stroking desperately as the gusty wind threw off the canoe's head. The odds were worse than he could realize, too; all along the point there were shoals, running only two to three feet of water, and his canoe evidently carried a centerboard.

SUDDENLY she saw the paddle snap in his hands. The canoe swayed wildly over, swayed back again, rose on a sweeping foam-crest and was flung forward. Another instant, and she would have been rolled over, but the man snatched out another paddle and dug it in. Again the stubborn, straining fight, but he had lost ground, and the current was setting out around the point of land.

Still, he had a good chance to win. He was closer, now; Nelly Callahan could see that his shirt was torn to ribbons, that his mouth was bleeding; and those things did not come from wind and rain alone. The canoe was a wide lake-cruiser, safe enough in any sea except for her heavy load— but this rock-studded shore water was safe for no craft. All the wide expanse around the Beavers is treacherous with rocks barely awash.

An invisible hand seemed to strike the man suddenly, knocking him forward on his face. The canoe staggered, lay over on one side— she had struck bottom. Frantically the man recovered, jerked up the center-board, threw in the pin. But he was too late; he had lost the game. The bow, with its scrap of sail, bore off before the sweep of wind, and like an arrow the canoe darted out around the point and was gone.

For a moment Nelly Callahan stood motionless at the edge of the trees. Then she turned and started to cut across the base of the long point, to get a view of the north shore beyond. There was no trail, however. Nobody lived on Hog Island; the brush was heavy and almost impenetrable. Excited, breathless, the girl struggled on her way, but knew that she was too slow. However, she kept on. Presently she burst through the final barrier, her feet slipping and sliding on the ground-pine that trailed across the sand, and came out on the northern stretch of shore. Nothing was in sight.

For a little while she stood there, dismayed, agonized, incredulous. She had been a long while getting here, of course; yet some sign of man or canoe, even had the latter capsized, must have been within sight. Here around the point the force of the rollers was lessened, too. Yet everything was empty. Man and canoe had vanished.

A SHOUT roused the girl. She glanced over her shoulder, fear flitting into her blue eyes; then she turned and retraced her steps.

When she stepped back into the clearing of the camp, the others had returned. She shrank within herself slightly, as always, as her eyes swept them; for though Nelly was a Beaver girl, she was also something more. Her mother had come from the mainland, and there was none of the closely interbred strain in Nelly Callahan.

"Where ye been?" called Matt Big Mary, her father, combing out his tangle of black beard with knotted fingers. "Get the coffee on, girl! It's needin' it we are, the day."

It was something of a tribute to Matt Callahan that he was not known by the usual island diminutive, though the peculiar system of nomenclature obtained to distinguish him from his cousin Matty Basset Callahan. He was a giant of a man, massive as an oak, in his deep eyes a brooding, glooming shadow that had lain there since his wife died.

The others were merry enough, however, for Hughie Dunlevy had fallen into the swamp and mired himself head over ears; small wonder that Jimmy Basset and Willy Tom Gallagher made sport at that, since Hughie Dunlevy was a great man on the island, holding a second mate's ticket, and strong as any two men except Matt Big Mary. He was fishing this summer, going partners with Matt, and had bought a half-interest in the Callahan cattle that ran here on Hog Island. Men said in St. James that he would make a good son-in-law to Matt, for it is always the wildest who settle down the best, and if he would but leave Jimmy Basset's moonshine liquor alone, he had a great future fronting him. Here for a week they were, pulling the long stakes that had held pound-nets all the spring out at the edge of deep water where the great trout and whitefish ran, and working the north island shore with trap-nets and bloater lines. Here for a week were the four men, with Nelly Callahan to cook and mind camp. She and her father occupied the old shanty at the edge of the clearing; the other three slept in the brown tent near by.

Now, any other Beaver girl would have at once drawn general attention to the sunken boat, which would wash in and make salvage, and to the presumably drowned man and his canoe. But Nelly Callahan kept quiet. She had become a changed girl since getting home from her school-teaching this spring, and finding that her father had made a match with Hughie Dunlevy for her; much had happened; sorrowful things had transpired; and Nelly Callahan was biding her time.

Half an hour passed by, and the noon meal was over; and since the weather was too bad for work, there was naught to be done but sit and smoke. Then Matt Big Mary took Jimmy Basset and Willy Tom Gallagher with him, and a trap-net from the big launch dragged up under the trees, and set off down the shore. He gave Hughie Dunlevy a significant wink.

"We'll take the skiff down to Belmore Bay," said he, "and be setting a trap out beyond the old wreck, and maybe pick up a fifty-dollar box o' bass come Saturday. Hughie, me lad, keep your eye on the camp."

"Aye," said big Hughie, grinning all over his broad, good-natured face; and they filed off down the shore on their two-mile tramp to Belmore Bay. Nelly was keenly aware of the strategy, but made no comment. She was afraid of Hughie, as well she might be. A fine, strapping lad he was except when he was crossed, and good-humored while he had his own way and there was no liquor in him; yet he was one to be afraid of.

"There's more cattle down the island than we looked for, Nelly," said he, chewing at a cigar and watching the girl as she cleaned up. "The buyer will be over from East Jordan next week, and then there'll be doings. What's more, there's some big pine in yonder that's never been cut out. I'm thinkin' of raftin' it over to the mill."

"Good idea, if you owned it," said a strange voice. "But you don't."

HUGHIE DUNLEVY turned, stared, came to his feet with a leap. There at the edge of the trees, his approach unheard, stood the man whom Nelly Callahan had seen in the canoe. He wore nothing but his ragged shirt, the most essential half of a pair of overalls, and canvas shoes. Short, curly red hair crowned a face that was weather-hardened, humorous, strong-boned; one glimpsed. sparkling gray eyes hat could either laugh or glitter, and a wide, generous mouth. Dripping wet. as he was, the stranger showed bruises and a cut lip, and a red streak ran across his half- exposed chest.

"If you could spare me a bite to eat, young lady, I'd appreciate it!"' exclaimed the stranger genially. "Did I scare you folks? Sorry! My boat went down, and I was washed ashore, saw the smoke of your fire, and came for it. Is that a fish mulligan I smell? Then if there's any left, have pity on a starving man!"

Nelly, with a smile at his laughing words, turned to the big pot. Hughie Dunlevy regarded the stranger with a frown on his wide features.

"Where'd ye come from? Who are ye?"

"Callahan's my name," said the stranger, coming forward.

"You're no island Callahan!" said Dunlevy promptly. The other laughed.

"No, I haven't that honor; but our ancestors were kings in Ireland at the same time. I don't go by that name either; mostly folks call me Hardrock."

"Hardrock Callahan, eh?" exclaimed the girl, not liking the general aspect of Hughie Dunlevy. "Well,I'm Nelly Callahan, and this is my father's camp, and you're welcome. Shake hands with Hughie Dunlevy and make yourself comfortable. I'll have this mulligan hot in a minute, and coffee's all ready."

Hardrock stepped forward and extended his hand. Dunlevy accepted it, though not with any marked warmth, and for an instant the two men measured each other.

"What was that you said when you showed up?" demanded Hughie."About me not owning this timber?"

"Something like that, I guess." Hardrock Callahan laughed cheerfully. "I happen to own it myself. Oh, coffee ready? Thanks, Miss Callahan— or if I may say so, Miss Nelly! I hate to use the name of Callahan on the Beavers— too many other Callahans here already."

He sat down, turned his back to the scowling, indeterminate Hughie, and sipped the hot coffee. Nelly Callahan did not smile, however, as she put the mulligan pot in the embers. It had come to her that while she was crossing the point, this man must have worked his canoe in to the shore, have dragged it up, and have made camp. And what was this story of owning the timber?

"You and me will have a talk," said Hughie Dunlevy, "when you've had a bite to eat."

"Right," said Hardrock Callahan. "I've had one or two talks already this morning."

The girl looked at him, met his twinkling gray eyes, and smiled despite herself.

ii

NELLY CALLAHAN saw that this man Hardrock was a stranger; and yet he was not a stranger. No one but a fool would have walked ashore on the Beavers and claimed ownership of land, unless he was known and accepted; for little good his law title would do him. Hardrock was certainly not a fool, however; and at the same time he had some knowledge of the islands. He had hidden his canoe and the stuff in it; and it was significant that Nelly did not look upon the story he told as a lie, but as justifiable precaution... Was it his motorboat that she had seen sinking?

"And did ye say," inquired Hughie; recalling the boat, "that your boat had gone down?"

"Motorboat," and Hardrock nodded in affirmation. "Hit a sunken rock out yonder and raked her bottom out."

"Where from?"

"St. James."

Hughie scowled at that, as well he might, since no one but an islander was from St. James; and this man was no islander. Set in the middle of Lake Michigan, inhabited by a hundred and fifty families, each related to the others, living by the loot of the lakes and woods, the islanders were a clannish lot who clung together and let the world go by. A few Indians lingered; a few outsiders had roamed in; a few tourists came and went; and over on High Island was the colony of Israelites— silent, wistful men with wide eyes and hairy lips. No law was on the Beavers, nor ever had been, save when King Strang established his brief Mormon kingdom at St. James. There was not an officer in the group, not a judge nor a lawyer nor a doctor, and one man was as good as another; and once when the revenue men came to pry around, with talk of the Eighteenth Amendment, there were dark tales of what happened by night— but no more revenue men came. As for game wardens they were not fools.

The Beavers were not out of touch with the world, however. Scarce a large boat on the western lakes but had from one to ten islanders aboard, and the Beaver Gallaghers were known from Buffalo to Duluth; how many island men lay at the bottom of Whitefish Bay, it was hard to say. Some, who made money, spent the winters in Chicago or elsewhere; and Bowery Callahan, who swung the island vote, was State road-inspector and traveled up and down the land enjoying his ease.

NELLY looked at the two men by the fire, and felt a sudden hurt in the heart of her for the smiling stranger. He had no fear in his eye, and under his brown throat his skin was white like ivory, and his arms under their tattered sleeves were smooth as silk. At him as he ate glared Hughie Dunlevy, broad and dark like all the Dunlevys, rippling with great muscles, a man with strength to toss a box of fish like a toy; and many a tale was told of Hughie on the lake boats, and how he put the boots to any man who dared stand up to him.

Now Hardrock sighed, and smiled at Nelly, and thanked her for his meal.

"We'll have our talk," said he to Hughie, "and then I'll have a smoke."

"I'm not so sure about that," said Hughie. 'What are ye doing here?"

"Resting on my own land, if you want to know. I bought this end of the island from Eddie John Macaulay in Charlevoix."

There was no parry between the two of them, no hesitation. Hardrock looked Hughie in the eye and gave him the news straight and direct.

"Buying isn't keeping,' said Hughie. "We'll have a word about that matter. Eddie John told us to take the timber if we wanted it, and take it we will."

The gray eyes of Hardrock glittered for a moment.

"Take it you won't," said he bluntly.

Hughie laughed, and it was a laugh to reach under the skin and sting.

"Is that so, Mr. Callahan? It's sorry I'd be to hurt ye, and you washed ashore and out of luck; so keep a civil tongue in your head. Have no such talk around Matt Big Mary, I warn ye, for this is his camp and mine, and he's a bad man in his anger."

Hardrock's thin lips twitched. "So they said about Connie Dunlevy this morning in St. James. I hope he's not related to you? He came out on the dock to have a talk with me, and I think they're taking him over on the mailboat this afternoon to the hospital."

Hughie scrambled to his feet. "Glory be! What have ye done to my brother Connie, ye red-haired outlander?"

"Not a thing," said Hardrock, and chuckled. "Poor Connie fell off the dock. I think he broke a rib or two, and maybe his shoulder."

"Get up!" cried Hughie hoarsely, passion flaming in his face. "So that's who marked ye up, eh? Then I'll finish the job—"

Hardrock stretched himself and began to rise, lazily enough. Just then Nelly Callahan stepped forward.

"Don't, Hughie!" she exclaimed. "It isn't fair— you mustn't! He's all worn out—"

Hughie turned on her and shoved her aside. "Out o' this! Stand aside, and see—"

He never finished the sentence, for Hardrock was off the ground like a spring of steel, a billet of firewood in one hand, and the sound of the blow could be heard across the clearing. Struck behind the ear Hughie Dunlevy threw out his arms and went down in a heap. Hardrock looked at Nelly Callahan, and the glitter of his eyes changed to a smile.

"So that's that," he said coolly. "Too bad I had to use the stick, Miss Nelly, but you spoke the truth when you said I was done up. Don't worry about him— he'll come around after a bit. Do you suppose you could find me a bit of dry tobacco? Then we'll sit down and talk things over."

For a moment the girl looked at him. She was blue of eye and black of hair, and the color was high in her cheeks; and when she smiled there came a dimple on either side of her mouth, and her body held a spring of the foot and a supple grace of round lines that the school-teaching had not taken out of her. Suddenly a laugh broke in her eyes.

"Hughie had it coming, I think," said she, and turned. "I'll get you the tobacco."

She got him some, and sat down at the fire and watched him stuff it into his pipe and light it with an ember. Hughie Dunlevy lay where he had fallen.

"Father and the other boys will be back in an hour or sooner," she said. "I think you'd better go and get that canoe of yours, and be off while you have the chance."

Hardrock gave her a swift look, then chuckled.

"Oh! Saw me land, did you? No, I'm not going, thanks. I'm staying."

"Then you'll have trouble, I'm afraid."

He shrugged, and lay back on one elbow, smoking contentedly.

"Very likely. Eddie John Macaulay thought he worked a smooth trick when he sold me this end of the island, timber and all, but I'd been warned beforehand. I spent the night at St. James and went up to the dance and had a grand time. Connie Dunlevy had too much moonshine, though, and this morning he started to make trouble."

"Listen, please!" said the girl, an urgent note in her voice. "You can't take this seriously— but you must! You don't understand. You'll not be allowed to stay, after all that's happened. Who was shooting out in the channel? What boat was that I saw sinking?"

Hardrock took the pipe from his lips and regarded her for a moment.

"My dear Nelly," he said quietly, "I'm afraid you're the one who doesn't understand. Did you ever hear of Danny Gallagher?"

Her eyes opened at that. "Danny? Why of course! His father Vesty owns the sawmill down at the head of the island. But Danny has been away two years, in Arizona."

"And I've come from, Arizona," said Hardrock. '"That's where I got my nick-name. I've been running a mine out there, and Danny has been working with me. He's a fine boy, Danny is! He told me so much about the islands that I came up here when I got a year off, and I'm going to settle down in a cabin here under the trees, and finish writing a mining book for engineers. Danny has written his father about me. I meant to look up Vesty, but haven't had a chance yet."

The troubled comprehension in the blue eyes of the girl deepened at this.

"Why didn't you do it first?" she broke out. "If people knew that Danny had sent you here, and Vesty Gallagher would answer for you, there'd have been no trouble! Vesty is a big man on the island. A word from him—"

"My dear girl, I stand on my own feet," said Hardrock quietly. "The sunken boat you saw was mine. Two of Connie's friends got after me. I suppose they thought it was quite safe, for the rain was coming down in sheets and one could scarcely see three hundred yards. They ran me down before I knew what they were up to. Fortunately, I had time to cut the canoe loose and get into her, and then I opened up on the two rascals with my shotgun, and gave them plenty. Never fear! When I go over to St. James I'll know 'em again, and take a little punish- ment out of them for the loss of that motorboat. Satisfied, are you?"

Under his twinkling gray eyes, the girl laughed a little.

"Hold it!" he exclaimed. 'Oh, no use— gone again."

"Eh?" Her gaze widened. "What?"

"Those dimples. How long is this camp to continue?"'

"Until the first of the week." Nelly Callahan was disconcerted by his abrupt change of subject and forgot to resent the personality. "Father's rounding up some cattle and counting how many there are here."

"Good! Then I'll be over to the dance next Thursday night. May I take you?"

She was startled by his words. She was more startled a moment later when a crashing of brush sounded, and she leaped to her feet.

"Oh! Father's coming—"

"Answer the question," persisted Hardrock. "Quick!"

"Yes," she said, and then turned swiftly to him. "Go quickly—"

"Nonsense!" Hardrock puffed at his pipe. "Nothing to get excited about. I'm not going to start any trouble, I promise you. Great Scott! Is that your father?"

He stared at the huge figure of Matt Big Mary advancing upon him, with the other two men following. All three gaped at him. Matt, astonished, came to a halt.

"What's this!" he rumbled. "Hughie! Where's Hughie, lass? Who's yon man?"

"Hughie's gone to sleep," said Hardrock, and came easily to his feet. "My name's Callahan—"

"He's a friend of Danny Vesty Gallagher," broke in the girl swiftly. "From Arizona. And Danny had him buy this end of the island from Eddie John Macaulay, Father."

"Shipwrecked on my own land," said Hardrock, laughing. He held out his hand. "You're Matt Callahan— Matt Big Mary? Danny has told me about you. Glad to meet you."

Matt gave him a huge grip, between surprise and bewilderment.

"What's all this? Bought it off of Eddie John, ye did? And what d'ye mean by shipwrecked? There's been no boat—"

"My motorboat went down," said Hardrock. "I got ashore with my duffle, though. Got a camp down shore a piece. Came over from St. James this morning."

"Oh! And it's a friend o' Vesty Gallagher ye are, eh? What's the matter with Hughie?"

"Hughie made a mistake," Hardrock grinned cheerfully. "He didn't believe that I had bought this bit of the island. Somehow, Hughie and I didn't get along very well. He had some queer idea that I ought to walk home, and I didn't agree with him. So he went to sleep. I guess I'll be going. Drop over to my camp sometime. I'll likely run in and see you again. Thanks for the coffee, Miss Nelly."

And he was gone, with a wave of his hand, before the three astonished men knew what to say or do.

iii

HARDROCK CALLAHAN passed along the narrow sand-strip that edged the north shore of Hog Island, until he found a slight opening among the trees that suited him. Then he came back to his pulled-up canoe and began to transport his load to the spot selected; the canoe itself he left hidden where it was.

The storm was not clearing off, but was turning and bringing down a new and colder drift of rain and wind from the north. Ax in hand, Hardrock attacked the tangle of dead and living trees that rimmed him in like a wall. For an hour he worked steadily, slowly driving back the growth and clearing the grassy sward that had attracted him; then he dragged the debris to the shore and was rid of it. This done, he sat down in the wet sand, stuffed some of his own tobacco into his pipe, and sighed comfortably.

"What a girl!" he observed. "And she's the same one Danny Gallagher showed me the picture of, too. That's a coincidence. Well, I'd better get a shelter up before I settle down to dream about her. Good thing the motorboat went down instead of my canoe! She's a grade above most of the islanders that I've seen—"

Whether he referred to canoe or girl was not determined.

He set to work methodically getting up the tent, which he now unlashed, and anchored it securely. His clearing opened on the shore to the north, and the trees fully protected him from the eternal west winds; since he was pitching the tent for all summer, he made a thorough job of it, and this took time. Then, opening up some of his bundles, he produced flannel shirt and corduroys and other garments, and clothed himself in decency. Having already collected some dry wood from the thicket, he now built up a cheerful blaze and watched the wispy smoke whirl away in gray shreds down the wind. The afternoon was waning, and he was considering opening up some grub when a huge figure came into his vista of the shore and Matt Big Mary was striding up to him.

"Greetings!" exclaimed Hardrock cordially. "Come in out of the rain and toast your shins."

The big man nodded solemnly, sat down beside Hardrock in the tent. opening, produced a black pipe and blacker tobacco, and lighted up. He sat for a little in silence, staring over the fire at the gray lake with those deep-set, melancholy eyes of his. At length he removed the pipe from his lips and spoke.

"Hughie tells me ye've bought the timber."

"Yes. It went with the land, said Eddie John. I've no use for it, except this tall pine right back of here. If you want the rest, you can have it."

"I don't," said Matt. "You're none of the island Callahans?"

"No. New York State."

"So are we, out of County Tyrone. All the same stock." Matt puffed over. that for a bit. "Ye done a bad day's work, fallin' foul of Hughie Dunlevy."

"That's as may be. Sooner him than you."

Matt turned and swept Hardrock with his slow gaze. "Why?"

"Because,"— and Hardrock stretched himself out more comfortably,— "because I expect to marry your daughter."

"I don't like jokes," said Matt Big Mary, after a moment. "Not that kind."

"I'm not joking," said Hardrock coolly. "Danny Gallagher showed me a picture of her, and that's why I came here, partly. Now that I've seen her and talked with her, I know. I'm fair with you. If she's in love with nobody else, and I can win her, I'll do it."

"Hot head, queer heart," said Matt, a gathering rumble in his tone.

Hardrock laughed. "I'm safe enough."

"She's promised."

"By herself or by you?"

"No matter. Hughie Dunlevy marries her."

"No."

Storm grew in Matt's eyes, and his big black beard bristled.

"Careful, me lad! The boys wanted to come over and have a talk with ye, but I set down me foot. I want no trouble, without ye force it on me. I'll have no man makin' light talk of my girl, more particular a stranger."

"It's not light talk, Matt; I mean every word of it," said Hardrock. "And I'm not a good one to bluff, either. You fellows on the Beavers, Matt, are all clannish, and you all stick together like burrs, and you throw a strong bluff. Why? Because you're all afraid of the big world. Let a better man walk in and whip one or two of you, and things are different. Besides, I have a friend or so if I want to call on 'em, and I'll be no outcast. So think twice, Matt, before you lay down the law."

Even while. he spoke, Hardrock felt his words fruitless. Matt's mental horizon was too narrowed to comprehend him in the least.

"You take my advice," said Matt Big Mary after a moment. "Be out of here before tomorry night, me lad. Ye'll find a skiff on the shore down to the bay—"

"Want me to put you off my land, Matt?" said Hardrock quietly.

The other was so astonished that he turned his head and stared. What he saw in those hard, icy gray eyes held him silent. Hardrock continued:

"You seem to think, Matt, that I'm a boy to obey you. I'm not. I don't intend to put up a 'No Trespass' sign and keep folks off, but I'm not taking orders from you, and I'm not scared worth a damn. If you bring a fight to me, I'll meet you halfway every time. I've tried to be decent with you, because I want no trouble. Now, I have to be in St. James tomorrow morning, and I'll expect you to see that my camp here isn't disturbed while I'm gone; you're square enough to keep your men away from it. Think things over. When I come back, I'll see you. If you've made up your mind to avoid trouble and meet me halfway, I'll be glad. If not, we'll settle things in a hurry. What d'you say to that?"

Matt Big Mary laughed slowly.

"Aye," said he. "That's fair, Hardrock. But you'll not come back from the island, if what Hughie did be tellin' us is so. Connie Dunlevy will be waitin' for you, or his friends."

"So will Vesty Gallagher." Hardrock grinned cheerfully. "I'll be back to- morrow night or next day. Anything you want me to fetch with me— mail or grub?"

Matt stared at him a moment, then rose to his feet.

"Damned if I can make ye out," said he reflectively. "So long. I'll answer that the boys don't touch your camp."

He strode away and vanished along the shore.

AS daylight died, the storm was blown out and the rollers were already going down. Hardrock Callahan, after luxuriously dining on beans and biscuit and hot tea, smoked his pipe and watched the stars, then laid out his blankets and rolled up. He was asleep almost at once. It was two in the morning when he wakened, as he had set himself to do. A glance at his watch confirmed the hour. He dressed, and went down to the shore. Everything was quiet, save for the wash of waves and the whisper of breeze in the trees overhead. Off to the northwest came the swift, clear flash of the Garden Shoal light, and farther west, the zed flash from Squaw Island light glimmered over the horizon. Nodding, Hardrock returned to his tent, produced an electric torch and for ten minutes pored over an unrolled chart of the island group.

Then, satisfied, he laced up the tent- flap, turned to the shore, and went to where the wide lake-cruising canoe was laid up under the bushes. In ten minutes the light craft was standing out under the breeze, rounding the point and holding south for Beaver Island and St. James.

The dawn was breaking when he drew down toward the long and narrow harbor. Instead of holding for it, however, he went to the right of the unwinking red eye of the lighthouse, came to shore on the point amid the thick trees and half-ruined dwellings there, and drew up the canoe from sight. Hardrock Callahan was learning caution. He set out afoot, and presently came to the road that wound along the bay and was the artery of the straggling row of houses circling the bay-shore for a mile or more and forming the town of St. James.

The sun was rising upon a glorious day when he had passed down the length of the bay to the head, and reached the hotel and the restaurant adjoining. The hotel was not yet alive for the day, but the island itself was astir, and the restaurant was open. Hardrock went in and breakfasted leisurely by the help of Rose McCafferty, who was waitress, cook and proprietor. Finding himself taken for an early tourist from the hotel out for the morning's fishing, he let it go at that.

"Hear any more about the boys who were shot up?" he inquired casually, in the course of the meal. The response stupefied him.

"Glory be, and what more is there to hear, except the name o' the scoundrel that done it? Poor Marty Biddy Basset— a grand boy he was, and only yesterday morning he was settin' here before me! And Owen John will maybe get well, but the fever's on him and it's no talkin' he'll do this long while. The doctor at the hotel is wid him this blessed minute."

"Eh?" Hardrock stared at her. "One of them's dead, you say? I didn't know that—"

"Wasn't they picked up by the Danes and brought in last night, and poor Marty wid a bullet through him, and two through Owen, and the both of 'em all peppered wid birdshot as well, and the boat ruined wid bullets? There she lays down to the Booth dock this minute—"

Hardrock laid a coin on the counter and went out.

He stood staring down at the line of fish-sheds and wharves across the road, feeling numb and unable to believe what he had heard. Dead! Yet he had certainly used no bullets; he had neither rifle nor pistol. Mechanically he crossed the road and walked through the soft, deep sand to the fish-company's wharf. Red-haired Joe Boyle had just opened up the shed and was getting in some box-parts to knock together; he flung Hardrock a casual nod as the latter approached, and went on about his business.

The boat was not far to seek. She lay on the north side of the dock, and Hardrock stood gazing down at her. That she was the same which had run him down, he saw at a glance; not many of these boats were open craft; nearly all having a boxlike shelter for engines and lifters and men.

Across her weathered stern-sheets was a pool of dried, blackened blood, and the thwart by the engine carried another grim reminder. Fear clamped upon Hardrock— fear lest he be blamed for this affair. It seemed only too probable. Whoever had done the murder, too, must have done it shortly after he himself had peppered the two men with his shotgun. The swift impulse seized on him to run while he could. Instead of running, however, he leaned over and jumped down into the boat. Up forward was a tangle of ropes and lines and life-belts, and a colored object there caught his notice. He picked it up. It was a small pennant-shaped bit of canvas, painted half white, half black, attached to a stick that had broken short off. Moved by some instinct, certainly by no obvious reason, he pocketed it and climbed back to the wharf.

"Morning," said a voice, and he looked up to see a gnarled, red-whiskered man surveying him with an air of appraisal. "Your name aint Callahan, by any chance?"

"Callahan it is. Otherwise, Hardrock."

"Good. I been lookin' for ye," said the other. "I'm Vesty Gallagher, Danny's dad. Let's you and me go somewheres, and go quick. Come on over to Dunlevy's shed. Good thing I seen ye, Hardrock— blamed good thing! Come on."

iv

IN the heavy, dank quiet of the shed where the big nets hung, Hardrock sat smoking his pipe. His brain listened mechanically to the words of Vesty Gallagher; yet other sounds were borne in upon him; the rattle of ice from the wharf, the slam of fish-boxes tossed about, the eternal creaking of the great net-frames as they swung and swung endlessly in the breeze and groaned futile protest.

"By luck I come to town last night for freight, and remained over," said Vesty, "and by luck I seen you this morning and knew ye for a stranger. I said a word or two last night, when there was talk about your scrap wi' Connie Dunlevy, after the two boys was brought in. Some said you had done it, d'ye see? Nobody knows what's happened out there in the fog and rain, but there's plenty that intend to know. Eleven families o' Bassets there are on the island, and Marty Biddy dead today. Not to mention Owen John, wi' two bullets through him and the fever bad on him, and he'll go over to the Charlevoix hospital on he mailboat. By luck my boy Danny had been writin' me, and I was looking for ye."

Hardrock nodded and turned to the gnarled man beside him.

"It was more than luck that I met you this morning," he said quietly. "You don't know just how bad things look for me. Here's what happened."

He told what had taken place the preceding day, omitting no detail. "They were not close enough for the shotgun to do much damage," he concluded. "Where those bullets came from, I can't pretend to guess."

Vesty Gallagher bit his pipestem thoughtfully, watching Hardrock from screwed-up, sharp little eyes.

"You're straight," he said suddenly. "I'm with ye. So that's settled. Now hark ye here, me lad! Ill have a word wi' the priest, and he'll have a word wi' the boys, and they'll go slow. But if I was you, I'd come down to the sawmill with me and spend a while there."

Hardrock smiled. "Thanks, Vesty, but I can't do it. Surely there must be some way of telling who shot those two fellows?"

"There's many would ha' liked to do it," said old Gallagher. 'The two of them was a bad lot—them and the Dunlevy boys hung together. Ye'll have trouble there. Connie Dunlevy and Hughie will guess that ye had a hand in the shootin', and they'll go for ye. Better ye come down home with me, lad."

"Can't. Promised Matt Callahan I'd come back to Hog Island and settle matters with him." The gray eyes of Hardrock twinkled. "I said I'd put him off my land if he wasn't reasonable, and I'll do it."

"Glory be! Have ye been fighting with Matt Big Mary? And I hear Hughie's over there—"

Hardreck related a version of his encounter on the island— a version which very tactfully omitted any mention of Nelly Callahan. Old Vesty chuckled and scratched his red whiskers and then chuckled again.

"Praise be, it's fine to hear of some one who's got the guts to stand up to them Callahans!" he exclaimed. "Betwixt 'em, the Callahans and Dunlevys have been runnin' too high a hand and drinkin' too much o' Jimmy Basset's moonshine. What came ye to town for?"

"To find who it was had run me down, and make 'em pay for my motorboat," said Hardrock. "But now I'll reconsider the program. It won't do to have everybody know what happened, or I'd be—"

"You'd be shot so damned quick ye'd never know what struck!" said Vesty promptly. "Word's been passed around that you're a revenuer, but I've put a stop to that. If Owen John does any talkin' before they take him to Charlevoix, he'll be able to tell what happened, but they say he's bad off."

"I suppose the sheriff will be over to investigate?"

He sucked at his pipe a moment.

"Maybe," he said slowly. "And maybe not. Depends on what story's told. This here is Beaver Island, me lad. Them fellys has had scraps with everybody— Injuns, Danes, Israelites and Washin'ton Island men. Last week they had a scrap with some fellys from Cheboygan that was robbin' some nets. A wild bunch, them Cheboygan lads, fishin' on other folks' ground and runnin' whisky in from Canady. What'll ye do now?"

"Go back to Hog Island," said Hardrock.

"Do it, and if ye have any regard for health, keep the peace with Matt Big Mary! I'll walk up the shore with ye— left your canoe on the north point, ye said? It'll do ye no harm to be seen walkin' with me."

They left the shed and swung up to the road, and there Vesty hailed a man and halted Hardrock to meet him.

"It's Tom Boyle Gallagher, me own cousin, and his boys run the freight-boat and he runs the store yonder. Hey, Tom! Shake hands with Hardrock Callahan. He's the felly who had the scrap with Connie Dunlevy yesterday mornin'. It's a friend of Danny's he is, and a friend of mine, and he's bought some land on Hog Island from Eddie John Macaulay."

Tom Gallagher grinned as he met Hardrock's grip. "Glad to meet ye. Another Callahan, eh? Glory be, but the fightin' Callahans are all over the world! I seen ye to the dance the other night. Hear ye knocked Connie clear off'n the dock, eh? Good for him."

"Sorry I had any trouble," said Hardrock. "I want to spend the summer up here, and it seems like I got off to a bad start."

"More like a good start," and Tom chuckled. "Drop in to the store any time. It's glad to see you I'll be. See ye later, Vesty!"

The two men walked up the road together, meeting not a few folk. To more than one of these Vesty spoke, introducing Hardrock with emphatic cordiality, stopping now for a word or two and again for a bit of talk, so that it was a good hour afterward when they approached the canoe.

Hardrock, who wanted to pick up a trout or whitefish on the way back, showed his trolling line to old Vesty, and had a word of advice as to tackle, and then Vesty gave him a word as to other things.

"Lay low, me lad. When news comes, I'll have Tom Boyle Gallagher's boy bring it to ye— Micky, his name is. There's a few Gallaghers left on the island yet, praise be, and any friend o' Danny's is goin' to have a square deal. Be off with ye now, and good luck."

Ten minutes later, with the canoe leaning over to the breeze as she drew out, Hardrock was steering north and exchanging a last wave of the hand with Vesty Gallagher. Under the latter's optimistic influence and quick friendship, his stunned depression had quite evaporated. He was himself again, no longer hesitant or doubting, ready for whatever might happen.

"Blamed lucky thing I met him!" he thought, as he let out his trolling line and settled down to steer for home. "And I sure hope that wounded chap will open up and talk before long. Well, by gosh, I feel a heap better than I did! I think I'll drop in on Matt's camp— ought to get there about noon. Going to marry Hughie Dunlevy, is she? Not if I know it! is, Not, that is, unless she wants to, and I'll gamble she doesn't."

With just the right amount of ballast to hold her head down, the canoe was a marvel for speed, and Hardrock Callahan, who had not. spent all his life in Arizona, knew how to handle her. Thus it was not quite noon when he bore up for the north point on Hog Island.

In spite of the big whitefish that came to his line and set his knife to work and brought the gulls wheeling to pick up the offal, Hardrock had plenty of time to reflect on his situation. He was not particularly given to reflection, but just now there was need of it. One man was dead; another was badly wounded; by good fortune, no one knew of their encounter with Hardrock Callahan, but that story was bound to come out. If the wounded man did not recover, and could not give an account of the killing, investigation would probably fasten the blame on Hardrock, from circumstantial evidence. So far suspicion was not directed at him— but it would come.

"These are slow-thinking people, and the law is probably slower to reach up here," he mused. 'So much the worse when the time for action comes! Looks like it's distinctly up to me to land the murderers, as a matter of self-protection; and a fat chance I have of doing it! Since there was no mention of Connie Dunlevy being taken to the hospital, he's probably not so badly hurt as I thought. That gang is against me, sure. Hm! Guess I'll take counsel with the young lady. She's got a level head."

He held in for the strip of shore before Matt Big Mary's camp, and perceived that the updrawn boat was gone. As his canoe scraped on the sand and he leaped ashore, Nelly Callahan appeared and waved her hand.

"Welcome back! Have you come for more coffee?"

"That and other things," responded Hardrock cheerfully, holding up the white-fish. "Anybody around?"

"They've all gone to finish pulling stakes and wont be back until late," said the girl. "Did you have any trouble in town?"

"No. I met Vesty Gallagher, and we had quite a talk. Got any nails around here? If you have, let's get this fish on a slab and we can discuss the weather while it's browning."

Searching the shore, he presently espied a slab of mill wood, nailed the opened fish to it, spilled plenty of seasoning over the firm white flesh, and got the slab in position beside the fire. Then he sat down and lighted his pipe and looked at Nelly Callahan, who sat on the end of a log and darned a thick stocking; and presently he told her all that he had learned this morning in St. James.

FOR a moment her face flashed white, and in the depths of her widened gaze he read alarm and swift fear and wild surmise. Then she was herself again, cool and steady, her blue eyes searching into him with unconcealed tenseness of interest, and only her breath coming a little swifter to denote the startled heart that was in her. "It seems impossible!" she murmured. "Oh! And when everyone learns of how you used your shotgun on them—"

"Steady! Nobody knows that except you and Vesty," said Hardrock. "Who'd believe me? They'd say I had a pistol or rifle and dropped it overboard after shooting the two men. And how do you know I hadn't, Nelly? How do you know I'm not lying?"

She looked at him steadily for a moment, meeting his gaze squarely. Then:

"How did Vesty know it?" she said, and smiled a little. "Don't be silly. Did you see any other boat around, except theirs?"

Hardrock shook his head. "No, but that means nothing. I couldn't see far for the rain, and I was intent on them—they'd been following me, you know. If there's any clue to be gained, it's from you."

"From me? How?"

"The: shots. You said you had heard shooting. Now, I let off both barrels of my shotgun, no more. I did think that I heard shots after that, but my sinking boat was making such a racket— the exhaust pipe was smashed when they ran me down— and I was so infernally busy handling that canoe, that I didn't notice them. You did. How many were there? You'd notice the difference between the bang of my shotgun and the crack of rifles, too."

The girl nodded, and lifting her eyes, stared out toward the blue mass of Garden Island on the horizon.

"There must have been five or six shots," she said slowly. "Now I think of it, I believe that two did come sometime earlier— that was what drew my attention. Yes, and the others were different. They sounded more like the deep crash of an automatic pistol than the sharp crack of a rifle. But how can that help you? I couldn't see what happened. I can't swear—"

"You're not expected to!" Hardrock responded, and felt through his pockets for a match. "The thing is, to make sure of what you heard. Somebody else was out there— a third boat—"

He broke off sharply. From his pocket he drew a strange object; then recognition came into his eyes as he stared at it. It was the pennant-shaped canvas he had taken from the boat at the Booth dock.

v

"THAT'S funny!" he exclaimed, staring at the scrap of canvas. The girl glanced at it, then gave him a puzzled look.

"Why?"

"You know what it is?"

"Of course. It's the little flag left flying from a fish-trap to show its position."

"Oh!" Hardrock laughed and tossed it aside. "I don't know what made me bring it— found it lying in that boat this morning, with a lot of other stuff."

To his surprise, the girl's eyes dilated suddenly, excitement leaped into her face.

"What boat?" she demanded. "Not—"

"Yes, the one that ran me down. Why?"

Dropping her work, Nelly Callahan pounced on the bit of canvas, and lifted blazing eyes.

"Don't you see! It explains everything! Can't you remember seeing that flag in the water just before they ran you down?"

Hardrock stared at her, his gray eyes narrowed and glittering.

"H'm! Blamed if I can see why it amounts to much— come to think of it, I believe I did notice such a flag. Ran close to it. Not the same one, probably."

"Of course it was the same one!" exclaimed the girl, excitedly. She was all animation. "Don't you see? This flag is painted to denote ownership, so each man will know his own traps! We don't use them much around here— don't need to. But the perch season is coming on, and fishermen from Charlevoix and Petoskey and even Cheboygan who work around here need to use marked traps. Now do you see? Hughie Dunlevy and his friends have been fighting the men from outside who come in on their grounds. Well, Marty Biddy Basset and Owen John, as soon as they ran you down, circled back to that fish-trap and probably started to rob it. They broke off this flag so the owners wouldn't find the trap again, and—"

Hardrock whistled. "And then the owners came along and opened fire! Upon my word, Nelly, I believe you've struck it! And nobody noticed this flag lying in the boat last night—"

They stared at each other, until suddenly the girl broke into a tremulous laugh.

"So all you have to do is to find who uses this flag!"

"Who does, then?"

"I don't know. Any of the men would know, probably."

"Hm! Vesty said that Hughie and his friends had fought last with some Cheboygan men. He mentioned whisky-running—"

"Yes!" The girl flashed up indignantly. "And you know what they say about us over on the mainland— that everybody on the Beavers runs whisky from Canada! It's not so. None of us do that. Jimmy Basset, who's here with Father, makes whisky— that's true; but most of the time he's so crippled up with rheumatism that he can't fish and do any work, and it's the only way he has of supporting his family. So nobody else on Beaver makes whisky, and nobody runs it from Canada— it's those Cheboygan men who run it! And they hide up on one of the islands here until they can sneak it in to Ed Julot over at Harbor Springs for the summer resorters to buy— and then everybody blames the Beaver men! Look after that fish, or it'll burn— quick, it's in the fire! I'll get the coffee and bread."

The girl was up and gone for her supplies.

HARDROCK rescued the planked white-fish from the encroaching blaze, smil- ing to himself as he did so, over the utterance of the indignant Nelly. He could appreciate her point of view and could even sympathize with it. There was something whimsically just about one half-crippled man being allowed a monopoly on moonshine liquor, by common consent, for his support.

"Thank heaven I'm no prohibition-enforcer!" reflected Hardrock. "I expect she's hit it right, however, as regards the runners who supply the resort towns from Mackinac to Traverse with booze. These islands are ideally located for their purpose, and the pretense of being honest fishermen— hm! By hemlock, I've got the answer to the whole thing! But not a word of it to her. No wonder those fellows opened fire, and shot to kill, when they saw their fish-trap being robbed! But I'd better go mighty slow until I'm sure. There's nothing on which to hang any legal peg, so far."

Even though the girl's theory was right, even though he found the men who used this black-and-white flag, any accumulation of legal evidence as to the shooting was distinctly improbable. Hardrock recognized this clearly. At the same time, he felt confident that he had hit upon one solu- tion of the whole enigma— a solution which promised to be highly interesting, even more so than writing a textbook for mining engineers.

Planked whitefish, fresh from the lake, and coffee, and thick bread; and over the bread, the rich juice of the eternal mulligan, made this time from the white small-mouth bass that swam around the wreck down the shore. Thus the two dined together, not gracefully but well, and by tacit consent avoided the matter of their early talk. Instead, Hardrock spoke of Danny Gallagher and Arizona, and the mines, and gradually fell silent and brought the girl to speak of herself and her life down State, where she had these two years taught school, and the world outside this narrow horizon of the Beavers. Two on an island together— and time was not.

"I stayed in St. James the other night for the dance," said Hardrock, filling his pipe for the third time, "hoping you were there. I knew you down in Arizona, you see."

"In Arizona?" Her level blue eyes searched his face, perplexed.

"Sure. Danny Gallagher had some pictures that were sent him. One was of you, standing on a wharf—"

"Oh!" exclaimed the girl. "Why, Hughie took that last summer—"

"You haven't changed. How'd you like to see Arizona?"

She looked at him, met his gravely steady gaze— then sprang suddenly to her feet and stood looking out at the point. Hardrock caught the deliberate thud-thud of an exhaust, then saw the big launch turning the point. He rose.

"Father's not in her— yes, he's lying in the bow!" she exclaimed. Hughie Dunlevy, at the tiller of the launch, waved his hand to her and lifted his strong voice as the Jaunch rounded in toward the sandy stretch.

"Come aboard, Nelly! Get anything you want to bring— come quick! Your dad's hurt."

The launch sputtered; her engine died; and she came to a halt with her nose on the sand a dozen feet from shore. The girl made a hesitant movement; then Hardrock caught her up in his arms and waded out to the launch. Dunlevy and the two other men took her from him. In the bow lay Matt Big Mary, eyes closed.

"Badly hurt?" asked Hardrock, as his eyes met the hard gaze of Hughie Dunlevy.

"No. Knee dislocated, I guess; we'll run him home. Got caught in a line and fell over the engine. You been to St. James already?"

"Yes." Hardrock's gray eyes narrowed. "You'll find news waiting for you. Two of your friends shot up— one dead. Whisky-runners did it, some one said; nobody knows for sure, though."

Dunlevy looked startled, then waved his hand.

"All right. You been havin' a good time here, I see. So long. When I come back, you'll be singin' another tune."

"I'll expect you," said Hardrock, and smiled.

The engine sputtered into life; the launch was shoved out, circled in a wide arc, and headed south, with Nelly Callahan crouched over the figure of her father. Once she looked back, lifted an arm, waved it in farewell to the man on the shore, as though in token of an unquenched spirit.

"She's all right," said Hardrock to himself. "Independent— not afraid of 'em. No need to worry about her; real woman all through!"

He turned to the deserted camp, got the dishes attended to, left everything ship-shape, kicked out the fire-embers, and then made his way through the brush along the point of land at this northwest tip of the island. Here, where the bushes thinned out and the land ran out in little islets, he sank down under cover of the greenery, filled and lighted his pipe, and lay motionless, watching the empty waters to north and west and south. Safely tucked away in his pocket was the little black-and-white pennant of painted canvas.

Now as he watched the sun glinting on the waves between the point and Garden Island, where his motorboat had gone down, he reconstructed in the light of his present knowledge what had taken place there yesterday morning. He was quite certain, now, that he recalled seeing that little pennant of canvas sticking out from the water. Those two recklessly pursuing men from St. James must have seen it also, as they drove down upon him. Then, when he had vanished in the rain to leeward, when after his two shots they probably thought him dead or drowning, they had put back for that fish-trap flag. Why? Not because it marked a fish-trap alone, but because it marked something else of which they knew. And, drawing down upon that little flag, had been a third craft, unsuspected in the obscurity.

"They broke off the flag, were probably fishing up the trap, when the other chaps appeared and opened fire. Then what? The chances are a thousand to one that the murderers didn't wait to get what they had come for. One doesn't shoot down a couple of men and then stick around long. Besides, the flag was gone, and there were heavy rollers running, and the sheets of rain obscured everything. They couldn't hope to find the trap again in all that muck; they'd have to go away and come back in good weather, when they might locate the spot by means of landmarks and bearings from shore. Therefore, if my theory is correct, if they're really whisky-runners and that little flag marked a stock of whisky as well as a fish-trap— all I have to do is to wait. No boat has been up this way all morning. Either I'd have seen it, or Nelly would have seen it and remembered about it."

Conviction grew upon him that he had the right steer by the tail. Fishermen would not be apt to open deadly fire, even if they caught other men robbing their traps; but liquor-runners take no chances. Again he was impressed with the absolutely ideal situation of the islands— many, like that on which he now lay, uninhabited. East-coast fishermen could bring in the stuff from the Canadian side and plant it, and go away again. Other fishermen from the adjacent mainland, from the upper peninsula, from the Wisconsin shore, could come and get it. Who would suspect? And if anyone did suspect, as Nelly Calla- han had said, the island men would get the blame. The Beavers had a reputation for turbulency which was less justified than forced upon them.

The afternoon hours waned, and the sun sank, and nothing happened. Nothing broke the horizon save the big green-and-white fishboat belonging to the three Danes, coming in from the north and heading for the settlement on Garden Island, with a swarm of gulls wheeling and trailing behind her to tell of fish being gutted and nets being washed. She vanished, and Hardrock rose stiffly, went to his canoe, shoved out and paddled around the point.

He sought his own camp and found it undisturbed. As he rolled up in his blankets that evening, it came to him that he had not yet settled matters with Matt Big Mary.

"Good thing!" he murmured. "But I wonder— was he worse hurt than they said? That yarn didn't sound very plausible about his falling over the engine— hm! Should have thought of that before. I don't like that fellow Hughie Dunlevy. No matter. Tomorrow's Sunday, and I'll keep quiet— and watch. Good night, Nelly Callahan, and pleasant dreams!''

He fell asleep, smiling.

vi

SUNDAY on Beaver Island was theoretically a day of devotion. Not even the mailboat came over from Charlevoix, since there were no fish-boxes to be transported. It was a day for visiting, for going to the church down the highway three miles from St. James, for eating and drinking and talking. The only man on the island who went his way regardless was old Cap'n Fallows, who was a socialist and proud of it; but as the old skipper had been here thirty years and was by this time related to everyone else, he was regarded with unusual tolerance— a shining bad example of a godless old man, happy in his iniquity and glorying in his lonesome politics. Also, the Cap'n was something of a doctor, after a fashion.

He was in demand this Sunday. Marty Biddy Basset was dead and buried that day, and Owen John had gone to Charlevoix on the mailboat, talking in his fever but talking no sense; but down the island by the old Russian baron's farm lay Matt Big Mary Callahan, with a hurt leg and a hurt head. Matt had been struck by a big pile and had fallen over the engine of the boat, and would not walk again for two days, so he had gone home to the farm and Cap'n Fallows was doctoring him with liniment and talk on the rights of man.

There was much to talk about, and there was a gathering at the store all day long, while out at Jimmy Basset's farm the keg of white liquor grew lower every hour. The Bassets and Dunlevys were taking counsel here and there, the older heads advising patience, the younger heads listening to Hughie Dunlevy and his brother Connie, who was badly bruised but not seriously hurt. Connie was two years younger than Hughie, and if not so strong, was just about as hard to kill.

It was true enough that Vesty Gallagher spoke a word to the priest; and the priest, who was the only man obeyed by other men on Beaver Island, passed along the word. Thus it came about that Hardrock Callahan was accepted as neither a revenue man nor an enemy, and his affair with the Dunlevy brothers was taken for what it was— a private matter. Hughie Dunlevy heard of this, and moved cautiously and spoke softly; but with his brother Connie and four other lads he was neither cautious nor soft. He and they gathered in Jimmy Basset's kitchen that evening and went into the affair at length.

Among the six of them it was not hard to guess close to the truth. Connie Dunlevy knew that Marty Biddy and Owen John had gone out in the launch to catch Hardrock; nobody else knew this, but he knew it, for he had sent them. And he knew that they, like himself, had been up and raising deviltry all that Thursday night, and like himself had been in liquor.

"They had no guns," he swore solemnly to Hughie and the other four. "What would they be havin' guns for, now? It was this felly Hardrock that had a shotgun anyhow, and likely carried a pistol."

"He told me," said Hughie, stirring his hot one, "that it was whisky-runners had shot up the lads."

"How'd he know that?" demanded Jimmy Basset. "If they sunk his boat and he shot 'em, it's hangin' he needs. He told ye the tale of whisky-runners, Hughie, for a blind."

"Most like he did," agreed Hughie. "We'll have no outlanders comin' in here and murderin' poor helpless lads like them! What story was told on the mainland about it?"

A cousin of the dead man spoke up, his face black and gloomy.

"It was told they had put a box of cartridges into the stove by mistake. Irene Dunlevy is a nurse in the hospital yonder, and Owen John's father did go over wid him, so there'd be no chance of Owen's talkin' to outside ears."

"Then the matter's up to us to settle?"

"It is that. There'll be no officers pokin' their heads into the island."

Hughie sipped his hot one reflectively. They looked to him for leadership, and he was not backward in accepting the guidon; at the same time, he was not going to rush headlong into trouble. There had been altogether too much trouble of late, and any rash actions that would compel the law to make an investigation would make everybody on the islands irritated with Hughie Dunlevy.

"We'll 'tend to him," said Hughie. "We'll give him a dose that'll send him away where he come from. I got a little score of my own to be settlin' wid him."

"So I hear," said one, and there was a snicker. "What'd he hit ye wid, Hughie?"

"Blessed if I know, but he'll not do it again! You felleys go easy wid your talk, now. We got other things to mind besides him. I'm goin' to cut loose every fish-trap up and down the shores that aint ours, and if we meet them Cheboygan or Manistique lads, we'll make 'em like it."

"That's the stuff, Hughie!" came the chorus of affirmation.

Now Jimmy Basset spoke up, as he limped over to the stove and refilled the kettle.

"After church this mornin' I was talkin' a bit wid Matz Larsen. Ye know that little point where his wharf and fish-sheds are, on the Garden Island shore up beyond his place? He was tellin' me that on Thursday mornin' at the break o' the storm, him and his boys were mendin' nets when they seen a strange boat off the island, cruisin' about."

"Eh?" Hughie's eyes narrowed. "What sort o' boat was it?"

"Green wid a red stripe around the house. A stranger. Up from Ludington, maybe, or one o' them ports. It was no Cheboygan boat; that's certain."

"Well,"— and Hughie stood up,— "it's time I was off, for I've a date. We'll go over to Hog Island tomorry night and attend to the lad from Arizona. We'll take my big open boat that the resorters use for fishin'-parties. Jimmy, fetch a quart along to cheer us up. I'll have the boat ready as soon as it's dark."

"Then put lights aboard her," said Connie Dunlevy, "for the coast-guard has been raisin' hell wid the lads for carryin' no lights."

Hughie laughed at that, and swung away. It was little he cared for the coast-guard.

So with all this keeping the island busy, and no boats putting out that Sunday, and the wind in the east so the tourists could make up no fishing-parties, there was none to notice the small launch that came drifting up the channel toward sunset, past the length of the island, with a man standing in her and waving his shirt as a signal for help. The coast-guard might have seen her, but it was dark before she came within sight of the point, and then the channel current carried her out and on past Pismire Island. So she went on drifting up between Garden and Hog, and no lights on her, and not a soul knew of her being around. It was well they did not, for if they had seen her and had seen the man who was aboard her, there would have been some tall talk.

It was Hardrock Callahan who heard the man yell. Hardrock had been down the island shore in his canoe that afternoon, having grown tired of waiting for boats that did not come, and had been pulling bass from around the wreck in Belmore Bay. He kept nothing under three pounds, and he had sixteen on his string when night came, and stayed to make it twenty. He was paddling up for the end of the island in the darkness when he heard a long shout and then another one coming from the water, and started out to see who was there. When he sang out and got answered, he paddled up toward the launch.

"Engine's broke down and my gas has leaked out," called the man in the launch. "I left Charlevoix this morning and have been drifting up the channel all afternoon. Can you give me a lift?"

"You bet," said Hardrock, coming alongside. "No oars aboard?"

"Nary a sign. What you got there, a canoe? You can't pull the launch with that."

"You climb aboard and take my other paddle," said Hardrock, "and save your breath to work with. Got any grub? No? Then we'll get around to my camp and fry some of these bass, and in about an hour you wont give a cuss whether you get home tonight or not."

The other laughed, transferred skillfully to the canoe, and after making fast a line to the launch, they set out. Neither man spoke as they slowly worked. the dragging launch ahead, got her around the point, and then down the north shore to Hardrock's camp.

"Here we are," said Hardrock as he headed in. "You might get some of those bass cleaned while I get the fire started and the skillet hot. Coffee, too. We can attend to your launch afterward. Better pull her up out of sight."

"Why?" queried the other man.

"Tell you later."

THE two men observed a mutual reticence until, half an hour afterward, they were sitting down to their meal. Then the stranger, who was a grizzled, roughly dressed man with a pair of keen eyes above a draggled mustache, grinned across the fire and put out his hand.

"My name's Fulsom, and I sure owe you a heap o' thanks."

"Callahan's mine— Hardrock Callahan."

As they gripped, Hardrock noticed that Fulsom looked startled, but no comment was exchanged. Both men were too hungry to indulge in needless talk. Not until the last scrap of bass was cleaned up and the coffee-pot was empty, and pipes were lighted, did Hardrock learn who his visitor was. Then Fulsom, puffing soberly, eyed him for a moment and spoke.

"Hardrock, I'm mighty sorry 'bout all this. Looks to me like luck was playing hard for both of us. You don't know what I come over here for?"

"I'm not a mind-reader," Hardrock chuckled. Fulsom threw back his vest to show a badge pinned to his shirt.

"I'm the Sheriff o' this county, and the main reason I come over here today was to sort of pry around a bit. You ain't an island man— I know 'em all. I've knowed 'em for twenty year more or less. Reckon you've heard of the killing the other day?"

Hardrock nodded reflectively. He liked this sheriff— read the man for straight and square and unafraid. None the less, in the keen probing of those eyes he read danger.

"Yes. Heard about it yesterday in St. James."

FULSOM puffed, spat into the fire, and asked a question.

"Know anything about it?"

Despite the careless tone, despite the off-hand manner of the speaker, Hardrock sensed something beneath the surface. He was astonished by the manner in which he had met Fulsom; yet he was not astonished that the sheriff had appeared. Fiction to the contrary, every abnormal detail of life in civilized communities involves a consequence; for what we call civilization is simply the ways of men set in a groove, and any departure from that groove brings investigation.

With this intangible flash of mind to mind, with this singular "feel" that something unsaid lay behind that question, Hardrock considered briefly and then answered it in utmost frankness.

"Sheriff, if I told you all I knew or thought about it, the chances are that you'd arrest me."

Fulsom gave him a glance, and grinned.

"I'd have a hell of a job doin' it, wouldn't I—not to mention gettin' you off to jail?"

Hardrock broke into a laugh. 'Good for you! Here's what I know."

And he told what had happened to him since arriving on Beaver Island.

FULSOM listened to the story without a word, puffing as methodically after his pipe had smoked out as before; he sat like an image of bronze, giving no sign of what was passing in his mind. With such a man Hardrock was at his ease, for he knew now that he might expect some measure of justice, and not hasty jumping at conclusions for the sake of political prestige.

"You got your nerve to tell me all this," said Fulsom, when he had finished.

Hardrock knocked out his pipe and filled it anew. "No witnesses present. Besides, I figure you as square."

"That's the hell of it— I got to be square all around. You're under arrest for that shootin', Hardrock Callahan."

"Eh?" Hardrock stared, for the Sheriff had not moved an inch. "You're in earnest?"

"Yep, so far as it goes." Fulsom wiped his mustache and chuckled. "Got to do it. I been nosing around the hospital, and heard that wounded man talkin' in his fever. Mentioned your name. Now, I'm right well acquainted with the Beavers— too durned well acquainted to come over here on business without a posse, unless I come alone. These lads over here may have their faults, but they're men clear through. If I come over alone, I get a square deal. If I come with a posse, I'm liable to get most anything. Well, now, I come over to look you up and see what I could learn. And, from hearin' your story, looks like it's my duty to arrest you. Any law officer would have to do it on the evidence."

"All right," said Hardrock whimsically. "Then what? You can't prove my story."

"Nope. All I figure on is doin' my duty and breakin' square with all concerned. Now, you're arrested, and charged with murder. You're in my custody. You and me understand each other, I guess. I don't believe for a minute that things aint exactly as you've told 'em to me, and I figure to stay right here a spell and help you work 'em out. Let's see that there fish-flag."

Hardrock dived into the tent and looked up the bit of canvas. In his heart he felt a queer sense of relief, a dropping away of all oppression. This officer was not to be eared. He was under arrest, and if nothing turned up, he would have to stand trial, and the evidence was bound to be bad— yet Fulsom was square, and this counted for everything.

"I'm mighty glad we met up," he said as he came back to the fire. "And I reckon we do understand each other, Sheriff. Here's the flag. Know it?"

The Sheriff gave it a glance, then laid it down.

"Yep. Belongs to Johnson Brothers of Ludington. But they aint fished up around these parts— ain't fished at all since last year. Sold out, lock stock an' barrel, to some fellows from Escanaba, I heard, who were carrying on the business. Now, either those fellows are running nets up this way, which I don't hardly think is so, or else it's like you say— they're running something else for bigger money. S'pose you and me go out early in your canoe and look for that fish-trap. Eh?"

"You're on," said Hardrock cheerfully.

vii

THE boats went out Monday morning, went out early. They went out from the St. James harbor and from the scattered holdings on the other islands, boats of Indians and white men, out to the fishing grounds where lacy gill-nets and hidden trap-nets and long bloater lines and other legal and illegal methods of obtaining the finny prey were put into effect. Boats bobbed here and there against the horizon of island or sea or reef, and engines whirred as the lifters brought the nets aboard, while trout and whitefish and perch went tum- bling down into the tubs. There was heavy work to be done, since the fish must be all cleaned and boxed and in to St. James to make that afternoon's mailboat.

All that morning Hardrock's canoe bobbed here and there off the end of Hog Island, with a drag out from bow and stern, countering back and forth. It was too shallow hereabout for the big fish, and the waters looked all deserted, with only a sparkling flash of gulls off the blue line that marked the north end of Garden to show that a boat was working there beneath the horizon.

Back and forth they went, and found nothing, though they searched hard enough for any sign of the black ropes that might mark a trap. Nothing came near them on the water, excepting a covey of young ducks that bore down and then wheeled and went flashing away through the waves in a hurry. With noon, they returned to camp, where the Sheriff's launch was drawn safely out of sight among the bushes down the shore, and lunched leisurely, and then returned again to the search.

It was nearly three o'clock when at last they found the trap, and then only by accident, for one of the drags picked up the mooring line, and Hardrock hauled the canoe along this until the dim mass of the trap itself was under the canoe. Fulsom came to his assistance, since it was no light task to haul in the heavy lines without tipping the canoe, and together they got it to the surface. They could see perch in it, and big bullheads from the mud bottom, and one lordly yellow sunfish, but no whisky.

"Hold on!" exclaimed Fulsom, who knew more about traps than did Hardrock. "Hold her till I get a grip on that mooring-line! Now let go, and catch hold."

Now they tugged at the line, and bit by bit worked loose the anchor down below, and after a time got it on the up-heave. Hardrock was leaning far over on the line, depending on Sheriff Fulsom to balance the canoe, and giving his entire attention to the rope below him. This came heaving up soggily from the depths, and presently dis- closed another line knotted around it and hanging straight down.

"Thought so!" came the exultant voice of Fulsom. "Haul in on the short line, now—"

IN another moment the end of this came into sight, and showed a firmly lashed case of liquor. Hardrock glanced up over his shoulder.

"Want it aboard?"

"If we can get it, yes. No telling how many more cases there are, but we'll have to leave 'em for the present. We'll see what this is— make sure of it. Looks to me like you needn't worry about that murder charge any more. Better move lively, too. Looks like a boat is heading this way from Beaver. Left my binoculars in camp, so I can't tell much."

Hardrock could not pause to look— he got the box in under the canoe, then came the ticklish matter of swinging it aboard. This was finally accomplished, though at imminent danger of capsizing the frail craft; then he straightened up for a look at the pproaching boat. It was still half a mile distant, and bearing up between the islands as though heading for them.

"Better get in to shore," said Fulsom. "I aint anxious to be recognized around here until it's necessary, the way things are now. Looks like we got some Canadian Club here, all right— we'll open her up and make sure. Set that extry paddle in the trap to mark her before we go."

Hardrock nadded and made fast the pad- dle so that it floated on the line from which the whisky-case had been cut, then he headed the canoe for the point and pushed her hard. Whether that boat was heading for them or not, he meant to take no chances.

In ten minutes he was cutting through the shallows inside the point and was out of sight of the boat. When they came to camp, they speedily lifted the canoe ashore and in among the trees. Then Fulsom, obtaining Hardrock Callahan's woods hatchet, began to pry at the lid of the whisky-case.

"Aren't you tampering with evidence?" said Hardrock, chuckling.

"Who, me? I aint no prohibition officer," returned the Sheriff dryly. "No sir, I never voted for no prohibition, but I aim to do my duty. First thing is to find out if this stuff is whisky or not. Can't tell by the box, can't tell by the label—"

"The only way is to taste it, eh?" laughed Hardrock. "All right, I'm with you, and will give expert testimony. Go to it! We can't afford to make any mistakes; that's sure."

The case opened, Fulsom produced a bottle, unhurt by its immersion, and attacked the cork. When this was out, he handed the bottle to his nominal prisoner.

"Let's have your verdict, Hardrock!"

The latter tasted the contents, and grimaced. "It's the stuff," he returned, handing back the bottle. The Sheriff promptly tilted it, and held it tilted until his breath was gone. Then, gasping, he lowered it, and replaced the cork.

"Gosh, that's good!" he observed. "Wisht I could keep the whole bottle."

"Go ahead."

"Nope." He slid it back into the case. "I could sort of ease my conscience by havin' an excuse for one drink to make certain what the stuff was. And I sure made that drink a good one! But any more'd be stealin' evidence, which I don't aim to do. S'pose you slip out to the shore and keep an eye on that there boat. Maybe she's the one we're lookin' for. I'll lay up out o' sight till I see who it is."

SMILING to himself at the odd conceit of the Sheriff, whose regretful devotion to duty was indubitably sincere, Hardrock left the cover of the trees and returned to his clearing. He was just in time to see the launch which they had observed come circling around the point and head in. To his astonishment, he saw the figure of Nelly Callahan standing in the bow, while another figure aft was tending the engine.

The girl waved to him eagerly, while her companion, a young fellow no more than a boy, shut off the engine and let the boat run in until her nose touched the sand. By the flush of excitement in the girl's face, Hardrock guessed that she carried news of some kind. She jumped ashore, then turned and waved her hand at the boy.

"Hardrock, this is Tom Boyle Gallagher's boy Micky— Vesty Gallagher was sending him over to find you, so I came along to bring the message myself. I knew more about it than Vesty did, anyway, because I heard Hughie Dunlevy talking to Father last night—"

"All right," cut in Hardrock. 'Wait just a minute, will you? Come ashore, Micky. Got any gasoline aboard?"

"Ten gallon in the tank still," said the boy, grinning.

"Know anything about engines?"

"He knows all about 'em," broke in the girl. "Why?"

"I have a launch down the shore that I'd like to have him look over. She's down by that clump of sumach, Micky, drawn up. See if you can find the trouble, will you? We may have to put her into the water."

"Sure," and Micky started off. Hardrock turned to the girl, smiling.

"Excuse me for the interruption, but I had a bit of news too, and didn't want him to overhear. Now come and sit down and tell me what's on your mind."

They sat down together on a fallen log at the edge of the clearing, and Hardrock got his pipe alight.

"Two things," said the girl, "or maybe three," and she laughed. "First, Hughie and some of his friends are coming over here tonight. I heard him tell Father they meant to drive you away, and send you back to Arizona."

Hardrock, thinking of the Sheriff among the trees, broke into a hearty laugh.

"Go on," he said after a minute. "Go on! What next?"

"Isn't that enough? Vesty got wind of it, and sent Micky off to warn you. There's no telling what they'll do, really— and it's nothing to laugh about!"

"It will be, I promise you," and Hardrock chuckled. "Not for them to laugh about, though. Don't mention it to anyone, for he doesn't want it known— but Sheriff Fulsom is over there in the trees now. It's his launch that is down the shore. I picked him up last night— he was drifting up the channel, disabled and out of gas. He and I are working on this business, and we've already proved my ideas right by finding that fish-trap and a case of whisky with it. There are other cases at the same spot, probably."

She stared at him, wide-eyed. "Oh, good!" she exclaimed.

"And I don't forget that I owe the tip to you, either," he went on. "Well, what next?"

"Hughie thinks that you did the shooting, but he isn't sure. He told Father that a strange launch had been seen around here— a green boat with a red stripe running around the house. A fishboat. I thought right away that it might be the one—"

"Good for you, Nelly Callahan! I'll bet a dollar she's the one we're looking for. Any further news from the chap who went over to the hospital?"

"He's still between life and death, they said."

"Looks bad. Well, what else is on your mind?"

She looked down at the sand, stirred a branch of ground-cedar with her foot, colored faintly. Then her eyes, direct and searching, lifted suddenly to meet his gaze.

"Nothing."

Hardrock frowned. "Something you don't want to tell me, you mean?"

"Yes. Please don't ask."

FOR a moment Hardrock looked into the troubled depths of her eyes, and the answer came to him. He remembered his talk with her father; he could make a shrewd guess at about what that sort of a man would do and say to the girl.

"All right, I wont," he said abruptly. "You remember what we were talking about when the boat came along and you had to jump in and go? About Arizona, and you, and Danny's picture of you. That's why I came up here to the Beavers, Nelly. Now let's not have any discussion of the question. I don't want to know what your father said, or how he may have reported what I said to him. The facts are that I came here because I had seen your picture, and now that I've met you, I'm going to stay here for a while. I told your father so, and it's nothing to be ashamed of. Here's Micky coming back, so let's drop the subject until a better time. I'll be taking you to the dance Thursday night, as the boys say. What's the good word, Micky?"

The grease-smeared lad grinned widely.

"Ye can't run an engine without a spark, can ye? Sure, she's all right— I've got some extry batteries here and can fix her up in no time."

"But that wont fix the leaky gas tank." Hardrock looked at the boy's boat— an open launch of no great size. "See here, Micky! Could you run off some gas into that big tin can aboard your boat, and siphon that into the carburetor, and run my launch into the harbor? If you can, there's a ten-dollar bill for you. Leave your boat here and I'll rent it until you can get my tank soldered up."

"You bet!" exclaimed the youth eagerly. "Half an hour and I'll have her in shape. You going back with me, Nelly?"

"Yes, and hurry up," said the girl. "We don't want to be out all day and night."

Between them, Hardrock and Micky got the Sheriff's launch back into the water, and the boy fell to work. There was no occasion to construct a siphoning arrangement, for he discovered that the leak lay in the piping connections, and stopped it temporarily with some soap. When he had run five gallons of gasoline into the tank and turned over the engine, it functioned perfectly.

"Hop in, Nelly!" he sang out. "We'll get back 'fore dark."

"Thank you for coming over, dear girl," said Hardrock, as he gave Nelly a hand and helped her into the boat. "If I don't come around before then, I'll see you Thursday night. Good-by, and good luck!"

"Good-by," she answered quietly. Then, as the boat circled out from shore, he saw her turn a laughing face, and lift her fingers to her lips, blowing him a kiss. For a moment he stood astounded, then a laugh broke from him, and a long shout.

"I may not wait until Thursday— after that!" he called, and she waved her hand in farewell. Then the launch was drawing around for the point, and passed from sight. Sheriff Fulsom appeared from the bushes, and he regarded Hardrock with twinkling eyes.

"Gosh, ye look right happy over something!" he commented dryly. "Say, this was a good job ye done, too— got us a launch all shipshape! They'll recognize my launch over to St. James, but no matter. Nobody'll see it until tomorrow anyhow."

"You heard what she told me?" demanded Hardrock. The Sheriff nodded.

"Yep. I don't know that boat, but no matter. She's our meat, I reckon, if she'll only come and pick up that shipment o' case goods! But what about them fellows coming over here tonight?" His shrewd gaze inspected Hardrock gayly. "Looks to me like you and Dunlevy are bound to fight it out, young fellow!"

Hardrock chuckled. "We should worry about what happens tonight. I'm your prisoner and if you don't protect me— Hello! Sheriff, where are your binoculars? Get 'em!"

"Gone with my launch, durn you! Why? What you lookin' at?"

Hardrock, who was staring out to the northeast, drew back from the shore.

"Looks to me like our boat— see her? Green, sure enough; can't tell about the red stripe. Get back out of sight, Fulsom. Here— help run this launch up a little first! Move sharp. They mustn't suspect anyone is here. Can you make her out?"

"Yep. That's her," affirmed Fulsom confidently. "Go get your shotgun, Hardrock."

viii

THE round ball of the sun was hanging low above the purple line of Garden Island in the west, and the breeze was down until there was hardly a ripple on the water. From cover of bushes along the point, Hardrock and Fulsom watched that green fishboat, a red stripe running broadly around her, spin past the point and round it, and head for the floating paddle that marked the whisky-cache.

"She's fast," said the Sheriff appraisingly. "Built for the work. She came up from the south, all right, followed the channel through past Gray's Reef as though going to the straits, then cut straight west and headed here. She wasn't taking any chances by coming up past Beaver."

"What's your program?" demanded Hardrock.

"Get out in that launch, and get quick. You got your shotgun, I've got my pistol. She'll let us come alongside, and we'll grab her, that's all. No time to waste. You're my deputy— swear!"

"I swear," said Hardrock, and laughed. "Making a prisoner into a deputy—"

"Oh hell, shove along! We got to move fast. I aim to catch her with the goods."

They hurried back along the shore and ran out the open launch. Fulsom gave his automatic pistol to Hardock, took the shot-gun, and scrambled into the bow.

"You 'tend the engine. We'll get 'em back here and put 'em through the third degree separate. Don't say a word about the murder. Leave me to handle it."

"With pleasure."

The engine spat and coughed and puffed, and presently they were slipping out past the long point. The green fishboat had halted at the fish-trap. She was a boat of fair size, housed over except for foredeck, after-deck, and a narrow strip along the sides. The after end of this house was wide open. Forward on each side were wide openings where the lifter brought in nets and fish.

Just now, however, two men were at work forward in the bow, hauling in better prey than fish. Several cases were piled up, and they were getting another case aboard. A third man appeared in the stern, stared at the launch, and called to his companions. All three turned, watching her.

Hardrock headed as though to bear up past them for Beaver Island and waved his hand, to which they made no response. The man from aft had ducked out of sight, reappearing on the foredeck with the others. As Fulsom was apparently at work on something and not interested, the whisky-runners evinced no alarm. Then, when he was opposite their boat and a hundred feet distant, Hardrock shoved the tiller hard down and swung in toward her.

One of the three waved his arm and shouted:

"Git away! Sheer off!  We don't want no visitors."

Sheriff Fulsom straightened up, pointed down, and shouted something indistinguishable. Hardrock held on his course. Again he leader of the three waved them off, this time with added oaths. Fulsom grinned.

"Got something to show ye! Look here— look at this!"

The Sheriff leaned forward as though to drag something up to sight, then came up with the shotgun leveled. The other boat was now not thirty feet distant.

"Stand quiet and put your hands up! You're under arrest. Hands up, durn ye!"

The whisky-runners were caught entirely unawares. This boat, obviously an island boat, with only two men in her, had been unsuspected; while to lake-farers any talk of arrest among the Beavers was in itself ludicrous. There was nothing ludicrous about Fulsom or the way he handled his shotgun, however, and after one surprised oath the astonished and dismayed trio put up their hands.

"Run her alongside," said the Sheriff to Hardrock. "Then go aboard and disarm 'em. Go through her for guns. You three gents roost high and quiet, or I'll blow daylight into ye."

"What's this for, anyhow?" demanded the leader." He was a big, lantern-jawed fellow marked with a scar across his cheek. His two comrades were swarthy men, whom Hardrock took to be Greeks or kindred foreigners. Who are you, holdin' us up this way?"

"Sheriff," and Fulsom put up one hand to display his star. "All right, Hardrock."

As the two craft came into each other, Hardrock jumped aboard the larger boat and made fast a line. The sight of the officer's badge had disconcerted the trio, and they offered only sullen curses as he swiftly went through them. From two of them he removed heavy automatics, which he tossed into his own craft. The third man 'was unarmed.

Crawling through the forward opening of the deck-house, Hardrock paused in surprise. There was no lifter in sight, no nets were aboard, nor fish. Under him was a pile of a dozen whisky-cases, the white wood all brown and soggy with water, which had evidently been picked up at some other point in the course of the afternoon. A quick search sufficed to show that no rifles or other weapons were in evidence, and he returned to the foredeck.

"Nothing aboard but whisky, Sheriff, and plenty of that," he called. "They loaded another cache aboard before coming here."

"Right thoughtful of 'em," said Fulsom grimly, and moved back into the stern, after tossing the captured weapons ahead of him. "You three birds hop down into the bow, here. Come along, now, and no talk."

"Can't we fix this up, Sheriff?" demanded the leader. "We got some money—"

"Now I'll soak you for attempted bribery," snapped Fulsom. "Git down!"

CURSING anew, the scar-faced leader got into the bow of the open launch, and his two comrades followed him. Fulsom looked up at Hardrock.

"Cast off that anchor in her bows and make sure the line's fast. Give her the len'th. Good holdin' ground here, and she'll drift in toward the shore and set pretty. No wind comin' up tonight, anyhow. I got two pair o' handcuffs at camp, and when we get these birds fixed up and have supper, we can figger what to do next."

The three "birds" looked decidedly unhappy. The two Greeks began to talk in their own language, until the Sheriff peremptorily shut them up. Hardrock, meantime, dumped the big anchor over the bows of the green fishboat, watched the line run out until it drew taut, and then climbed back into his own borrowed craft. The sun was just sinking from sight.

"Back to camp?" he asked, and Fulsom nodded assent.

The engine started up, and the boat circled out for the point, the Sheriff standing amidships with his shotgun ready. The three prisoners, crowded on the bow thwart, showed no symptoms of putting up any fight, however.

"Simplest thing on earth," said Fulsom calmly, "is to handcuff a gent with his arms around a sapling. We'll do that with two of these birds, and interview the third— give 'em turn and turn about at it. And we'll keep 'em at far separated trees. And no supper. Make 'em talk better, hungry."

As they were perhaps meant to do, these words reached and stung the trio. After a rapid-fire exchange of Greek, the leader turned around.

"This aint legal!" he exclaimed savagely. "You aint got no warrant—"

"I got a shotgun," said the Sheriff, a cold glint in his eyes, "and you'll taste it if you get gay. So turn around there and set easy. We aint ready for you to talk yet awhile."

The boat was around the point and heading in for the shore. Hardrock, one hand on the tiller, swept her directly in toward the clearing, threw out the clutch, and after a moment threw it into reverse. With hardly a jar, the prow of the boat came into the ground a couple of feet from shore, weighted down as it was by the three prisoners.

"Now, then," ordered Fulsom, "you birds hop out and draw her up. Don't any of you make a break, or I'll pepper your hides!"

ope big leader, with a growled oath,

obeyed the order. There was no sand at the water's edge, the beach being com- posed of small stones, which farther back ran into sand. The two Greeks likewise got out. The leader took the prow, each of the Greeks seized the gunnel, and they drew up the launch until the bow was on the shingle.

"Now you, Hardrock," commanded the Sheriff. '(Never mind the guns—I'll 'tend to 'em. Run over to my pile of stuff and fetch the handcuffs, will you?"

"Sure."

Hardrock stepped past the Sheriff and jumped ashore.

At the same instant, the big leader stooped; and the two Greeks shoved out- ward on the boat with all their power. Fulsom, caught unawares by the tremen- dous lurch of the boat, lost his balance, dropped the shotgun, and reeled for an in- stant. The leader hurled a chunk of rock that struck the staggering man squarely in the side of the head and sent him down like a shot.

The whole thing passed off swiftly, neatly, with increditable precision and ac- curacy. Even as Hardrock whirled about from his spring, Fulsom was down and the launch was darting out twenty feet from shore.

Then he found all three men on top of him. One of the Greeks came first, and went sprawling in the water as Hardrock's fist met his face. The second Greek lunged in from one side, a knife in his hand, and took a kick under the chin that laid him senseless, but the leader was hurling him- self forward and Hardrock could not evade. Caught in a burly grip, arms locked, both men went down, thrashing. Even then, had matters been equal, Hardrock would have won out, for with a twist he came up on top and rammed a fist into the scarred face— but just then the first Greek swung a stone that laid the man from Arizona prostrate. Dazed and almost senseless from the blow, Hardrock keeled over, and before he could recover he was pinned down under both opponents.

"Tie him up!" growled the leader, and two minutes later Hardrock was bound hand and foot, while the Greek stooped over his unconscious comrade and the burly leader stood laughing and panting. He grinned down at Hardrock.

"So that's what we think of you and your blasted Sheriff!" he declared. "We'll let him float to Mackinac, if he ain't dead. By the time he gits back here, we'll sure be on our way. Got a good camp here, aint you? Guess we'll git us a bite to, eat 'fore we bring up our boat and beat it."

For a little, however, the man had his hands full. The groaning Greek, revived by his compatriot, retrieved his knife and flung himself on the bound captive; the leader interfered, and the trees resounded to bellowed oaths and orders and imprecations. Hardrock, helpless to move, watched and listened grimly. At length the arguments of the leader took effect.

"And ye don't want to be the same damned fools ye were before, do ye?" concluded the wrathful leader. "We don't want to be trailed for murder! Leave him be. We'll fix him so's he can't hurt us none— and we won't murder him neither. Ye may think ye can pull a stunt like that more'n once, and get away with it; but ye can't. How d'ye know that there Sheriff didn't want ye for the other shootin', hey?"

The sullen Greek acquiesced, put away his knife, and all three men stamped away up to the camp. Darkness was gathering upon the waters, but Hardrock no longer stared after the rapidly vanishing boat that was drifted off along the shore and toward the open lake. Those words of the leader were dinning in his brain. He knew now who had shot down those two boys from St. James.

ix

IT was perhaps five minutes afterward, while some tins of food were being opened, that the three whisky-runners realized they had committed an error. Their leader, whose name appeared to be Marks, was the one who realized it most keenly. He came down to the shore, stared off in the gathering darkness at the boat, now a mere speck in the dusk, and cursed fervently. The shotgun had gone into the lake, and their pistols had all floated away with poor Fulsom. Hardrock chuckled.

"You fellows turn me loose," he offered, "and I'll tell you where there's a boat laid up down the shore."

Marks turned away. "You'll tell more'n that 'fore we're through with you. Shut up!"

The three gathered again about their food, getting a fire lighted and in their clumsy ignorance of the woods heaping on fuel until the yellow flames were leaping high and far. Over such a fire, any cookery was impossible, and Hardrock chuckled at their profane efforts to make coffee without getting the pot too hot to be handled.

He, meantime, while apparently motionless and helpless, was in reality hard at work. He lay, half sitting, against a log between fire and shore, at the clearing's edge, arms bound behind him. He had been tied up with the first thing to hand— bandanna handkerchiefs produced by the Greeks, and had made the gratifying discovery that the material was old and would tear easily. Therefore he was tearing it, against the log at his back, and by the increasing looseness knew that his wrists were nearly free.

Marks conferred at length with his companions, who were obviously taking their orders from him, and presently the two Greeks rose and stamped off into the darkness along the shore, going toward the point. Marks himself rolled a cigarette and came toward Hardrock.

"If you're going to starve me," said the latter, "you might at least starve me on a smoke. Look out your friends don't get lost."

Marks laughed easily. "I'll get you some coffee and a smoke," he' replied, "if you'll talk. Will you? Or shall I make you?"

"Sure thing," exclaimed Hardrock. "It's a bargain. And cut me loose."

"Not much," retorted the other, and went back to the fire, where he poured out a tin cup of coffee.

Hardrock seized the instant. His arms came free. Swiftly he got a hand into his pocket—thus far, they had not searched him except for weapons—and slid out his pocketknife. His arms again in place be- hind him, he opened a blade of the knife, and waited. One cut at his ankles, and he would be free. Without that cut, he dared take no chances, tempting as the occasion now was.

FOR Marks now came back to him, held the lukewarm coffee to his lips as he drank, then gave him the cigarette and held a match to it. Sitting down and wiping sweat from his face, for it was hot near that big fire, the burly ruffian rolled himself another cigarette. He was almost within arm's reach of Hardrock— yet the latter controlled himself. Until his feet were free he must attempt nothing.

"Now let's have it," said Marks. "I didn't want them two lard-eaters to get wise. What was it the Sheriff wanted to give us the third degree about?"

"About the shooting you fellows pulled off last time you were here."

Marks nodded, a frown darkening his scarred features. Evidently he had anticipated this information.

"Aint it hell how ye can't make foreigners savvy anything?" he demanded, to the astonishment of Hardrock. "Them two fellers have just one notion o' fighting— to take a gun and kill somebody! I'll have to let 'em go. I can't make 'em savvy that there's a durned sight more danger in a murder charge than in running liquor."

"You mean they're working for you?"

"Yep. The blamed fools run on them Beaver men the other day, found 'em lifting the trap out yonder, and riddled 'em— then let 'em go. That's a fool Greek every time. I wasn't along, dog-gone it! I was in Escanaba, sick that day, and ye can't get nothin' on me. I got to stand by them fellers, o' course, and get 'em away safe, but I don't like it a mite. This sort o' killing is bad business." Hardrock laughed curtly. "What about the Sheriff?"

"Oh, him! He's a Sheriff, takin' chances. Same with you— depity, aint ye? Yep. He aint killed, though. He'll drift over in the channel and'll get picked up by a barge. We'll run ye out to Gull Island and leave ye there with some grub. That's decent all around. A fight is one thing, and killin' is another thing. I been running booze a year now, and never had a speck o' trouble before this. Durn them hot-headed Greeks! They've spoiled the best little game this side the Soo."

"You're sure frank about it," said Hardrock dryly.

"Why not? I want you should understand it; I aint anxious to be follered up for a killin' I didn't do! Bad enough to have my business busted up. Now I got to land this cargo and then go somewheres else. Dog-gone it! I hope they pass them immygration laws an' do it quick. A feller can't make an honest livin' no more, the way these durned foreigners are everywhere."

Hardrock broke out laughing. Marks surveyed him darkly.

"Ye may think it's funny, but I don't. It aint the law so much, neither. It's these durned islanders! They're all over the lakes, them or their relations. If they take the notion it was me responsible for the killin', they'll drive me off the lakes, that's what."

The man's viewpoint was irresistible, and Hardrock laughed the harder, while Marks sucked at his cigarette and glowered angrily. Then came the "chug-chug" of a gas engine, and a low call from the darkness. Slowly the shape of the green fishboat drifted in upon the shore and then halted as her bows hit the shallows ten feet from the beach.

"They had to swim to get her, anyhow!" exclaimed Marks. "The durned fools needed a bath." He rose and went past Hardrock to the shore. "Hey, boys! Toss that anchor ashore so's she wont drift off. We'll get away pretty quick, now."

Hardrock moved his arm, and the little blade of the penknife flashed in the firelight as he slashed the bonds about his ankles. He was free, now— but he must let them all get ashore. His only chance, against the three of them, was to get their boat and leave them here. It was a time for strategy, rather than for fighting; so, at least, he thought. He was to discover his mistake very shortly.

The two Greeks came ashore, bearing a line. It appeared that they had cut loose the anchor rather than haul it in. There ensued a furious storm of oaths from Marks; the two men became ugly, and for a moment it looked as though a row were imminent. Then Marks cooled down, and told them to get some of the supplies from Hardrock's tent aboard the boat. All three passed up to the tent, none of them observing that the captive was no longer bound.

THIS was the opportunity Hardrock had been praying for, and he gathered his muscles. Once he could shove out that boat and scramble aboard her, he had everything in his own hands! He drew up his feet, saw that the three men were busily engaged with his supplies, and rose—

While he was in the very act of rising, a voice boomed out among the trees at the clearing's edge:

"There's Callyhan and his whole crowd— git 'em all, lads! Take 'em!"

Hardrock was already springing for the water, but a figure appeared and blocked him. It was the figure of Hughie Dunlevy. Instantly, Hardrock realized what had happened, and cursed the luck that had brought the Beaver lads here at this moment. From the brush was going up a crash of feet and wild yells, Marks was bellowing, the Greeks were cursing and fighting— beyond a question, Dunlevy thought that they were part of a gang under the direction of Hardrock Callahan.

There was no time for any explanations. The man from Arizona barely had a chance to check his leap for the water, to spring back and gain balance, when Dunlevy was upon him with a roar of battle-fury and a whirl of fists.

"Ye will murder poor lads, will ye?" he yelled, and struck.

Hardrock ducked the blow and answered it with a smash to the wind that stopped Hughie Dunlevy for an instant. Glancing around, Hardrock was aware of the three whisky-runners by the tent, furiously engaged with four or five other men. He and Dunlevy were for the moment alone. Only a glance— then he was driving at his opponent, hoping still to get out and aboard the boat.

That hope seemed vain. A wild swing caught Hardrock under the jaw and knocked him ten feet away; Dunlevy was after him instantly, leaping high in air to come down upon him boots first. He came down only on the shingle, however; and the man from Arizona, evading a savage kick, reached his feet and began to fight.

Hughie Dunlevy gasped and grunted as the blows smashed into him, while before him in the firelight danced that unhurt face with its blazing eyes and its furious unleashed anger. For all his tremendous strength, the islander helplessly gave ground, was driven backward, fists driving into him with relentless accuracy. In vain he tried to grapple, to kick, to gouge— each attempt failed and only drew upon him another terrific smash under the heart.

Warmed as he was by white liquor, having great strength in place of stamina, Dunlevy could not stand up under this battering. Never once did Hardrock strike for the face, but drove in fists like hammers that pounded heart and stomach in frightful repetition.

ON the other side of the fire, one Greek was thrashing over the ground with Jimmy Basset pounding him into submission. Connie Dunlevy was down, trying to quench a knife slash that ran from shoulder to elbow. The other three island men were battering Marks, who was badly hurt and groaning as he fought, and the second Greek whose knife flashed crimson in the firelight. Now Marks gave way and came crashing down, and the snarling Greek reeled as a stone smashed into his face.

Hardrock got home to the wind with one direct punch that sent Hughie Dunlevy two steps backward and brought down his hands —drove in another that rocked him, and then set himself deliberately for the finish. His feet shifting perfectly to keep balance, he now put over a light tap to the mouth, and then laughed.

"How d'ye like it, Hughie? Come and get it, boy, come and get it—"

With a gasping bellow of anguished fury, the other obeyed, rushed blindly into the blow that Hardrock smashed in with full force— a perfect solar-plexus knockout. Dunlevy simply doubled up and rolled to the ground.

Two leaps took Hardrock to the boat. As he splashed through the water, wild yells chorused up behind him, and he glanced around to see dark figures bounding after him. He set himself against the heavy bow of the boat and shoved— vainly. He could not budge her. Desperate, he gave up the attempt and with a leap was dragging himself over her rail.

Too late! They were upon him, three of them; that effort to shove her off had lost him his fighting chance. Mad with battle-lust and moonshine whisky, they dragged him back and bore him down, all three hurtling in upon him bodily, careless of his blows, so that only they might land blows upon him. Slipping on the stones, he lost balance, went down, was stamped into the knee-deep water—

That was all he knew, for a time.

Presently, half strangled and exhausted, Hardrock came to himself again. This time he found ankles and arms fast lashed by men who knew how to handle ropes. Beside him lay one of the Greeks, dark features masked by blood, beaten senseless and bound; the other Greek lay farther away, muttering low curses.

Hardrock realized that some terrible sound had dragged him to life, and now it came once more— a low scream of agony. His head cleared slowly, as he visualized the scene before him. In the circle of firelight lay Hughie Dunlevy, still unconscious, and by him sat his brother Connie, weak and white and rather drunk, his arm all swathed in crimsoned bandages.

The other four men, by the fire, held the frantically struggling figure of Marks, and were shoving his feet into the red embers. From the man broke another scream, this time rising shrill with pain and horror.

"Quit it! Quit it! I'll tell!"

"Then talk, ye domned murderer," growled Jimmy Basset. 'Pull him out and give him a drink to make him talk, lads—"

The groaning Marks waited for no drink. "It was them Greeks done it!" he cried desperately. 'I wasn't along with 'em, I tell ye! It was them two done it!"

"All right,'' snapped Bassett, lurching a little as he glared down at the captive. "And what about this Hardrock felly? Is he your boss?"

"I don't know him," returned the unfortunate Marks.

"Shove him in again, lads—"

Marks screamed and twisted terribly. "No, no! Yes, he's my boss. Sure he is."

"Don't you fools know a man will swear to anything under torture?" demanded Hardrock furiously. "You're going too far here. Cut this business out!"

Marks was hastily flung aside. They all turned to stare at him. Connie Dunlevy, waving a bottle in his free hand, gave a weak, drunken laugh.

"Glory be, he's awake! off'm him, byes!"

The four lurched over. Hardrock made one desperate effort to pierce through the liquor fumes to their fuddled brains.

"Hold on, there, boys! You've got this thing all wrong. These men are whisky-runners, and they had captured me before you came along. I was getting away—"

Jimmy Basset leaned over and struck him across the mouth, heavily.

"Shut up wid you and your lies! Well we know it's you that's the whisky-runner, and behind all this deviltry. So it was them Greeks done the killin', was it? Well, it  was you behind it all, and it's you we'll have a bit o' fun wid the night. Up wid him, lads! Up and shove him in!"

Hardrock felt himself picked up. The next instant, with a wild yell, the four men shoved him at the fire, shoved his feet and legs into the heart of the blazing embers. He made one frantic, frightful effort, kicked himself out of the flames, rolled aside. The four gripped him and lifted him again, with a maudlin yell of glee.

"All together, now!" howled Basset. "One, two—"

x

AS the shot rang out, Jimmy Basset jumped into the air, then stood staring at his arm that dripped blood. A voice struck on the silence— a voice from the edge of the trees.

"All right, boys— hands up all around! Sheriff Fulsom talking, and two guns to talk with. First man moves gets a bullet in the leg."

That crisp, businesslike voice bit into their drunken senses like acid. Hardrock lay where they dropped him. Sheriff Fulsom stepped forward into the circle of light, a pistol in each hand, and not one of the islanders moved, after reaching upward.

"Cut loose that man Hardrock and do it durned quick. He's a Deputy Sheriff of this county, if ye want to know who he is. Cut him loose, Willy John. Move sharp."

One of the men stooped and fumbled with Hardrock's bonds. They were all struck silent and were held in a stupefaction of dismay and consternation by the appearance of Fulsom, whom they all knew. A sudden and terrible sanity crept upon them.

"You boys are shoving a good thing too far," continued Fulsom. "Hardrock and me got them murderers, and then they jumped us. Lucky I aint as soft in the head as I look to be, for a fact! Took me quite a spell to get ashore and come back here, at that. H'are ye, Hardrock?"

"All right," said the latter, getting to his feet.

"You done some swift action gettin' out of that fire, sure enough! Here, take a gun and stretch yourself. All right, boys, put your hands down. I'm doin' the talking for a spell— remember that. What's the matter with Hughie Dunlevy?"

"I knocked him out," and Hardrock chuckled. "Connie got knifed by one of these Greeks— badly slashed, I think."

"All right, Connie, you go climb aboard that there launch, and do it quick— no talk! Jimmy Basset, go with him. We'll 'tend to your arm quick enough; long's you can move your hand it aint broke. Git!"

The two men, dazed, obeyed the order and stumbled toward the boat at the shore. Fulsom looked at the other three, grimly enough.

"Now, I want you three boys for deputies. We got to take this whisky boat over to Charlevoix and lock up these birds. Hardrock, got any information to spill?"

The man from Arizona briefly recounted what Marks had told him about the murder by the Greeks. Fulsom comprehended at once, and nodded.

"All right. Willy John, I s'pose you snuck up here in a boat and left her laying down the shore?"

"Yes," said Willy John, rather sheepishly. "She's down to Belmore Bay."

"All right. You three deputies take the pris'ners and get aboard. I'll rustle up some handcuffs, if you rascals aint lost 'em. Hardrock, get aboard likewise."

Hardrock smiled. "Sorry, Sheriff. Can't be done."

"Eh?" Fulsom eyed him sharply. "We got to have your evidence—"

"You'll get it. I'll come over on the mailboat tomorrow." Hardrock motioned to the figure of Hughie Dunlevy. "I've got a little business to settle with this chap, first— I may have to convince him a little more that I'm the better man. Then we'll have to get his launch and Micky's boat back to St. James. And I have a very important errand there."

"Oh!" Fulsom broke into a grin. "Oh! So that's it, eh? That Callahan girl, eh? Dog-gone you, Hardrock, here's luck to you! See you later, then."

He went for his handcuffs. Hardrock looked down at the slowly wakening Hughie Dunlevy.

"Looks like that textbook for engineers is never going to get written!" he murmured. "Sure looks that way. I've got to convince this fellow, then I've got to convince Matt Big Mary that I'm a good man to marry his daughter, and then I've got to convince the daughter of the same thing— but, I guess an Arizona Callahan can do it, by gosh!"

And he grinned happily.

_________________

9: An Inter-Planetary Episode

Julian Hawthorne

1846-1934

Two Tales, 19 March 1892

UPON a divan, in the recess of a window which stood open to the warm night air, lay the body of a young woman. Her head rested on a silken pillow, which swelled up on each side of her face. The soft crepe of her dress defined the low curves of her breasts, the rounded slenderness of her arms, and the outline of her limbs, which were like those of Diana for suppleness and fleetness. Her hands were relaxed, the palms turned upwards: the golden-brown masses of her hair framed her beautiful face, and descended to her waist.

There was no moon, but the night was clear, and the great planet Mars hung half-way up the sky, its rays falling on the closed eyelids and lips of the girl, and seeming to melt into them. Outside the window grew an oleander, the fragrance of whose blossoms floated into the room, like music transformed into perfume. There was no sound except the slow ticking of a clock from the dusky interior of the room, and the whisper of waves on the shore at the foot of the high lawn on which the house stood.

Beside the divan sat two men. One was gray-haired, with a smoothshaven, refined face of a keenly intellectual cast. He sat with his chin supported on his interlaced fingers, and his eyes fixed absently on the ruddy planet. The other was of lion-like aspect: his swarthy and powerful countenance darkened forth from a shaggy jungle of black hair; his figure was massive and noble. He leaned forward, resting his left elbow on his knee, while a finger of his right hand was pressed against the hollow of the girl's wrist. At length he leaned his shoulders against the back of his chair, and folded his arms.

"Six days, did you say, Penryn?"

The gray man roused himself from his abstraction, and passed his hand across his forehead.

"Six days at dawn, to-morrow," he replied, with a clear, silvery enunciation, which contrasted with the deep roll of his companion's utterance. "The seizure has been annual since her fourteenth year."

"The period, then, is regular?"

"I'm an astronomer, you know, Hervey, and yonder" he pointed at the sky— "is my time-piece. Mars fixes this date for me. When (as is the case now) he reaches that part of his orbit which brings him nearest to our earth, Yoga falls into a condition that culminates in this trance. As he recedes, she recovers consciousness. It is an odd coincidence."

"A coincidence! Are you content to call it that?"

"What more can it be?" returned the other, smiling.  "Can any sympathy exist between the stars and ourselves?"

"Sympathy! Yes!" answered Hervey, fixing his great, glowing eyes on his friend. "Don't you know that when I stamp my foot, the impulse is transmitted beyond the Milky Way? The rhythm of our breathing is conditioned on the revolution of the globe; the sweet influences of the Pleiades are answered by the beatings of our hearts; and so, the meanings of the firmament are hidden in our souls, and appear in signs on our bodies, legible to those who have studied the language."

"But this is astrology, my dear Hervey," remarked Penryn, still smiling.

"Well, what of that? Astrology has been discredited by charlatans, but it is still a science. It enables me to tell you that your daughter bears upon her body the signet of the planet Mars: and he is connected with the circumstances of her birth. Am I not right?"

"Why," said Penryn, stroking his chin, "perhaps some colorable grounds could be made out for your contention. Yoga's mother had a peculiar organization. In the spiritualistic jargon of to-day, I suppose she would be called a 'sensitive.' Of course, I never thought it expedient to encourage such tendencies; but they sometimes were manifested spontaneously. One night, while I was investigating certain features of Mars, and had my equatorial trained on him, my wife came into the observatory, and sat down in the chair at the eye-piece— I being at the table writing out some notes. When I had finished, I spoke to her; she did not answer. I looked round, and found she had fallen asleep in the chair— as I supposed: but on examining her, she appeared to be in a cataleptic state, her eyes open. I laid her on the sofa, and she presently recovered. She spoke of some dream or vision she had had: she thought she had visited another earth, inhabited by beings in some respects similar to ourselves. She had been chiefly attracted by an infant, a beautiful little boy, whom she had heard addressed as Kanor."

Hervey threw one leg across the other, and pushed his hand through his hair.

"The light of the planet on the retina, and the monotonous hum of the clock-work that moved the equatorial, had hypnotised her," he muttered. "That is familiar: but the impressions of another planet.... Well, go on!"

"In a few days, the matter passed out of both our minds; but, between five and six months later, Yoga was born."

"Ah! " murmured Hervey.

"She was a healthy and happy child, and appeared normal. But one evening, when she was about seven, her mother brought her into the observatory, and the child, without our noticing it, climbed up into the chair to look through the glass. All of a sudden she attracted our attention by clapping her hands and calling out: 'There— there! Kanor! Kanor!' She kept repeating the word. Neither her mother nor I recalled having heard it before. 'What can the child be looking at?' said her mother. 'The object-glass is on Mars,' I said. She gave a start, and put her hand on mine. 'Mars!' she said: 'Kanor! I remember now!' 'What do you remember?' I asked. But before she could answer, the whole thing came over me. It was certainly a remarkable instance of heredity."

"And are you content to believe," exclaimed Hervey, "that some vague pre-natal impression could suffice to prompt the utterance of the word— at the moment, too, when the child was looking for the first time at the image of the planet? Is it fear, or bigotry, or scepticism, Penryn, that withholds you from admitting the truth?"

"The truth?" smiled the astronomer, "a bold word, that!"

"Never mind the boldness! We have only to recognize what happened. When your wife, entranced by the light of Mars, was set free from her body, her spirit, liberated from the trammels of space and time, found itself in the region whence the light came. What she saw there was no dream, but an actual experience. And the unborn life which was, at that time, a part of her life, partook of that experience, and was affected by it in a more vital and indelible manner."

"That is an interesting hypothesis; but—"

"No, no, Penryn. Recollect that the child not only repeated the word 'Kanor,' but did so with manifest delight. She saw, or was conscious of someone, and recognized him. No theory of heredity can adequately explain that."

"But you surely don't suppose that she saw through my telescope (it is a  good one, but it has its limitations) a human being forty-two million miles distant? "

"I say, on your own authority, that the child inherited peculiar powers. The probability is that she possesses, at times, the rare faculty of open spiritual sight. The light of any given star or planet, Mars for instance, has its own peculiar vibration. The child, being born under the Martian influence, would recognize this vibration, just as you or I would recognize a particular odor: and this recognition would awaken in her mind a train of associations, and also (thanks to her special faculty) induce the state in which her spiritual faculties are opened. That she actually saw Kanor I have no doubt, though the medium of the vision was the eye of the soul and not of the body."

"It might be logical to assert that the spiritual eye could see a spiritual object; but how could it see a physical one— which we are supposing this Kanor to be?"

"I suppose Kanor to be a spirit clothed with a body. But I remember that the planet Mars is some myriads of years in advance of us in the process of evolution; and it is inconceivable that its inhabitants should not be correspondingly in advance of us in the development of psychic power. Doubtless their daily lives are passed as much in the spiritual as in the physical sphere of being; and Kanor's spirit would be able to meet and commune with Yoga's, across this gulf of physical distance, as easily as you and I are conversing within arm's length of each other. Indeed, I suspect that the two have been in frequent communication from the first. I suspect that she is with him at this moment. Has she never mentioned him to you?"

Penryn arched his eyebrows, and slowly shook his head.

"I regret to say that she has not. But your suggestions are disquieting. How is a father to act whose only daughter is carrying on a tender correspondence with a young man who lives on the other side of the solar system, and whom he cannot, therefore, interrogate as to his intentions, character or fortune? Suppose he were to propose an elopement to her, how could I—"

Hervey rose abruptly from his chair, and took a turn up and down the room. Pausing in front of Penryn, he said gravely, "Are you willing I should prove the truth of what you call my hypothesis?"

"Why, as you know, my dear fellow, I invited you here, when I heard you were in the neighborhood, partly to renew our old university friendship, and partly because your reputation as a physician and a specialist in nervous and mental diseases made me hope that you might be able to do something for Yoga's trances. If what you now propose would throw light on the nature of her affliction (as I can't help considering it) and would result in no harm to her, pray go on."

A shaded lamp, shining obscurely through the open folding-doors of an inner room, was the sole source of illumination in the apartment, save only for the rosy radiance of Mars. Hervey's movements were slow and deliberate, but confident. He took Yoga's two hands gently in his, and, bending over her, gazed for several moments steadfastly in her face. His breathing came more and more slowly, till it was almost imperceptible. He was now apparently motionless: only the beating of his pulses remained to tell that he lived; and one might have fancied that this rhythmic impulse was communicated to Yoga, and that she responded involuntarily to it.

After a time, Hervey began to breathe again, deepening his respiration by insensible degrees; but an acute sense might have noticed that the measure of his respiration was not the same as it had been at first: it kept a different time, as if he had adjusted it to another standard. Gently he relinquished her hands, though his eyes never left her face.

She wore on her waist, wound round it many times, a delicate scarf of white silk, fastened at the left side with a single loop. Hervey undid the loop, and slowly unwound the girdle, fold after fold, observing in all his movements a rhythm based upon his respiration. At length it was entirely detached from her body. He gathered it up, and drew it several times through his hands, always slowly, and with his gaze centred on her face, as if his great black eyes penetrated through her closed lids into her soul. He took the girdle by its centre, and laid it across her forehead; then passed it underneath her head, crossed it under her chin, and knotted it there. Pausing a moment, he next slipped the ends gently underneath her body, brought them round, and knotted them again beneath her bosom. Finally, holding the terminations of the girdle in his hands, he twisted them upon one another in a peculiar manner, and grasped the twist in his left hand. The spell of the knots was completed.

As Penryn contemplated these proceedings his lips moved slightly, as if in a smile. Nevertheless, he was conscious of a feeling of oppression and foreboding; the silence, the gloom, the profound earnestness of Hervey's demeanor, and the extraordinary brilliance of Mars, which seemed actually to be approaching through space, combined to lay fetters upon his will, so that he could hardly have spoken had he wished it. And Yoga, lying there, appeared more unsubstantial than ever.

Now, in tones scarcely audible, Hervey began a strange chant. It rose and fell in low undulations of sound, ever following the pulse of the breathing, an inarticulate monody, but by degrees resolving itself into words, though such as the listener had never heard. The words became more distinct, and the voice not louder, but more intense and concentrated. It was as if the whole strength of a soul of mighty power were gathering itself upon each note, yet with such restraint that the voice, which might have made itself heard across the bay, was modulated to the compass of a lover's murmur. It vibrated deeper and deeper, with an emphasis more and more commanding, until the air quivered around them, and Penryn, staring and listening, smiled no longer, and felt his heart shake in his breast. The chant sank into silence, though a voiceless throbbing lingered in the ear, as after the ceasing of an organ-peal.

Then, out of the womb of that silence, was born a new voice, the sound of which made Penryn's hair stir on his head, and his lips turn dry. It was not low, it was not loud: it seemed to come from an immeasurable distance, yet with entire distinctness. It was in the room, and yet its source was indefinitely remote. But it was not these attributes that startled and awed Penryn— it was that the voice was the voice of Yoga; although no movement of her lips was visible, nor did any sign of life appear.

"Do not draw me back," the voice said; "I am happy— the time has not come!"

"I do not ask you to come back," replied Hervey, in a clear whisper. "Tell me where you are, Yoga; answer!"

Reluctantly the voice came again. "I am with Kanor."

"Are you in this world?"

"Yes... No... In his world— my spirit with his."

"You are in the spiritual world, then?"

"No. I cannot explain. We are together."

Hervey paused a moment, and then said, with intense energy, "I wish to talk with Kanor. Tell him to speak to me— through you!"

For perhaps a minute there was no response. Penryn bent forward to listen, but his heart beat so heavily as to obscure his senses. His mind was divided between resentment and fearfulness: for while every instinct of training and education in him cried out against the possibility of such things as seemed to be taking place, he yet was unable to throw off the persuasion that here was something more than seeming, and that he was actually witnessing a transaction which overturned the central strongholds of science.

In the midst of his agitation a new sound broke the silence— a voice wholly different in timbre and quality from any heard before, though it appeared to issue directly from Yoga's unmoving lips. It was a masculine voice, firm and resonant, though uttering itself with a certain effort, as if speech were either unfamiliar to the speaker, or else the conditions were such as to render it difficult.

"I am Kanor," he said. "What do you want of me?"

Hervey turned slowly upon Penryn, and eyed him with an expression of gloomy triumph.

"You wished to become acquainted with your daughter's lover," he said. "Here is your opportunity. Ask him what you will!"

Penryn's teeth chattered, like those of a man overcome with cold. But pride and unreasoning anger helped him to command himself. He gave a short, husky laugh.

"This is unworthy of me to countenance, and of you to foist upon me," said he. "I was not prepared for— for mummery and—  ventriloquism!"

"Do not blaspheme, Penryn," returned the other, sternly. He was about to say more, when the strange voice interrupted him. "I am on my way to you."

Hervey stepped back, at the same time making a restraining gesture with his hand to Penryn, who had half started from his chair.

Neither knew what was to happen; but their eyes involuntarily rested on the red planet, which wavered and became blurred, as if seen. through a liquid medium, or an unusually dense atmosphere. It grew dimmer; a shadow had passed over it, or else a heavy vapor was rising between them and the window. The vapor grew thicker, and assumed a vague outline, rendered visible by the rosy flush imparted to it by the planet's rays. It hovered over the figure on the divan, and was still impelled forwards, its apparent solidity momentarily increasing, until it erected itself from the floor within arm's reach of the two spectators: it was no longer a vapor, but a thing of substance, a palpable figure, the figure of a man.

Even as they gazed, it took on the very hue and quality of life— a noble-looking youth, tall, symmetrical and vigorous. His flesh was slightly luminous, and of a ruddy color; he was clad in a closely-fitting tunic, woven of a fine and soft vegetable fibre; his hair, of a wavy character, instead of clustering close about his head, floated around it, like that of a man beneath the water. He had no beard, but the lower part of his face had a dark shade upon it, which seemed to inhere in the substance of the skin, and contrasted with the brilliance of the rest of his complexion. His eyes were of a long, oval shape, blue as sapphires, and had the quality of flame; their regard, though friendly and calm, was almost insupportable. The bearing of this beautiful and terrible young man was princely; and there was a sensible emanation of warmth from his person, as of a soul of living fire radiating through the flesh.

When, in turning, his right hand chanced to touch the back of the chair which Hervey had lately occupied, a vivid spark started from his finger-tips, accompanied by a faint detonation, and by a peculiar vivifying odor, like that following a lightning-flash.

He looked round the room, his glance delaying a moment on the two men, who blinked and turned away their faces; and then he looked out into the night, and saw the dark earth, and the twinkling waters of the bay, and the planet that hung above them. Finally his eyes sought the form of Yoga, on the divan, and there they stayed.

"Then this is where you live," he said, in a tone of exquisite tenderness. ''This is the mask that hides you, when you are not with me!"

He knelt on one knee beside the body, and by a swift but smooth movement loosened the knots of the girdle, and the girdle itself crisped and turned to impalpable ashes in his grasp. With a delicately caressing gesture, he laid his palms lightly on her cheeks, and touched her shoulders.

"Even the mask is lovable," he said, with a sort of sportive adoration; "but how much lovelier you are, Yoga, my love! You shall not return here. Power has been given me, at last, and you shall be incarnate where I am. The meeting of our spirits was sweet; but the flesh also has its delights and faculties, and we will wear it for the rest of our journey to the Joyful Gates. Come! I will loosen this cord that binds you to the home heart, and we will go!"

But as he bent over her bosom, Hervey, by a mighty effort, threw off the spell that had paralyzed him, and his voice broke forth:

"I charge you, forbear!" he cried. "This is a human world, as well as yours! She is loved and longed for here! By what right do you come across the gulf fixed between us, and take her from the home her creator gave her? "

"Was not the way prepared for me?" answered the other, calmly, turning his head, and seeming to glow more brightly as he spoke. "For the rest, my love is for her, and hers for me, and the law of love makes my place hers."

"I love her, too!" growled Hervey, in tones deep and fierce as the roaring of a stormy sea. "When I grappled for her spirit in the darkness, and made it hear my summons in the hiding-places of the unknown, I learned to know her and to love her. There is no power stronger than love, and in its name I challenge you for her!"

"Be satisfied," returned the other, gently; "she was mine from the first."

But Hervey started forward, with hands outstretched to tear this being of incarnate flame away from her. Kanor uttered a warning word, but it was too late. As Hervey's clutch fell on his shoulder, the arm dropped to his side, withered and paralyzed, and he himself staggered back, gasping and helpless. In Kanor's eyes there shone a light of compassion; but he laid one hand over Yoga's heart, and then rose lightly to his feet, and uplifted his arms with a movement of power.

At once, his figure began to fade, or to dissolve like an evening cloud evaporating in summer. Yet, while he still remained visible, Hervey was dimly aware of another figure beside him, who smiled, and seemed to wave a greeting and a farewell. The vision was fair, but it was absorbed into the rays of the planet, and, receding, was lost in that radiance, and in the embracing darkness of the summer night.

"What has happened?" queried Penryn, in a shaken and complaining voice. "These diabolical juggleries of yours, Hervey, have deprived me of my senses, I believe! I have been in a trance myself! What is it, man?"

"It is death— or life," answered he, gloomily, regarding the corpse upon the divan. "But better any death than such a life as yours."

____________

10: At the Pyramid of the Sacred Bulls

Charles J. Mansford

1863-1943

The Windsor Magazine April 1896

"HOUSSA," said one of two travellers to a certain famous Arab, "get to work and spin us one of your unveracious yarns. Don't be too particular about dates or facts, we are prepared for anything after the last tall yarn you told us. Something exciting and mysterious is what we require, and let it he interesting enough to make us forget these beastly flies which not even bad tobacco smoke seems to daunt."

"Excellency," replied the Arab, "the dust of your august feet hears only to obey. Many strange cities and stranger lands has he seen, and many a strange adventure has he told to the pilgrims of Mecca as they reclined, where you do now, under the light of the crimson lamp. Ah, those blessed pilgrims, coming from afar! From where silver streams water golden sands, from where the tremulous lily stoops to kiss its shadow at the breath of the rose-laden wind from Sharon, from Egypt and India, from Persia and Africa. from the lands of fire and the dragon. To all pilgrims alike has the house of Houssa-el-Houssa been ever open, once they have fed the sacred pigeons and kissed the holy stone of the Kaaba. If so ye choose, to-night will I, your slave, repeat one of the tales to which the pilgrims have listened during the Hadj or pilgrimage."

"By all means tell us the story, Houssa," said I. "If the pilgrims could swallow it I dare say we can."

The Arab, who felt the force of the compliment, stretched himself idly upon the cushions and began:

"Excellence, before I married my third wife I was engaged as the messenger between two sheiks who lived one at Mecca and the value on my services— which it is always well to do, even in a desert.

" 'Show us your credentials, assure us you know the shortest way to the pyramids, be good enough to let us ride that noisome camel of yours in turn, and the coins shall be yours— when we see the pyramids

" 'By your Excellency's beard?' I asked.

" 'By all the beards in the world and one over,' was the response.

"I could very well show the pyramids, for they were on the way I was travelling. As to proofs that I could be trusted, I had a piece of paper given me by an Englishman, to whom I had acted as guide some years before. I cannot read the Feringhee writing, but it must he full of praise because everyone who reads it employs me."

Houssa drew a faded scrap of paper forth, which was greasy beyond description, and which was written upon to the following effect:

" 'The bearer, Houssa-el-Houssa, but whom I usually called "Like-a-lie," acted as guide to me once when seeking the Pyramid of the Sacred Bulls. He is a better shot, a cooler-headed, a braver, a stronger man than any six of his ilk rolled into one. He is like-wise a bigger thief, a more urgent demander of backsheesh, a more distinguished liar, and a more odoriferous Arab than any I have ever met before— and this is saying a great deal in his favour, for I have sampled guides galore. He knows the world as well as his Koran, and while he robs you can quote the Prophet as his authority. It is quite unnecessary to pay him for his services as he pays himself, for fear you may be troubled with any slight aberration of memory. Worry him, hurry him, flurry him, do what you like with him, but you can safely trust him on the word of Max Mellor, of Avonmouth. May 1885.'

"As I said, sahibs, the paper speaks good of me, and when the bearded one read it he passed it on to the other, who laughed and then asked me—

" 'So you took the writer of this precious document to the Pyramid of the Sacred Bulls? What did he go there for— and did he get it?'

" 'Truth is in your Excellency, up to the topmost hair of your head,' I replied. 'Surely I took him there, but what he sought he found not, although he spent two days in the strange pyramid. He was too sure of his own knowledge to ask the son of the desert for help; yet if he had done so—'

" 'Could you have given it?' the bearded one asked.

"I answered cautiously, 'That depended on what he sought, and how much he cared to tell me concerning it.'

" 'Suppose we are going to this same pyramid and are also searching for something there, and you can help us, will you do so?'

"I could see that the bearded one was getting very excited, although he tried to assume an air of indifference.

" 'Tell me what you want to know and I will say if I can give the information.'

"The two talked and talked together like crows picking a camel's hump together, and at last decided to trust the dust of their feet.

" 'We are seeking a roll of papyrus, a paper written in Arabic, and which we have heard is concealed somewhere in the Pyramid of the Sacred Bulls.'

" 'I have seen that very piece of mouldy papyrus,' I answered.

" 'What did you read upon it?' asked the bearded sahib, much excited.

" 'I did not read it; such things are of no interest to the son of the desert.'

" 'It is likely to be interesting enough to us if we find it,' laughed the other.

" 'Help us to find it and you shall have not ten but fifty pieces of gold,' said the bearded one.

" 'In Allah's name it is a bargain,' I said. I helped the one who had promised the gold to mount the kneeling camel; we set forward; his companion walked by my side; we spoke only occasionally and then but few words.

"Far in the distance rose the blue tops of a mountain range; round us on every side stretched a black waste. Here and there amid the black pebbles colocynth and spare tawny spikes of grass shot up; fantastic shapes of mist, tempting lakes of mocking mirage, and a burning sun were about and above us. The stillness of death reigned supreme, save when rat or lizard moved at our approach among the stones.

"It was afternoon of the second day when the pyramids came in sight, which no Arab hands could have raised. Now, Excellencies, they lie buried beneath the sand, deeper and deeper each successive year.

"We found a spot sheltered from the rays of the sun beneath the shadow of a twisted rock. A handful of dates from the sack, a draught of muddy water from the skin, we took. For the next hour the two men smoked and talked and rested; their slave, read a chapter of the Koran, for sunset was nigh.

"I hobbled the camel. At my bidding the men rose up and followed me. Bismillah! The accumulating mud had not quite closed the entrance to the shaft of the pyramid.

"We passed down a slanting passage for 300 yards or more and then entered a series of galleries. Round us were recesses: ranged in these were great sarcophagi in which the sacred bulls had long centuries before been buried. Excellencies, the Arabs say a king of Memphis, driven into Arabia by an incensed people, brought the strange worship into the land.

"The parchment you seek is there,' I said to those I had taken into the pyramid. I pointed as I spoke to a huge sarcophagus wherein I had once thrust it, intending to read it some day or another. They raised the lid of the sarcophagus, which was like the head and paws of a bull, gilded, too, with many a strange device.

"A minute after the two travellers were poring over the parchment, which they flattened out upon the rocky floor of the gallery as they lay outstretched beside it. When the two had read the parchment they stood up and stared into each other's eyes. They both trembled with excitement.

" 'Shall we go any farther in this mad business?' asked one.

" 'Why not? I fear neither the living nor the dead,' replied the other. He turned to me.

" 'How far is it to the bottom below there?' he asked, pointing down from the gallery to the space beneath.

" 'A hundred feet, more or less,' I answered: 'but there is no way known that leads to it. There Meeneis, the exiled king of Memphis, is said to have placed the body of Arga, the wife who shared his exile with him.'

" 'So the parchment says,' said the bearded man to my surprise.

" 'We will find out what truth there is in this incredible story,' said the other, tapping the mouldy parchment with his forefinger.

"For an hour or more the two men busied themselves in unwinding the mummy cloths which swathed what remained of the bodies of the sacred bulls. Some of the cloths were worm-eaten and fell into shreds when touched, others were in a good state of reservation; of the latter the two men made a strong and lengthy rope.

"When all was ready the rope was let down from the gallery and the bearded one was lowered by means of it to the depths below. We watched him oscillating in the void. When he reached the bottom of the strange pit the other sahib lowered me. I wished him to go instead, but he refused. I reached the bottom of the pit in safety.

"From above the light came down in irregular shafts; great shadows half concealed the strange and grotesque carvings of the sides of the pit. From a narrow shaft, the top of which evidently opened into the side of the pyramid, fell a clear beam of sunlight, and it lit up the beautifully gilded sarcophagus of a woman.

"The Englishman, almost mad with excitement, wrenched off the lid of the sarcophagus, and then his sacrilegious bands seized the mummy. He lifted it from its resting place and stood it upright against the wall, unwinding its swathings in desperate haste.

"I could see that he searched for some concealed treasure upon the mummy, but he found it not. He went to the sarcophagus and carefully felt within it with his hand. Then he came back to where I stood trying to swathe the mummy in its cloth again. He snatched the cloth petulantly away and flung it upon the floor.

"'What beggars these ancients were at hiding treasures,' he cried to me savagely. 'As there is no other way to get what I am seeking I will test the words of the parchment, if I have to strangle this dead but living thing after.'

He waved his hand at the mummy, and I glanced at it closely. Beneath its swathing of cloth the remains of a robe clung to its form, yellow with age, but the limbs of the mummy were not shrunken; the features were calm and placid as of one who slept; no traces of decay were upon them.

" 'Listen!' the man went on, talking to me as he tried to screw up his courage for the strange task he was bent upon. 'This is the story of the parchment: Meeneis the exile determined to get hack Memphis to his rule. Before he set out on his expedition he sold all his possessions and bought with them a pearl of fabulous price and gave it to Arga his wife. She, not knowing if Meeneis would come hack or be slain in his expedition, and feeling that she could not live a day in his absence, besought him to employ a certain magician and embalmer. By Arga's desire the man wrought a sleep upon her and swathed her, preserving, however, by his art the principle of life. Here Meeneis placed Arga, as you see. Had he conquered he would have come back and Arga been awakened to reign with him once more, but Meeneis never returned. All these centuries Arga has awaited him, and upon her, somewhere concealed, is the pearl. There is no other way to get the treasure. Arga shall be awakened that  she may speak as to where it is.'

"I counselled the sahib not to do this wrong, but be would not hear me. Much as he trembled at the task he set himself to, he took the wax from the mummy's ears, he dissolved the film upon the eyelids, he drew back the tongue till it rested in its right place. Then, as though bringing the drowned to life, he raised and dropped the mummy's arms at regular intervals.

"I watched like one transfixed. The minutes, slowly moving like hours, monotonously passed on. Then— then— yes! the lips of the mummy quivered!

"A minute after a tremor seemed to shake her limbs, then Arga's eyes opened and the man started back, aghast at the success of his strange experiment.

" 'Meeneis! Meeneis! Lo! thy pearl!' the woman cried. She drew the pearl from the meshes of her hair and held it out, groping with her other hand as if blindness had come upon her.

"In an instant the man who sought the treasure caught at it, snatching it in his greed from Arga's hand. Undeceived— for her first awakening thought had been of Meeneis and the treasure he had left in her trust— the woman started forward with a cry upon her lips. And then the irrevocable doom of mankind seized her. The beautiful face grew old beyond expression, her limbs shrunk suddenly with age, her cry of horror was never finished for she fell, a grotesque, shrivelled mummy, lifeless upon the floor!

"Quickly I thrust the mummy and its cloth into the sarcophagus, and then found that the sahib had already ascended from the pit. The two drew me up.

"That night we rested at a spot some miles distant from the pyramid. Next day I conducted them on the way to Mecca. There I received the promised reward.

"I told the strange adventure to the sheik whose messenger I was. He seemed much interested in the strangers and inquired which way they went. After that I was despatched to Medina.  When next I returned to Mecca the Sheikh was wearing a magnificent pearl in his turban."

"And the travellers, Houssa?" I asked thoughtfully.

"It is not well not to ask a sheik too many questions," he replied. "Bismillah! Allah is good to his own!"

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11: I Married a Torso

Thorpe Feesh (Pseudonym)

Real Spicy Horror Tales and Sweetheart Detective Secrets, April 1937

Actually a spoof in The Yale Record,  21 April, 1937. The magazine above is imaginary. The author is effectively anonymous

Chapter 1

BLOOD— streaming, pouring, catapulting slews of blood rushing down the stairs— blood splattered over the drawing-room, horribly dismembered legs and shoulders, trunks tragically mutilated, ragged gobs of quivering flesh clinging to a lonely bone. This was our honeymoon.

Chapter 2

"HOW would you like to see a ghoul, honey?” I asked Muriel.

“Oh Ralph, can’t we be alone? I think they’re horrid.”

She had been my wife for just a day.

We were driving through the night to my rich uncle’s estate in a previously undiscovered region, deep in the wilds of South America. I had never seen this wealthy relative of mine, but he came from a good family and so we sent him a wedding invitation. When he responded with a gift of a beautiful blood-red baby carriage, we decided to spend our honeymoon with him, rather than with any of the people in our crowd.

Muriel’s lovely, dimpled knees played havoc with the dashboard, as the car came to an abrupt stop and the engine fell out with a sickening thud. It was a 1937 Omen.

“I think we’ve got a flat, dear,” I said, as my face fell.

“Never mind, Ralph,” Muriel burped encouragingly. “I see a blood-red house two miles ahead. Could that be your Uncle Merwell’s?”

I glanced where her sensitive elbows were pointing, akimbo. She had been my wife for just a day. I pulled out our bags and felt Muriel’s soft, bloated calves scuffing my kneecaps, as we reached the house.

Chapter 3

IT was my lucky day— I rang the bell. The door creaked open. From beneath us came a low, angry growl. We turned to find that we were standing on Ceremony, Uncle Merwell’s faithful old were-wolf. Muriel was akimbo again, so I followed her lead into the house. She followed close behind.

The house was deserted except for a fireplace, from which a fire, flickering malignantly, cast shadowy, almost human aspersions on the wall. One of them looked like Uncle Merwell, who was a crotchety but endearing old lecher. The appalling silence we had entered was shattered by a weird, hollow gong as the clock struck itself. I sensed what Muriel had intuitively known before: that this house was the headquarters of a nefarious band of Things. If you can call them things. Shuddering in spite of myself, I quickly changed the subject, if you can call it a subject.

Muriel changed her dress, if you can call it a dress. “I’m about ready for bed,” she purred, nosing towards the floor with a tired little moan.

Chapter 4

SO up we went (if you can call them stairs). Where was Uncle Merwell? Why? Where was Anna, Uncle Merwell’s old meat-ball? Where was Alabama, Uncle Merwell’s loyal old flunkey who performed the functions of a jiu-jitsu expert?

Placing Muriel, whom I had tenderly slung over one shoulder as we mounted the stairs, on the bed of Uncle Merwell’s bridal chamber, I sat down on top of her and took off my shoes.

How soft she was! I had known before I married her how exotic she looked, but little had I known how comfortable she would prove to be.

“I think I’ll go out for a little warm-up around the jungle. Where did you pack my track shoes?” I said, passing off with a shrug the horrible, piercing screams that had been going on for some time now downstairs and obviously boded no good.

“Keep your nose clean,” I murmured lovingly in her ear as I slipped out the window quietly.

Chapter 5

WOULD that I had never left her side— I would at least have had something to remember her by! When I think over the consequences of this honeymoon that started out so happily and ended with—! It is torture for me to call up from the past the rest of that horrible night, but I must— for Muriel’s sake.

After I had walked as far away as possible from that demon-infected house, if you can call it Uncle Merwell’s, and after all the terror-inspiring shrieks had died completely for several hours, I went back.

I entered the house cautiously, quietly, my back to the wall. What confronted my eyes! Ah, horrible, horrible, horrible. Distasteful! My lovely bride of just a day had been torn to bits in my absence. Who could have done it? Why? Wasn’t Muriel just like other girls? Blood permeated everything, even the air. I was sick. And there she lay. A lovely white arm protruded from a grand piano. Her two beautiful calves were mashed beyond recognition and soaked with blood, blood, blood. What a mess! Take it away, Graham.

_____________

12: The Man Marked For Slaughter

Charlton L. Edholm

1879-1945

Thrilling Mystery, Jan 1936

FLARES and slashes of red light stabbed the blackness and firecrackers blasted like machine-guns as Chinatown celebrated its New Year. In the temples joss sticks smoldered before hideous idols. From the gaily decorated balconies projected bamboo poles from which dangled tenfoot strings of firecrackers, thousands of them exploding all night long above the sinister alleys. Yellow men padded about amid flying bits of paper, a red snowstorm from the exploding fireworks; but the few white men in Chinatown were there on business— either the shady business of dope and murder, or the official business of punishing criminals.

It was a night for fantastic crime. Fog from the Pacific lay over San Francisco, and the chill, salty odor of the sea fog fought with the sharp smell of burning powder in the maze of malodorous, narrow streets.

From the gilded doorway of Hang-Chi's Bazaar, famous for its silks, carved ivory and jewelry, a white man backed out, fighting in a mad frenzy of despair for his life.

Fred Horton, Special Agent, retreated, shooting at every step, emptying his gun at the yellow enemies inside the dragon door. As Horton, pale with the foreboding of death, backed into the street, the rattle of fireworks was suddenly increased by the sharp reports of revolvers.

From neighboring hiding places in doorways and cellar stairways, marksmen in black silk blouses drove a dozen slugs into the victim's body.

"Take that, you yellow rat!"

Shuddering in his last agonies, Fred Horton whirled and fired his last shot at the assassin in the nearest doorway, then threw his empty gun with terrific force at the yellow, grinning thug.

It struck a doorpost with crashing impact and dropped into the area nearby. Instantly a horde of silk-clad Chinese gunmen ran with silent, padding footsteps to surround the dead man.

From the doorway of the bazaar came a stout, smiling Chinese in the silken robes of the festival season. His smile creased fat wrinkles in his round, yellow face and his almond eyes, black as midnight pools, beamed through the lenses of his great hornrimmed spectacles.

"Is the foreign devil released from the burden of life?" asked Hang-Chi blandly. "Speak, Sui-Lee, have you earned your reward?"

"Even so, Lord of Magnificence!"

ONE-EYED Sui-Lee, leader of the yellow thugs, slid his smoking gun into his sleeve.

"The dog's prying eyes will no longer trouble the secrets of Lord Hang-Chi."

"Let not his body defile my doorstep. He has a friend, another prying white devil, who must not find him here."

"No fear, Lord of Heaven and Earth. The time was well chosen for this pig's slaughter. Who could hear the shots that killed him amid the rattle of firecrackers?"

Hang-Chi smiled as one who is always pleased at praise of his crafty ways.

The killing of Fred Norton, Federal Agent, was his own scheme, and to shoot the troublemaker while the quarter rattled with explosives, was his own pet idea.

"Remove the white carrion," he ordered crisply. "Tomorrow night come to my feast in the Garden of the Lotus Pool and I will reward you with much gold."

Sui-Lee bowed to the ground as Hang-Chi retired into the bazaar, then he sprang up, catlike, and gave rapid orders to his men in the singsong chant of his race. With precision the gunmen obeyed.

Fred Horton's body was picked up by the eager claws of half a score of Chinese. While a couple of coolies ran to the scene with buckets of water and rags to wash the pavement clean of blood, the dead man was whisked around the corner and tossed into a waiting limousine. The driver, in the livery of a chauffeur, with the visor of his cap concealing his eyes, barely looked around when the body was dumped on the floor, but as the door slammed shut, he asked: "Is he well hidden?"

"Covered with the stolen rug."

"May his grave be defiled, Sui-Lee. And his father's grave, also."

The chauffeur drove carefully away, left the quarter with no appearance of flight and proceeded at a lawful speed through the fog-laden streets until he entered Golden Gate Park. Near the entrance he had selected, a car was waiting, half hidden under the dripping foliage, and this machine followed at a discreet distance until the death car halted under some low-growing trees. The liveried driver left his limousine with its gruesome burden and ran to the trailing car. In a moment he had stepped inside and the pair drove away rapidly, taking a circuitous route to Chinatown.

"Hang-Chi has one enemy the less," said OngSip, removing his chauffeur's cap and wiping the sweat from his yellow forehead. "And the White Devil's hell has one more inmate roasting in the flames."

"May all the foreigners with prying eyes share his fate," said Ong-Sip. "And first of all, the friend of that white devil. He is the next one marked for slaughter. But not by the gun!"

"I hope that one will afford us merry sport before he passes. Hang-Chi loves a feast spiced with ingenious torture."

THE man "marked for slaughter" stood beside the murder car at daybreak that same morning— a tall, gaunt figure, ice-blue eyes and a jaw of iron. Jeff Crockett, ace among the West Coast Gmen, followed a police alarm that a stolen car with the body of a Federal Agent had been found in Golden Gate Park. Burning with indignation and grief, he looked into the bloodstained features of his best pal, a true comrade and a fearless fighter. He uttered no threats of reprisal but silently he made an oath to settle that account.

Detectives and special agents went into action to reconstruct the crime. Evidently it was a gang murder committed miles away from the place where the body was found.

Jeff Crockett allowed the fingerprint men, the footprint experts, the photographers and the rest, to fight for clues. One bit of evidence he had found— and he kept it to himself.

"I'm going to get the rats that ganged up on Fred," he promised himself. "I'm going to get them and get them alone."

"What's the matter with Jeff Crockett?" asked Sergeant Doyle. "What's he pulling out for?"

"If you ask me, Sarge, Crockett is running around in circles." Detective Joe Conlon watched the Federal man entering his car to drive away. "He says nothing. Looks wise. But I see through his bluff. He's stumped."

The two police officers continued their study of the stolen car and its gruesome contents, while Crockett drove rapidly away.

JEFF CROCKETT, back in his hotel room, began to change his clothes from the skin out, putting aside his tailored tweeds and getting into an outfit of tattered, misfit garments. He carefully made up his face and was pleased that yesterday's beard added to his unkempt appearance. Before he left the hotel, by the service elevator, he gave one last glance at the clue that he had discovered clinging to Fred Horton's coat— a tiny scrap of paper, bright red and smelling faintly of gunpowder.

There are plenty of white visitors wandering through the streets of Chinatown by daylight. Smartly dressed tourists from the Eastern cities, men and women who flock to the curio shops, the bazaars where silks, ivory and jewelry of gold and jade are sold, and the restaurants where they can taste strange dainties. There are plenty of other white visitors, too: Chinatown bums, panhandlers, hopheads, prowling in the ill-smelling alleys, searching for scraps of food or cigarette butts. One more derelict would not be noticed.

So thought Jeff Crockett, for once underestimating the keen eyes of his foes. The alleys of Chinatown cannot be combed by one man in an hour. There are miles of them, and the object of Crockett's search was hard to find. But by nightfall he had located the street of the crime. With a dozen excited yellow marksmen firing at a victim, some of the shots were bound to miss their man. A few freshly splintered bullet holes in the woodwork of the doors and storefronts, told their story to a tramp-like prowler, peddling shoestrings on the curb from a dirty cigar box.

The derelict pried into every cellar area and receptacle near the bullet-marked houses, disregarding the suspicious glances of yellow men who hung around the block. An empty shell and a couple of flattened bullets rewarded him for his search. In one cellar doorway, full of tattered paper and rubbish of all kinds, he found more than he had dared to expect— an automatic, which had been hurled with such force that the handle was cracked. It was empty, a .38 caliber, fitting the ejected shell.

Here was something to go on! A gun belonging to the murdered agent, found on the spot where he had fought his last fight with yellow fiends. He was hot on the trail.

The door of the cellar opened abruptly, and half a dozen of Sui-Lee's gunmen, with sinews of steel pulled him inside. Jeff Crockett lashed out furiously with his fists.

Clawing hands all over his body prevented him from reaching for his gun. Smash! Howls of agony and monkeylike chattering told him that his right had pistoned into one yellow face.

Thud! His left struck something soft and padded, like a heavy paunch under a quilted coat. A groan of pain answered that one, followed by gibbering commands in Cantonese.

Then, as though he had tangled in a giant cobweb, Jeff Crockett's arms were caught by cords of silk. A net dropped from the darkness above clung to his limbs, his face, his body, and the cords tightened about him so that his struggles only drove the thin silk fish-line into his flesh.

A flashlight from the gloom shone upon a fat round moon of yellow, with big, horn-rimmed glasses, and a voice spoke blandly:

"Welcome, illustrious white visitor, to the unworthy dwelling of Hang-Chi."

The light flashed off. In the darkness footsteps padded away like little verminous rodents running to their holes.

Jeff Crockett was left alone in a vile-smelling dungeon below the mysterious alleys of Chinatown, while Ong-Sip, Sui-Lee and their master, Hang-Chi, drank rice wine together and made plans for the evening's sport.

A SHORT time later, in the splendid Oriental bazaar above the cellar, Nelda Wynn, young, smartly dressed, and with all the evidence of wealth and culture, was pricing some of the elaborate gold jewelry sold by Hang-Chi. If she had been a casual visitor buying a cheap souvenir she would not have been honored by the service of the prosperous merchant.

But Hang-Chi, clad in silken garments, bowed low before this beautiful heiress and served her gladly.

"Are these the best you have?" asked Nelda as Hang-Chi's taper-nailed fingers laid a tray on the counter before her. Her brown eyes, under the straight, dark lines of her brows, looked with disdain at the assortment of gems set in soft gold. The straight little nose, the strong rounded chin and the firm lips, all marked her as a willful girl who got what she wanted.

Hang-Chi beamed through his round glasses and his moon-face cracked into a fat smile.

"These rings are unworthy to be seen by your gracious eyes," he murmured. "I am saving for the last some gems that were made by goldsmiths of the late Emperor."

"That's what I want to see. Something rare."

Her voice was that of a lady. Breeding in every inflection. Hang-Chi purred.

"Follow me, gracious lady. The jewels I speak of are in a special room. Only the privileged may enter the silken room of the Golden Dragon."

Through incense-laden air, the girl followed Hang-Chi to the back of the bazaar and entered a small silk-paneled room with a chair of state placed before a table of inlaid ivory. The chair was apparently of gold, a splendid piece of Chinese carving, with writhing dragons forming the high arms and back of the throne.

Hang-Chi went to a safe and opened the massive door, returning with a black velvet-lined tray. On it rested a single gem, a magnificent jade, set in gold that was worked like the finest lace. The merchant placed the tray on the table and handed the girl a large magnifying glass.

"Deign to examine this treasure. See, I will adjust the light. Now, gracious lady, if you will be seated where you can study the workmanship under this glass—"

As Nelda slipped into the great chair of the Golden Dragon, a strange thing happened. The carved dragon folded in silently. The back and arms of the chair closed about her body like a trap, and the girl's shrieks were cut short by a velvet drape that Hang-Chi flung over her head.

"Don't struggle. That chair has trapped great, powerful men," said Hang-Chi. "Scream if you like. No one can hear you. Scream, my pretty one. I like it!"

Smiling blandly, Hang-Chi touched a push-button in the chair, and slowly it descended through the floor to blackness of a cellar far below. The floor opening was closed a moment later and nothing was left to show that Hang-Chi's device had entrapped one more victim.

After replacing the gem in the safe, the merchant left his special room, glanced about the bazaar to see whether anybody had noticed the girl's disappearance, and retired to his private quarters. "Close the store early," he said to his head clerk.

"Tonight is the feast of the Celestial Circle in the Garden of the Lotus Pool."

Nelda screamed when she felt the trap closing about her body, then terror seized her as the light was blotted out by the velvet pall thrown over her head. Her struggles only served to hold her tighter in the grip of Hang-Chi's dragon chair and she felt herself drawn softly downward into the clammy blackness. It was all a horrible nightmare, she thought, as strange odors of drugs and opium smoke came to her nostrils, and her ears were tortured by the sounds of derisive laughter.

She was suffocating under that clinging pall of velvet; the blood pounded in her temples and she fought desperately against the deadening fumes of the drugs that were robbing her of consciousness.

"This is the end!" she thought. "This is death!"

With failing strength she writhed and struggled to free herself of the trap. From choking lungs she gasped out cries for help.

Then the horror was blotted from her mind as consciousness left her.

WHEN Nelda opened her eyes, hours later, she was dazzled by the blaze of colored lights. Partly stripped, she was lying on an ebony couch at the edge of an underground pool.

She was in Hang-Chi's Lotus Pool retreat, a vault far below the level of the street which had been made into a gorgeous artificial garden with miniature trees, shrubs and flowers all formed of delicately-tinted shells. The walls, rising twenty feet above the floor, were painted with Chinese landscapes of fantastic mountains, palaces and pagodas. In alcoves near the walls were opium layouts, ready for the guests when they had feasted, and tables prepared for the gambling games of the Orientals.

Nelda tried to rise from the couch, but shrill laughter startled her and she sank back ashamed. The underground garden was full of silken-robed yellow men, seated at a banquet table and feasting, while they stared at her with narrow black eyes full of cruel delight.

Hang-Chi's Celestial Circle was a dream of Oriental luxury. At the opposite side of the pool was the great table shaped like a half circle, and the feasters could look down from their chairs into the depths of the water, where electric bulbs threw light on the rocks and marine plants and the shimmer of gold and silver fish. But Hang-Chi's guests were not looking at the fish. They were staring at her half-nude body and gloating over the beauty that was soon to be destroyed. Their black eyes glinted, their teeth showed in grins of unholy joy and their highpitched voices filled the room with terrifying laughter that echoed shrilly from the walls.

Terrified and ashamed, Nelda pulled the silken draperies closer about her limbs. The laughter pealed out louder than ever, and musicians back of the table set up a wailing discord of fiddles, reeds and squeaky falsetto voices.

Hang-Chi, gorgeously robed as an emperor, smiled upon his guests and said:

"The daughter of white devils has awakened from her sleep. Let the devil of the deep sea come forth and embrace her."

He touched one of the ivory levers beside the table, a door swung open in the depths of the pool and an octopus swam in from a hidden tank, its long, wriggling tentacles reaching out greedily for prey.

Nelda gave a shriek of terror. She sprang up from the couch and backed away from the pool, wildly searching for some way of escape. A narrow stairway of gilded metal wound upward to a trapdoor in the ceiling. That was the only way out of this pit of doom, but as she darted toward it, a pair of crouching, gigantic, half-naked coolies leaped to their feet and thrust her back, struggling and screaming in their arms.

Shouts of laughter went up from the guests of Hang-Chi. This was going to be good entertainment. The daughter of white devils fighting for her life!

Hang-Chi beamed through his round glasses and raised a cup of rice wine. "Thanks to the Gods of Benevolence and Delight," he chanted. "They have provided a choice victim for our pleasure."

The other guests emptied their cups, bowing toward Hang-Chi, who continued:

"Our pleasure is doubled when she fights for life so furiously. Sui-Lee, bring out the white devil we have captured and let him see the fate that awaits him."

Hang-Chi's chief gunman rose from the table, followed by Ong-Sip and three gaunt, yellow thugs, and opened a door back of the staircase.

They reached into the cell back of that door and pulled out a captive bound in a net of woven silk cords.

IT was Jeff Crockett, dressed in the ragged clothes of a Chinatown tramp, his face scratched and bleeding from the fight he had put up when captured.

"Cut loose the net from this dog who is about to die," ordered Hang-Chi. "But see to it that his hands are tied, for he will die fighting."

Sui-Lee did as he was directed, looping fine cords about Jeff Crockett's wrists and slashing away the net with a razor-edged stiletto. Crockett straightened himself and stared defiantly at Hang-Chi.

"You are playing with death," he cried boldly. "No yellow man can kill a Federal and escape."

Hang-Chi smiled. His fat face showed no alarm.

"My men have killed one of your contemptible band," he said suavely. "Now it is your turn to perish. When more come, I will take care of them, too."

Jeff saw the girl for the first time, struggling in the grasp of her captors. He turned away from Hang-Chi with a hoarse cry of fury. The two halfstripped coolies had picked Nelda up bodily, now they swung her light form in a wide arc and flung her into the center of the pool.

She fell heavily, stunned by the impact of the water, and sank without a struggle. Hang-Chi and his guests leaned from their chairs with shouts of laughter at the splash and stared into the depths to feast their eyes on the octopus destroying the girl.

Sui-Lee, standing beside Jeff, knife in hand, was so fascinated at the sight of cruelty that he forgot to watch his prisoner. Jeff snatched the knife between his bound hands, reversed the blade and severed the cord in a single swift movement.

With a scream of rage, Sui-Lee wheeled on him and at that split second Jeff's hand drove up and slashed the yellow gunman's face from jaw to temple.

Sui-Lee trumpeted with rage and pain like a wounded elephant, but Jeff ducked under his charge and shot headlong into the pool.

The fast dive sent him to the bottom of the tank, where Nelda lay stunned. The giant devil fish was greedy and shot out a tentacle that clutched at her ankle. Jeff had a fast glimpse of the rubbery, writhing arm, with its suckers opening and closing eagerly as he slashed out with his blade.

The steel went through the quivering flesh. The tentacle hung half severed, lashing like a wounded snake. The water turned red before his eyes, and Jeff Crockett realized that he had struck too hard and cut the girl's ankle.

The sharp pain brought her out of her stupor and, choking and gurgling, Nelda fought her way to the surface, while Jeff, on the bottom of the tank, lashed out with the blade as the wriggling monster thrust his tentacles at his body.

Every stroke cut a gash in that yielding, slimy flesh, but there seemed no way to kill the devil fish. Jeff was entangled in a net of writhing tentacles that clung to his flesh wherever they touched. For an instant he freed himself and shot his body to the surface with a vicious kick. His lungs were bursting and he gasped in long breaths of air as he swam to the side of the pool where Nelda was clinging. Above her on the edge crouched Hang-Chi, threatening to slash her fingers with a long sword.

Jeff swam furiously to reach her side, but a writhing tentacle shot up from the depths and twined itself about his ankle. Crockett felt himself being pulled back relentlessly; by a last mighty effort he flung up his right hand and hurled the knife straight into Hang-Chi's fat neck.

As Jeff was dragged down he had a last glimpse of blood jetting from the gash in that thick throat, while the sword fell from Hang-Chi's hand into the water. With the strength of a cable that monstrous tentacle pulled Crockett clear to the bottom of the tank. He could see the vast quivering bulk of the monster above him through the dim water and had a glimpse of the cruel, parrot-like beak, ready to tear into his flesh.

THEN something silvery and swift flashed between him and the octopus and the tentacle relaxed, severed by the sword. Nelda, diving after Hang-Chi's weapon, slashed with one well-directed stroke as she kicked her way to the surface.

Jeff's foot touched the bottom of the tank and with one vigorous push sent his head out of the water. Hang-Chi's guests were in a chattering, gibbering group round the wounded man, who was bleeding like a slaughtered pig.

Nelda was swimming close beside him, and for a moment nobody paid any attention to the pair. They were all excitedly trying to keep Hang-Chi from bleeding to death.

"Over this way," said Jeff, shoving the girl toward the bank nearest the staircase. She still held the sword, but Jeff relieved her of it.

One of Sui-Lee's gunmen saw the pair floundering at the surface and screeched a warning in Cantonese. Hang-Chi gurgled out a command, his voice choked with blood, and Ong-Sip ran to the ivory levers that controlled the underwater gates of the tank and yanked them frantically.

Crockett felt the rush of water under his body and below him saw door after door swinging open. The current rushing in from some concealed water system brought in the deep sea monsters from Hang-Chi's aquarium.

Sharks flashed into the pool, turning up their white undersides as they snapped at the severed tentacles of the octopus. Dogfish sped through the water, and huge, slimy electric eels and stingrays crowded into the pool. From another door crawled huge crabs, like spiders, snatching with voracious claws at the fragments of the octopus.

Ong-Sip screamed louder than ever as he saw what he had done. All the gates were open and he was unable to close them. The more he worked the levers, the faster flowed the water, and already it was brimming the pool and beginning to overflow.

Jeff Crockett felt the rasp of a shark's side on the skin of his leg and shoved Nelda to the edge of the pool.

"Out of here!" he cried warningly. "Make a dash for the staircase!"

Sui-Lee saw the pair climbing out of the pool and raised a shrill alarm. He came racing toward Crockett with his arm extended stiffly in front of him, pumping lead from an automatic. Jeff did not wait for Sui-Lee to come on, but charged at him, waving the keen-edged sword and taking a chance with Sui-Lee's marksmanship.

As the yellow gunman saw that terrifying steel blade whirling closer and closer, his aim faltered, and with a shrill yelp he dropped his gun and fled. Jeff picked it up, then turned at a call of distress from Nelda. The two gigantic coolies were running to cut her off from the foot of the staircase, and as Jeff raced across the artificial garden, crashing through the trees and shrubs of shells, his feet were splashing in the overflow of the pool. He knew how desperate the situation was.

If the yellow men shut off their retreat by the staircase, they would be trapped. The cellar would fill with water. They would drown!

JEFF halted, took careful aim and fired. The coolie who was seizing Nelda leaped in the air and dropped, kicking in the death agony. The second coolie stopped short, and in that instant Nelda gained the staircase.

The next moment the yellow giant leaped forward to draw her down and Jeff's second bullet caught him in the spine, dropping him in midair. When Jeff reached the foot of the staircase the water was already ankle deep. Now the yellow guests of Hang-Chi realized their danger and left their bleeding host to his fate as they dashed in a screaming, hysterical mob toward the staircase, the only way out.

Nelda was near the top, working at the system of bolts that closed the trapdoor. Jeff was halfway to the foot of the stairs, holding his gun on the crowd and slashing with the sword at those who ventured too close.

Step by step, Crockett fought his way, backing up only when the pressure became too strong, driving his blade into the yellow, screaming faces that closed in upon him.

"Hold them! Hold them! Just a moment longer!" cried Nelda. "I've got the door unbolted. It's beginning to give."

A shot echoed in the vault. Hang-Chi, staggering waist-deep in water toward the staircase, had flashed a gun from his sleeve and fired. But he was shooting, not at Jeff Crockett, but at the white underside of a shark that was darting through the water. There was a snap of fanged jaws and blood stained the water under Hang-Chi as his leg was laid open by the shark. Hang-Chi screamed shrilly and fired again at the shark.

Jeff Crockett had saved his bullets for the last rush. Now, as Nelda forced open the trapdoor above his head, he sprayed the snarling faces below him with lead at close range. The mob fell back, shrieking curses at the white devils, and as they gave way Jeff thrust Nelda through the door, slid after her through the narrow gap and slammed the trapdoor down again.

They were in the silk-paneled room where Nelda had looked at the jade and gold ring, but the dragon chair was gone. Jeff heaved at a teakwood cabinet and toppled it upon the trapdoor, then seizing all the weighty furniture he could find, chairs, tables, and chests, he piled them high. There was still a chance that the heaving trapdoor might be lifted by the desperate Chinese. Jeff found a heavy bar and used it as a lever to roll the safe upon the trapdoor.

Below their feet could be heard the gurgling of the rushing water and the howls of the yellow thugs trapped in a cellar infested with sharks and devil fish.

Outside the silk-paneled room the bazaar was deserted, the showcases covered with dust cloths, the only light a dim bulb to discourage burglars. But beyond the walls could be heard the festive music of the Chinese orchestras celebrating New Year and the bang-bang-banging of ten-foot strings of firecrackers.

Jeff looked at the girl in her tattered silk garments and realized, for the first time, how beautiful she was. And she looked at him and knew that, in spite of his rags, he was no Chinatown tramp.

"How did you get here?" he demanded.

"I took a chance. People warned me that it was risky to come here alone at night. But I'm like that."

"You'll never come that close to death again."

"But for you I'd been eaten alive by now." She shuddered. "I can't thank you for this. Words would sound silly. But my father can give you something more substantial!"

"Don't talk money to me!" His voice was harsh. "Just promise on your word of honor that you'll quit taking crazy chances."

She stared at him. "Don't you need money? You look like a poor man."

"I earn all I need—all I want. But answer me! Will you promise to quit taking crazy chances?"

"Why should you care?"

HE shrugged, then as she saw the admiration in his eyes, her cheeks flushed and she was aware of her scanty, tattered garments, and snatched up an embroidered Mandarin robe to wrap about her slender body.

Before Jeff could answer, the wail of sirens from the street outside blasted in their ears; the front door was caved in with axes and a squad of police and detectives were swarming into the store, guns leveled for business. Sergeant Doyle and Detective Joe Conlon pounced upon the astonished pair with a gruff, "Up with 'em, you two yeggs!"

Automatically Jeff's hands went up, and then he laughed in the sergeant s face.

"What's the idea? Who tipped you off about Hang-Chi?"

"Well I'll be cooked! Jeff Crockett! What are you doing? Setting off the burglar alarm!"

"Burglar alarm? That explains it. When we moved the safe the alarm rang at Headquarters."

Jeff Crockett pointed to the safe holding down the trapdoor.

"When you send your men down below, Sergeant, you'll find the gang that murdered Fred Horton. And I think that Chinatown will know from now on that it's sudden death to go up against a Federal."

"A Fed?" Nelda's voice rang out with a strange note. All eyes turned upon her as she stared at Jeff. "So you are one of us!" she cried, seizing his hand with a strong impulsive grip.

After a moment's pause she added, smiling, "And you wanted my promise to take no more chances! I'll have to promise you something else instead."

____________

13: The Floating Beacon

Edward Ball

1792-1873

Reprinted in Short Story, Sep 1892

This "famous short story" was reprinted anonymously in Short Story in 1892, but, as the header to the story noted, had been published anonymously in Blackwoods Magazine "many years ago".  Some authorities identify it as by English playwright and opera librettist Edward Ball, who wrote under the pseudonym "Edward Fitzball", and date it to 1824. A Two-Act play of this story, by Fitzball, appeared in the mid 19th century.

ONE dark and stormy night we were on a voyage from Bergen to Christiansand in a small sloop. Our captain suspected that he had approached too near the Norwegian coast, though he could not discern any land, and the wind blew with such violence that we were in momentary dread of being driven upon a lee shore. We had endeavored, for more than an hour, to keep our vessel away, but our efforts proved unavailing, and we soon found that we could scarcely hold our own. A clouded sky, a hazy atmosphere, and irregular showers of sleety rain combined to deepen the obscurity of night, and nothing whatever was visible, except the sparkling of the distant waves when their tops happened to break into a wreath of foam. The sea ran very high, and sometimes broke over the deck so furiously that the men were obliged to hold by the rigging, lest they should be carried away. Our captain was a person of timid and irresolute character, and the dangers that environed us made him gradually lose confidence in himself. He often gave orders, and countermanded them in the same moment, all the while taking small quantities of ardent spirits at intervals. Fear and intoxication soon stupefied him completely, and the crew ceased to consult him, or to pay any respect to his authority, in so far as regarded the management of the vessel.

About midnight our mainsail was split, and shortly after we found that the sloop had sprung a leak. We had before shipped a good deal of water through the hatches, and the quantity that now entered from below was so great that we thought she would go down every moment. Our only chance of escape lay in our boat, which was immediately lowered. After we had all got on board of her, except the captain, who stood leaning against the mast, we called to him, requesting that he would follow us without delay.

"How dare you quit the sloop without my permission?" cried he, staggering forward. "This is not fit weather to go a-fishing. Come back— back with you all!"

"No, no," returned one of the crew; "we don't want to be sent to the bottom for your obstinacy. Bear a hand there, or we'll leave you behind."

"Captain, you are drunk," said another; "you cannot take care of yourself. You must obey us now."

"Silence! mutinous villain!" answered the captain. "What are you all afraid of? This is a fine breeze. Up mainsail, and steer her right in the wind's eye."

The sea knocked the boat so violently and constantly against the side of the sloop that we feared the former would be injured or upset if we did not immediately row away; but, anxious as we were to preserve our lives, we could not reconcile ourselves to the idea of abandoning the captain, who grew more obstinate the more we attempted to persuade him to accompany us. At length one of the crew leaped on board the sloop and having seized hold of him tried to drag him along by force; but he struggled resolutely, and soon freed himself from the grasp of the seaman, who immediately resumed his place among us and urged that we should not any longer risk our lives for the sake of a drunkard and a madman. Most of the party declared they were of the same opinion, and began to push off the boat; but I entreated them to make one effort more to induce their infatuated commander to accompany us. At that moment he came up from the cabin, to which he had descended a little time before, and we immediately perceived that he was more under the influence of ardent spirits than ever. He abused us all in the grossest terms, and threatened his crew with severe punishment if they did not come on board and return to their duty. His manner was so violent that no one seemed willing to attempt to constrain him to come on board the boat; and after vainly representing and the danger of his situation, we bid him farewell and rowed away.

The sea ran so high, and had such a terrific appearance, that I almost wished myself in the stoop again. The crew plied the oars in silence, and we heard nothing but the hissing of the enormous billows as they gently rose up and slowly subsided again, without breaking. At intervals our boat was elevated far above the surface of the ocean, and remained for few moments trembling upon the pinnacle of a surge, from which it would quietly descend into a gulf so deep and awful that we often thought the dense black mass of waters which formed its sides were on the point of overarching us and bursting upon our heads. We glided with regular undulations from one billow to another; but every time we sank into the trough of the sea my heart died within me, for I felt as if we were going lower down than we had ever done before, and clung instinctively to the board on which I sat.

Nothwithstanding my terrors, I frequently looked toward the sloop. The fragments of her mainsail, which remained attached to the yard and fluttered in the wind, enabled us to discern exactly where she lay, and showed, by their motion, that she pitched about in a terrible manner. We occasionally heard the voice of her unfortunate commander, calling to us in tones of frantic derision, and by turns vociferating curses and blasphemous oaths, and singing sea-songs with a wild and frightful energy. I sometimes almost wished that the crew would make another effort to save him, but next moment the principle of self-preservation repressed all feelings of humanity, and I endeavored, by closing my ears, to banish the idea of his sufferings from my mind.

After a little time the shivering canvas disappeared, and we heard a tumultuous roaring and bursting of billows, and saw an unusual sparkling of the sea about a quarter of a mile from us. One of the sailors cried out that the sloop was now on her beam-ends, and that the noise to which we listened was that of the waves breaking over her. We could sometimes perceive a large black mass heaving itself up irregularly among the flashing surges, and then disappearing for a few moments, and knew but too well that it was the hull of the vessel. At intervals a shrill and agonized voice uttered some exclamations, but we could not distinguish what they were, and then a long-drawn shriek came across the ocean, which suddenly grew more furiously agitated near the spot where the sloop lay, and in a few moments she sank down and a black wave formed itself out of the waters that had engulfed her, and swelled gloomily into a magnitude greater than that of the surrounding billows.

The seamen dropped their oars as if by one impulse, and looked expressively at each other, without speaking a word. Awful forebodings of a fate similar to that of the captain appeared to chill every heart, and to repress the energy that had hitherto excited us to make unremitting exertions for our common safety.

While we were in this state of hopeless inaction, the man at the helm called out that he saw a light ahead. We all strained our eyes to discern it, but at the moment the boat was sinking down between two immense waves, one of which closed the prospect, and we remained in breathless anxiety till a rising surge elevated us above the level of the surrounding ocean. A light like a dazzling star then suddenly flashed upon our view, and joyful exclamations burst from every mouth.

"That," cried one of the crew, "must be the floating beacon which our captain was looking out for this afternoon. If we can but gain it, we'll be safe enough yet."

This intelligence cheered us all, and the men began to ply the oars with redoubled vigor, while I employed myself in baling out the water that sometimes rushed over the gunwale of the boat when a sea struck her.

An hour's hard rowing brought us so near the lighthouse that we almost ceased to apprehend any further danger; but it was suddenly obscured from our view, and at the same time a confused roaring and dashing commenced at a little distance, and rapidly increased in loudness. We soon perceived a tremendous billow rolling toward us. Its top, part of which had already broke, overhung the base, as if unwilling to burst until we were within the reach of its violence. The man who steered the boat brought her head to the sea, but all to no purpose, for the water rushed furiously over us, and we were completely immersed. I felt the boat swept from under me, and was left struggling and groping about in hopeless desperation for something to catch hold of. When nearly exhausted, I received a severe blow on the side from a small cask of water which the sea had forced against me. I immediately twined my arms round it, and, after recovering myself a little, began to look for the boat, and to call to my companions; but I could not discover any vestige of them or of their vessel. However, I still had a faint hope that they were in existence, and that the intervention of the billows concealed them from my view. I continued to shout as loud as possible, for the sound of my own voice in some measure relieved me from the feeling of awful and heartchilling loneliness which my situation inspired; but not even an echo responded to my cries, and, convinced that my comrades had all perished, I ceased looking for them, and pushed toward the beacon in the best manner I could. A long series of fatiguing exertions brought me close to the side of the vessel which contained it, and I called out loudly, in hopes that those on board might hear me and come to my assistance; but no one appearing, I waited patiently till a wave raised me on a level with the chains, and then caught hold of them and succeeded in getting on board.

As I did not see any person on deck, I went forward to the skylight, and looked down. Two men were seated below at a table; and a lamp, which was suspended above them, being swung backward and forward by the rolling of the vessel, threw its light upon their faces alternately. One seemed agitated with passion, and the other surveyed him with a scornful look. They both talked very loudly and used threatening gestures, but the sea made so much noise that I could not distinguish what was said. After a little time they started up, and seemed to be on the point of closing and wrestling together, when a woman rushed through a small door and prevented them. I beat upon deck with my feet at the same time, and the attention of the whole party was soon transferred to the noise. One of the men immediately came up the cabin stairs, but stopped short on seeing me, as if irresolute whether to advance or hasten below again. I approached him, and told my story in a few words, but, instead of making any reply, he went down to the cabin and began to relate to the others what he had seen. I soon followed him, and easily found my way into the apartment where they all were. They appeared to feel mingled sensations of fear and astonishment at my presence, and it was some time before they entered into conversation with me or afforded those comforts which I stood so much in need of.

After I had refreshed myself with food, and been provided with a change of clothing, I went upon deck, and surveyed the singular asylum in which Providence had enabled me to take refuge from the fury of the storm. It did not exceed thirty feet long, and was very strongly built, and completely decked over, except at the entrance to the cabin. It had a thick mast at midships, with a large lantern, containing several burners and reflectors, on the top of it; and this could be lowered and hoisted up again as often as required, by means of ropes and pulleys. The vessel was firmly moored upon an extensive sand-bank, the beacon being intended to warn seamen to avoid a part of the ocean where many lives and vessels had been lost in consequence of the latter running aground. The accommodations below-decks were narrow and of an inferior description; however, I gladly retired to the berth that was allotted me by my entertainers, and fatigue and the rocking of billows combined to lull me into a quiet and dreamless sleep.

Next morning one of the men, whose name was Angerstoff, came to my bedside, and called me to breakfast in a surly, imperious manner. The others looked coldly and distrustfully when I joined them, and I saw that they regarded me as an intruder and an unwelcome guest. The meal passed without almost any conversation, and I went upon deck whenever it was over. The tempest of the preceding night had in a great measure abated, but the sea still ran very high, and a black mist hovered over it, through which the Norwegian coast, lying at eleven miles distance, could be dimly seen. I looked in vain for some remains of the sloop or boat. Not a bird enlivened the heaving expanse of waters, and I turned, shuddering, from the dreary scene, and asked Morvalden, the youngest of the men, when he thought I had any chance of getting ashore.

"Not very soon, I'm afraid," returned he. "We are visited once a month by people from yonder land, who are appointed to bring us a supply of provisions and other necessaries. They were here only six days ago, so you may count how long it will be before they return. Fishing-boats sometimes pass us during fine weather, but we won't have much of that this moon at least."

No intelligence could have been more depressing to me than this. The idea of spending perhaps three weeks in such a place was almost insupportable, and the more so as I could not hasten my deliverance by any exertions of my own, but would be obliged to remain, in a state of inactive suspense, till good fortune or the regular course of events afforded me the means of getting ashore. Neither Angerstoff nor Morvalden seemed to sympathize with my distress, or even to care that I should have it in my power to leave the vessel, except in so far as my departure would free them from the expense of supporting me. They returned indistinct and repulsive answers to all the questions I asked, and appeared anxious to avoid having the least communication with me. During the greater part of the forenoon they employed themselves in trimming the lamps and cleaning the reflectors, but never conversed any. I easily perceived that a mutual animosity existed between them, but was unable to discover the cause of it. Morvalden seemed to fear Angerstoff, and at the same time to feel a deep resentment toward him, which he did not dare to express. Angerstoff apparently was aware of this, for he behaved to his companion with the fierceness of determined hate, and openly thwarted him in everything. Marietta, the female on board, was the wife of Morvalden. She remained chiefly below-decks, and attended to the domestic concerns of the vessel. She was rather good-looking, but so reserved and forbidding in her manners that she formed no desirable acquisition to our party, already so heartless and unsociable in its character.

When night approached, after the lapse of a wearisome and monotonous day, I went on deck to see the beacon lighted, and continued walking backward and forward till a late hour. I watched the lantern, as it swung from side to side and flashed upon different portions of the sea alternately, and sometimes fancied I saw men struggling among the billows that tumbled around, and at other times imagined I could discern the white sail of an approaching vessel. Human voices seemed to mingle with the noise of the bursting waves, and I often listened intently, almost in the expectation of hearing articulate sounds. My mind grew sombre as the scene itself, and strange and fearful ideas obtruded themselves in rapid succession. It was dreadful to be chained in the middle of the deep— to be the continual sport of the quietless billows— to be shunned as a fatal thing by those who traversed the solitary ocean. Though within sight of the shore, our situation was more dreary than if we had been sailing a thousand miles from it. We felt not the pleasure of moving forward, nor the hope of reaching port, nor the delights arising from favorable breezes and genial weather. When a billow drove us to one side, we were tossed back again by another; our imprisonment had no variety or definite termination; and the calm and the tempest were alike uninteresting to us. I felt as if my fate had already become linked with that of those who were on board the vessel. My hopes of being again permitted to mingle with mankind died away, and I anticipated long years of gloom and despair in the company of these repulsive persons into whose hands fate had unexpectedly consigned me.

Angerstoff and Morvalden tended the beacon alternately during the night. The latter had the watch while I remained upon deck. His appearance and manner indicated much perturbation of mind, and he paced hurriedly from side to side, sometimes muttering to himself, and sometimes stopping suddenly to look through the skylight, as if anxious to discover what was going on below. He would then gaze intently upon the heavens, and next moment take out his watch and contemplate the motions of its hands. I did not offer to disturb these reveries, and thought myself altogether unobserved by him, till he suddenly advanced to the spot where I stood, and said in a loud whisper:

"There's a villain below— a desperate villain— this is true— he is capable of anything— and the woman is as bad as him."

I asked what proof he had of all this.

"Oh, I know it," returned he; "that wretch Angerstoff, whom I once thought my friend, has gained my wife's affections. She has been faithless to me— yes, she has. They both wish I were out of the way. Perhaps they are now planning my destruction. What can I do ? It is very terrible to be shut up in such narrow limits with those who hate me, and to have no means of escaping or defending myself from their infernal machinations."

"Why do you not leave the beacon," inquired I, "and abandon your companion and guilty wife?"

"Ah, that is impossible," answered Morvalden; "if I went on shore, I would forfeit my liberty. I live here that I may escape the vengeance of the law, which I once outraged for the sake of her who has now withdrawn her love from me. What ingratitude! Mine is indeed a terrible fate, but I must bear it. And shall I never again wander through the green fields and climb the rocks that encircle my native place? Are the weary dashings of the sea and the moanings of the wind to fill my ears continually, all the while telling me that I am an exile! a hopeless despairing exile. But it won't last long," cried he, catching hold of my arm; "they will murder me! I am sure of it— I never go to sleep without dreaming that Angerstoff has pushed me overboard."

"Your lonely situation and inactive life dispose you to give way to these chimeras," said I; "you must endeavor to resist them. Perhaps things aren't so bad as you suppose."

"This is not a lonely situation," replied Morvalden, in a solemn tone. "Perhaps you will have proof of what I say before you leave us. Many vessels used to be lost here, and a few are wrecked still; and the skeletons and corpses of those who have perished lie all over the sand-bank. Sometimes at midnight I have seen crowds of human figures moving backward and forward upon the surface of the ocean, almost as far as the eye could reach. I neither knew who they were, nor what they did there. When watching the lantern alone, I often hear a number of voices talking together, as it were, under the waves; and I twice caught the very words they uttered, but I cannot repeat them— they dwell incessantly in my memory, but my tongue refuses to pronounce them, or to explain to others what they meant."

"Do not let your senses be imposed upon by a distempered imagination," said I; "there is no reality in the things you have told me."

"Perhaps my mind occasionally wanders a little, for it has a heavy burden upon it," returned Morvalden, "I have been guilty of a dreadful crime. Many that now lie in the deep below us might start up and accuse me of what I am just going to reveal to you. One stormy night, shortly after I began to take charge of this beacon, while watching on deck, I fell into a profound sleep. I know not how long it continued, but I was awakened by horrible shouts and cries. I started up, and instantly perceived that all the lamps in the lantern were extinguished. It was very dark, and the sea raged furiously; but notwithstanding all this, I observed a ship aground on the bank, a little way from me, her sails fluttering in the wind, and the waves breaking over her with violence. Half frantic with horror, I ran down to the cabin for a taper, and lighted the lamps as fast as possible. The lantern, when hoisted to the top of the mast, threw a vivid glare on the surrounding ocean, and showed me the vessel disappearing among the billows. Hundreds of people lay gasping in the water near her. Men, women, and children writhed together in agonizing struggles, and uttered soul-harrowing cries; and their countenances, as they gradually stiffened under the hand of death, were all turned toward me with glassy stare, while the lurid expression of their glistening eyes upbraided me with having been the cause of their untimely end. Never shall I forget these looks. They haunt me wherever I am— asleep and awake— night and day. I have kept this tale of horror secret till now, and do not know if I shall ever have courage to relate it again. The masts of the vessel projected above the surface of the sea for several months after she was lost, as if to keep me in recollection of the night in which so many human creatures perished in consequence of my neglect and carelessness. Would to God I had no memory! I sometimes think I am getting mad. The past and present are equally dreadful to me; and I dare not anticipate the future."

I felt a sort of superstitious dread steal over me while Morvalden related his story, and we continued walking the deck in silence till the period of his watch expired. I then went below, and took refuge in my berth, though I was but little inclined for sleep. The gloomy ideas and dark forebodings expressed by Morvalden weighed heavily upon my mind, without my knowing why; and my situation, which had at first seemed only dreary and depressing, began to have something indefinitely terrible in its aspect.

Next day, when Morvalden proceeded as usual to put the beacon in order, he called upon Angerstoff to come and assist him, which the latter peremptorily refused. Morvalden then went down to the cabin, where his companion was, and requested to know why his orders were not obeyed.

"Because I hate trouble," replied Angerstoff.

"I am master here," said Morvalden, "and have been intrusted with the direction of everything. Do not attempt to trifle with me."

"Trifle with you!" exclaimed Angerstoff, looking contemptuously. "No, no, I am no trifler; and I advise you to walk up-stairs again, lest I prove this to your cost."

"Why, husband," cried Marietta, " I believe there are no bounds to your laziness. You make this young man toil from morning to night, and take advantage of his good nature in the most shameful manner."

"Peace, infamous woman!" said Morvalden; "I know very well why you stand up in his defence; but I'll put a stop to the intimacy that exists between you. Go to your room instantly! You are my wife, and shall obey me."

"Is this usage to be borne?" exclaimed Marietta. "Will no one step forward to protect me from his violence?"

"Insolent fellow!" cried Angerstoff, "don't presume to insult my mistress."

"Mistress!" repeated Morvalden. "This to my face!" and struck him a severe blow.

Angerstoff sprung forward, with the intention of returning it, but I got between them, and prevented him. Marietta then began to shed tears, and applauded the generosity her paramour had evinced in sparing her husband, who immediately went upon deck, without speaking a word, and resumed his work.

Neither of the two men seemed at all disposed for a reconciliation, and they had no intercourse during the whole day, except angry and revengeful looks. I frequently observed Marietta in deep consultation with Angerstoff, and easily perceived that the subject of debate had some relation to her injured husband, whose manner evinced much alarm and anxiety, although he endeavored to look calm and cheerful. He did not make his appearance at meals, but spent all his time upon deck. Whenever Angerstoff accidentally passed him, he shrank back with an expression of dread, and intuitively, as it were, caught hold of a rope, or any other object to which he could cling.

The day proved a wretched and fearful one to me, for I momentarily expected that some terrible affray would occur on board, and that I would be implicated in it. I gazed upon the surrounding sea almost without intermission, ardently hoping that some boat might approach near enough to afford me an opportunity of quitting the horrid and dangerous abode in which I was imprisoned. It was Angerstoff's watch on deck till midnight; and as I did not wish to have any communication with him, I remained below. At twelve o'clock Morvalden got up and relieved him, and he came down to the cabin, and soon after retired to his berth. Believing, from this arrangement, that they had no hostile intentions, I lay down in bed with composure, and fell asleep. It was not long before a noise overhead awakened me. I started up, and listened intently. The sound appeared to be that of two persons scuffling together, for a succession of irregular footsteps beat the deck, and I could hear violent blows given at intervals. I got out of my berth, and entered the cabin, where I found Marietta standing alone, with a lamp in her hand.

"Do you hear that?" cried I.

"Hear what?" returned she; "I have had a dreadful dream— I am all trembling."

"Is Angerstoff below?" demanded I.

"No— yes, I mean," said Marietta. "Why do you ask that? He went up-stairs."

"Your husband and he are fighting. We must part them instantly."

"How can that be?" answered Marietta; "Angerstoff is asleep."

"Asleep! Didn't you say he went up-stairs?"

"I don't know," returned she; "I am hardly awake yet— let us listen for a moment."

Everything was still for a few seconds; then a voice shrieked out: "Ah! that knife! you are murdering me! Draw it out! No help! Are you done? Now— now—now!"

A heavy body fell suddenly along the deck, and some words were spoken in a faint tone, but the roaring of the sea prevented me from hearing what they were. I rushed up the cabin stairs, and tried to push open the folding-doors at the head of them, but they resisted my utmost efforts. I knocked violently and repeatedly to no purpose.

"Some one is killed," cried I. "The person who barred these doors on the outside is guilty."

"I know nothing of that," returned Marietta. "We can't be of any use now. Come here again!— how dreadfully quiet it is! My God!— a drop of blood has fallen through the skylight. What faces are you looking down upon us? But this lamp is going out. We must be going through the water at a terrible rate— how it rushes past us! I am getting dizzy. Do you hear these bells ringing? and strange voices—"

The cabin doors were suddenly burst open, and Angerstoff next moment appeared before us, crying out:

"Morvalden has fallen overboard. Throw a rope to him! He will be drowned." His hands and dress were marked with blood, and he had a frightful look of horror and confusion.

"You area murderer!" exclaimed I, almost involuntarily.

"How do you know that?" said he, staggering back; "I'm sure you never saw—"

"Hush, hush," cried Marietta to him; "you are mad? Speak again! What frightens you ? Why don't you run and help Morvalden ?"

"Has anything happened to him?" inquired Angerstoff, with a gaze of consternation.

" You told us he had fallen overboard," returned Marietta; "must my husband perish?"

"Give me some water to wash my hands," said Angerstoff, growing deadly pale, and catching hold of the table for support.

I now hastened upon deck, but Morvalden was not there. I then went to the side of the vessel, and put my hands on the gunwale while I leaned over and looked downward. On taking them off, I found them marked with blood. I grew sick at heart, and began to identify myself with Angerstoff the murderer. The sea, the beacon, and the sky appeared of a sanguine hue; and I thought I heard the dying exclamations of Morvalden sounding a hundred fathom below me, and echoing through the caverns of the deep. I advanced to the cabin door, intending to descend the stairs, but found that some one had fastened it firmly on the inside. I felt convinced that I was intentionally shut out, and a cold shuddering pervaded my frame. I covered my face with my hands, not daring to look around; for it seemed as if I was excluded from the company of the living, and doomed to be the associate of the spirits of drowned and murdered men. After a little time I began to walk hastily backward and forward; but the light of the lantern happened to flash on a stream of blood that ran along the deck, and I could not summon up resolution to pass the spot where it was a second time. The sky looked black and threatening—the sea had a fierceness in its sound and motions—and the wind swept over its bosom with melancholy sighs. Everything was sombre and ominous; and I looked in vain for some object that would, by its soothing aspect, remove the dark impressions which crowded upon my mind.

While standing near the bows of the vessel, I saw a hand and arm rise slowly behind the stern, and wave from side to side. I started back as far as I could go in horrible affright, and looked again, expecting to behold the entire spectral figure of which I supposed they formed a part. But nothing more was visible. I struck my eyes till the light flashed from them, in hopes that my senses had been imposed upon by distempered vision. However, it was in vain, for the hand still motioned me to advance, and I rushed forward with wild desperation, and caught hold of it. I was pulled along a little way notwithstanding the resistance I made, and soon discovered a man stretched along the stern-cable, and clinging to it in a convulsive manner. It was Morvalden. He raised his head feebly and said something, but I could only distinguish the words "murdered— overboard— reached this rope— terrible death. "

I stretched out my arms to support him, but at that moment the vessel plunged violently and he was shaken off the cable and dropped in the waves. He floated for an instant, and then disappeared under the keel. I seized the first rope I could find, and threw one end of it over the stern, and likewise flung some planks into the sea, thinking that the unfortunate Morvalden might still retain strength enough to catch hold of them if they came within his reach. I continued on the watch for a considerable time, but at last abandoned all hopes of saving him, and made another attempt to get down to the cabin. The doors were now unfastened, and I opened them without any difficulty. The first thing I saw on going below was Angerstoff stretched along the floor, and fast asleep. His torpid look, flushed countenance, and uneasy respiration convinced me that he had taken a large quantity of ardent spirits. Marietta was in her own apartment. Even the presence of a murderer appeared less terrible than the frightful solitariness of the deck, and I lay down upon a bench, determining to spend the remainder of the night there. The lamp that hung from the roof soon went out, and left me in total darkness.

Imagination began to conjure up a thousand appalling forms, and the voice of Angerstoff, speaking in his sleep, filled my ears at intervals— "Hoist up the beacon!— the lamps won't burn— horrible!— they contain blood instead of oil. Is that a boat coming? Yes, yes, I hear the oars. Damnation!— why is that corpse so long of sinking?— if it doesn't go down soon, they'll find me out. How terribly the wind blows!— we are driving ashore. See! see! Morvalden is swimming after us— how he writhes in the water!"

Marietta now rushed from her room, with a light in her hand, and seizing Angerstoff by the arm tried to awake him. He soon rose up with chattering teeth and shivering limbs, and was on the point of speaking, but she prevented him, and he staggered away to his berth, and lay down in it.

Next morning, when I went upon deck, after a short and perturbed sleep, I found Marietta dashing water over it, that she might efface all vestige of the transactions of the preceding night. Angerstoff did not make his appearance till noon, and his looks were ghastly and agonized. He seemed stupefied with horror, and sometimes entirely lost all perception of the things around him for a considerable time. He suddenly came close up to me, and demanded, with a bold air, but quivering voice, what I had meant by calling him a murderer.

"Why, that you are one," replied I, after a pause.

"Beware what you say," returned he, fiercely, "you cannot escape my power now— I tell you, sir, Morvalden fell overboard."

"Whence, then, came that blood that covered the deck?" inquired I.

He grew pale, and then cried; "You lie— you lie infernally— there was none! "

"I saw it," said I; "I saw Morvalden himself— long after midnight. He was clinging to the stern-cable, and said—"

"Ha, ha, ha— devils!— curses!" exclaimed Angerstoff. " Did you hear me dreaming ? I was mad last night. Come, come, come! We shall tend the beacon together— let us make friends, and don't be afraid, for you'll find me a good fellow in the end."

He now forcibly shook hands with me, and then hurried down to the cabin.

In the afternoon, while sitting on deck, I discerned a boat far off, but I determined to conceal this from Angerstoff and Marietta, lest they should use some means to prevent its approach. I walked carelessly about, casting a glance upon the sea occasionally, and meditating how I could best take advantage of the means of deliverance which I had in prospect. After the lapse of an hour, the boat was not more than half a mile distant from us, but she suddenly changed her course, and bore away toward the shore. I immediately shouted, and waved a handkerchief over my head, as signals for her to return.

Angerstoff rushed from the cabin, and seized my arm, threatening at the same time to push me overboard if I attempted to hail her again. I disengaged myself from his grasp, and dashed him violently from me. The noise brought Marietta upon deck, who immediately perceived the cause of the affray, and cried:

"Does the wretch mean to make his escape? For God's sake, prevent the possibility of that!"

"Yes, yes," returned Angerstoff; "he never shall leave the vessel. He had as well take care, lest I do to him what I did to—"

"To Morvalden, I suppose you mean," said I.

"Well, well, speak it out," replied he, ferociously; "there is no one here to listen to your damnable falsehoods, and I'll not be fool enough to give you an opportunity of uttering them elsewhere. I'll strangle you the next time you tell these lies about—"

"Come," interrupted Marietta, "don't be uneasy— the boat will soon be far enough away. If he wants to give you the slip, he must leap overboard."

I was irritated and disappointed beyond measure at the failure of the plan of escape I had formed, but thought it most prudent to conceal my feelings. I now perceived the rashness and bad consequences of my bold assertions respecting the murder of Morvalden; for Angerstoff evidently thought that his personal safety, and even his life, would be endangered if I ever found an opportunity of accusing and giving evidence against him. All my motions were now watched with double vigilance. Marietta and her paramour kept upon deck by turns during the whole day, and the latter looked over the surrounding ocean, through a glass, at intervals, to discover if any boat or vessel was approaching us. He often muttered threats as he walked past me, and more than once seemed waiting for an opportunity to push me overboard. Marietta and he frequently whispered together, and I always imagined I heard my name mentioned in the course of these conversations.

I now felt completely miserable, being satisfied that Angerstoff was bent upon my destruction. I wandered, in a state of fearful circumspection, from one part of the vessel to the other, not knowing how to secure myself from his designs. Every time he approached me, my heart palpitated dreadfully; and when night came on I was agonized with terror, and could not remain in one spot, but hurried backward and forward between the cabin and the deck, looking wildly from side to side, and momentarily expecting to feel a cold knife entering my vitals. My forehead began to burn and my eyes dazzled; I became acutely sensitive, and the slightest murmur or the faintest breath of wind set my whole frame in a state of uncontrollable vibration. At first I sometimes thought of throwing myself into the sea; but I soon acquired such an intense feeling of existence that the mere idea of death was horrible to me.

Shortly after midnight I lay down in my berth, almost exhausted by the harrowing emotions that had careered through my mind during the past day. I felt a strong desire to sleep, yet dared not indulge myself; soul and body seemed at war. Every noise excited my imagination, and scarcely a minute passed in the course of which I did not start up and look around. Angerstoff paced the deck overhead, and when the sound of his footsteps accidentally ceased at any time, I grew deadly sick at heart, expecting that he was silently coming to murder me. A length I thought I heard some one near my bed— I sprung from it, and, having seized a bar of iron that lay on the floor, rushed into the cabin. I found Angerstoff there, who started back when he saw me, and said:

"What is the matter? Did you think that— I want you to watch the beacon, that I may have some rest. Follow me upon deck, and I will give you directions about it."

I hesitated a moment, and then went up the gangway stairs behind him. We walked forward to the mast together, and he showed how I was to lower the lantern when any of the lamps happened to go out, and, bidding me beware of sleep, returned to the cabin. Most of my fears forsook me the moment he disappeared. I felt nearly as happy as if I had been set at liberty, and, for a time, forgot that my situation had anything painful or alarming connected with it. Angerstoff resumed his station in about three hours, and I again took refuge in my berth, where I enjoyed a short but undisturbed slumber.

Next day, while I was walking the deck and anxiously surveying the expanse of ocean around, Angerstoff requested me to come down to the cabin. I obeyed his summons, and found him there. He gave me a book, saying it was very entertaining, and would serve to amuse me during my idle hours; and then went above, shutting the door carefully behind him. I was struck with his behavior, but felt no alarm, for Marietta sat at work near me, apparently unconscious of what had passed.

I began to peruse the volume I held in my hand, and found it so interesting that I paid little attention to anything else, till the dashing of oars struck my ear. I sprang from my chair, with the intention of hastening upon deck, but Marietta stopped me, saying:

"It is of no use— the gangway doors are fastened." Notwithstanding this information, I made an attempt to open them, but could not succeed. I was now convinced, by the percussion against the vessel, that a boat lay alongside, and I heard a strange voice addressing Angerstoff. Fired with the idea of deliverance, I leaped upon a table which stood in the middle of the cabin, and tried to push off the skylight, but was suddenly stunned by a violent blow on the back of my head. I staggered back and looked round. Marietta stood close behind me, brandishing an axe, as if in the act of repeating the stroke. Her face was flushed with rage, and, having seized my arm, she cried:

"Come down instantly, accursed villain! I know you want to betray us; but may we all go to the bottom if you find a chance of doing so!"

I struggled to free myself from her grasp, but, being in a state of dizziness and confusion, I was unable to effect this, and she soon pulled me to the ground. At that moment, Angerstoff hurriedly entered the cabin, exclaiming:

"What noise is this? Oh, just as I expected! Has that devil— that spy— been trying to get above boards? Why haven't I the heart to despatch him at once ? But there's no time now. The people are waiting— Marietta, come and lend a hand."

They now forced me down upon the floor, and bound me to an iron ring that was fixed in it. This being done, Angerstoff directed his female accomplice to prevent me from speaking, and went upon deck again. While in this state of bondage, I heard distinctly all that passed without. Some one asked Angerstoff how Morvalden did.

"Well, quite well," replied the former; "but he's below, and so sick that he can't see any person."

"Strange enough," said the first speaker, laughing. "Is he ill and in good health at the same time? He had as well be overboard as in that condition."

"Overboard!" repeated Angerstoff; "what!— how do you mean?— all false!— but listen to me. Are there any news stirring ashore?"

"Why," said the stranger, "the chief talk there just now is about a curious thing that happened this morning. A dead man was found upon the beach, and they suspect, from the wounds on his body, that he hasn't got fair play. They are making a great noise about it, and Government means to send out a boat, with an officer on board, who is to visit all the shipping round this, that he may ascertain if any of them has lost a man lately. 'Tis a dark business; but they'll get to the bottom of it, I warrant ye. Why, you look as pale as if you knew more about this matter than you choose to tell."

"No, no, no," returned Angerstoff; "I never hear of a murder but I think of a friend of mine who— but I won't detain you, for the sea is getting up— we'll have a blowy night, I'm afraid."

"So you don't want any fish to-day?" cried the stranger; "then I'll be off—good-morning, good-morning. I suppose you'll have the government boat alongside by and by."

I now heard the sound of oars, and supposed, from the conversation having ceased, that the fishermen had departed. Angerstoff came down to the cabin soon after, and released me without speaking a word. Marietta then approached him, and, taking hold of his arm, said,

"Do you believe what that man has told you?"

"Yes, by the eternal hell!" cried he, vehemently; "I suspect I will find the truth of it soon enough."

"My God!" exclaimed she, "what is to become of us? How dreadful! We are chained here, and cannot escape."

"Escape what?" interrupted Angerstoff; "girl, you have lost your senses. Why should we fear the officers of justice? Keep a guard over your tongue."

"Oh," returned Marietta, "I talk without thinking, or understanding my own words; but come upon deck, and let me speak with you there."

They now went up the gangway stairs together, and continued in deep conversation for some time. Angerstoff gradually became more agitated as the day advanced. He watched upon deck almost without intermission, and seemed irresolute what to do, sometimes sitting down composedly, and at other times hurrying backward and forward with clenched hands and bloodless cheeks. The wind blew pretty fresh from the shore, and there was a heavy swell; and I supposed, from the anxious looks with which he contemplated the sky, that he hoped the threatening aspect of the weather would prevent the government boat from putting out to sea. He kept his glass constantly in his hand, and surveyed the ocean in all directions. At length he suddenly dashed the instrument away, and exclaimed,

"God help us! they are coming now! "

Marietta, on hearing this, ran wildly toward him, and put her hands in his, but he pushed her to one side, and began to pace the deck, apparently in deep thought. After a little time, he started, and cried,

"I have it now! It's the only plan— I'll manage the business— yes, yes— I'll cut the cables, and off we'll go— that's settled!"

He then seized an axe, and first divided the hawser at the bows, and afterward the one attached to the stern. The vessel immediately began to drift away, and having no sails or helm to steady her, rolled with such violence that I was dashed from side to side several times. She often swung over so much that I thought she would not regain the upright position, and Angerstoff all the while unconsciously strengthened this belief by exclaiming:

"She will capsize! shift the ballast, or we must go to the bottom!"

In the midst of this I kept my station upon deck, intently watching the boat which was still several miles distant. I waited in fearful expectation, thinking that every new wave against which we were impelled would burst upon our vessel and overwhelm us, while our pursuers were too far off to afford any assistance. The idea of perishing when on the point of being saved was inexpressibly agonizing. As the day advanced, the hopes I had entertained of the boat making up with us gradually diminished. The wind blew violently, and we drifted along at a rapid rate, and the weather grew so hazy that our pursuers soon became quite undistinguishable.

Marietta and Angerstoff appeared to be stupefied with terror. They stood motionless, holding firmly by the bulwarks of the vessel; and though the waves frequently broke over the deck and rushed down the gangway, they did not offer to shut the companion door, which would have remained open had I not closed it. The tempest, gloom, and danger that thickened around us neither elicited from them any expressions of mutual regard nor seemed to produce the slightest sympathetic emotion in their bosoms. They gazed sternly at each other and at me, and, every time the vessel rolled, clung with convulsive eagerness to whatever lay within their reach.

About sunset our attention was attracted by a dreadful roaring, which evidently did not proceed from the waves around us; but, the atmosphere being very hazy, we were unable to ascertain the cause of it for a long time. At length we distinguished a range of high cliffs, against which the sea beat with terrible fury. Whenever the surge broke upon them, large jets of foam started up to a great height, and flashed angrily over their black and rugged surfaces, while the wind moaned and whistled with fearful caprice among the projecting points of rock. A dense mist covered the upper part of the cliffs, and prevented us from seeing if there were any houses upon their summits, though this point appeared of little importance, for we drifted toward the shore so fast that immediate death seemed inevitable. We soon felt our vessel bound twice against the sand, and in a little time after a heavy sea carried her up the beach, where she remained imbedded and hard aground. During the ebb of the waves there was not more than two feet of water round her bows. I immediately perceived this, and, watching a favorable opportunity, swung myself down to the beach by means of part of the cable that projected through the hawse-hole. I began to run toward the cliffs the moment my feet touched the ground, and Angerstoff attempted to follow me, that he might prevent my escape; but, while in the act of descending from the vessel, the sea flowed in with such violence that he was obliged to spring on board again to save himself from being overwhelmed by its waters.

I hurried on and began to climb up the rocks, which were very steep and slippery; but I soon grew breathless from fatigue, and found it necessary to stop. It was now almost dark, and when I looked around, I neither saw anything distinctly nor could form the least idea how far I had still to ascend before I reached the top of the cliffs. I knew not which way to turn my steps, and remained irresolute, till the barking of a dog faintly struck my ear. I joyfully followed the sound, and, after an hour of perilous exertion, discovered a light at some distance, which I soon found to proceed from the window of a small hut.

After I had knocked repeatedly, the door was opened by an old man, with a lamp in his hand. He started back on seeing me, for my dress was wet and disordered, my face and hands had been wounded while scrambling among the rocks, and fatigue and terror had given me a wan and agitated look. I entered the house, the inmates of which were a woman and a boy, and, having seated myself near the fire, related to my host all that had occurred on board the floating beacon, and then requested him to accompany me down to the beach, that we might search for Angerstoff and Marietta.

"No, no," cried he; "that is impossible. Hear how the storm rages! Worlds would not induce me to have any communication with murderers. It would be impious to attempt it on such a night as this. The Almighty is surely punishing them now! Come here and look out."

I followed him to the door, but the moment he opened it the wind extinguished the lamp. Total darkness prevailed without, and a chaos of rushing, bursting, and moaning sounds swelled upon the ear with irregular loudness. The blast swept round the hut in violent eddyings, and we felt the chilly spray of the sea driving upon our faces at intervals. I shuddered, and the old man closed the door and then resumed his seat near the fire.

My entertainer made a bed for me upon the floor, but the noise of the tempest and the anxiety I felt about the fate of Angerstoff and Marietta kept me awake the greater part of the night. Soon after dawn my host accompanied me down to the beach. We found the wreck of the floating beacon, but were unable to discover any traces of the guilty pair whom I had left on board of it.

_______________

14: "Great Minds Run—"

Harold Ward

1879-1950

Black Mask, Jan 1922

BEFORE the two men seated at the table stood the accused. Normally he might have been called good looking in a rough, rugged way. Just now there was a look of fear upon his face; great drops of sweat stood out upon his bronzed forehead as his eyes darted here and there as if seeking some means of escape from the baleful stare of the shapeless thing of cold clay which lay in a huddled heap on the floor just beyond his reach. Move where he would, the glassy eyes followed him.

The face of the dead man wore a sardonic, twisted grin as if in appreciation of the grim jest in which fate had given him the stellar role. The young man shifted nervously, then turned suddenly to the older of the two men before him.

"So help me God! Guffin," he declared, "Jim's got me wrong. I'm willing to admit that there was no love lost between Cogswell and me. But as for killing him— you know yourself that I haven't got it in me."

He hesitated for a second, then seemed about to continue when the other interrupted him.

"That's just what's keepin' me from harnessin' the dawgs and takin' you in, Brooks," he drawled. "If it was Jim here that had been out with Cogswell, I'd know bloomin' well who done the shootin'. But as for you, I've got you figured out as too cussed yellow to shoot a man and—"

The third man— he whom the others addressed as Jim— leaped to his feet, his eyes blazing.

"Look here, Guffin," he interrupted angrily, "Brooks and I agreed to let you sit in as judge and jury because we knew that you're on the square and disinterested. For God's sake, then, don't form any opinions until you've heard the dope. I accused Brooks of killing Cogswell because I know— and he knows— that he had reasons. For that matter, so have I. But the mere fact that I was with you gives me a clean slate. But Brooks is guilty— guilty as the devil— and I'll tell you why if you'll listen."

Guffin nodded. "Fair enough," he answered. "This is serious business and we want to get at the bottom of it if we can. Let's hear what you've got to offer."

Brooks shrugged his shoulders.

"Go ahead," he said huskily. "Only tell— tell the truth, Jim— for the sake of our past friendship."

The other snarled. "Friendship hell! I'll tell the truth fast enough," he answered. "And what I tell will put a rope around your neck, you skunk!"

He turned to Guffin.

"As you've often heard us say," he began, "the three of us— Brooks, here, poor Billy Cogswell yonder, and I— all came from the same little town out in Illinois. We were all about the same age and practically grew up together. In fact, we were pals until— well, until a certain girl stepped between us.

"When I say that she stepped between us I don't mean to insinuate anything against the girl. She was innocent enough and she's just as good as she is pretty. Only it happens that her father's the president of the bank and the richest man in town, and we were all three of us as poor as Job's turkey. Of course we went together in the same crowd, but when we got old enough to know that we were in love our eyes were also opened to the fact that none of us had money enough to marry her. We had sense enough to realize it, too; and we did what we thought was the right thing— we got together and talked the matter over like men.

"There was only one thing to do, Guffin. The fellow who won her had to make his pile and make it quick. The gold rush was on out here, and like all tenderfeet we imagined that the yellow stuff was laying here ready to be picked up by the first comer and that a fortune could be made in a day. All three of us decided to come north.

"Spite of the fact that we each wanted to beat the others, we were homesick kids when we arrived and it was only natural that we'd gravitate together. In fact we had to pool our money or we'd have starved to death the first season. We've been here ever since— too cussed poor most of the time to get away if we wanted to. The girl married a fellow in the bank and that sort of cemented us together, too. After that we hadn't any desire to leave this country.

"There's no need of my telling you how we drifted in with you and how we struck pay last year. Then we heard that her husband was dead and that she was free again and then the hell broke loose. We never showed it before you, but we got to hating each other more than ever after all these years, I guess that all three of us wrote to her.

"At any rate, when the last packet came in it brought a letter from her to Billy Cogswell— accepting him. He was going out next spring when the river opened up— going out to marry her. He bragged about it to Brooks and me. There's been murder in my heart every day since— and if Brooks denies that he felt the same he's a liar.

"Now let's get down to cases. Spring's nearly here. The thought of Billy getting her— Alice— wore our nerves to a frazzle. Brooks and Cogswell made it up yesterday to go hunting today. Brooks says that Cogswell shot himself accidentally— that he was some distance away when he heard the shot, and turning saw Billy fall. I ask you what happened to Cogswell's gun? Brooks says that it slid over the edge of a gully and that with the snow in its present condition he was afraid to go down and get it, and didn't think it important anyway."

"But you were there and helped carry the body in," Brooks interrupted excitedly. "You could see for yourself, Guffin, that I was a hundred yards away when he was killed. The tracks in the snow show that. The only tracks I made were when I ran up to him after the— the accident. You can't get away from that evidence. The footprints are in the snow yet. Examine them again if you want to. And look at the way he was killed— whole top of his head blown off. You know yourself that number eight shot wouldn't carry and make a wound like that at a hundred yards—"

Jim Kincaide stopped him. "I'll explain all that in good time," he answered.

Then he turned to Guffin again.

"Their guns were exactly alike, as you'll recall. Now listen to me carefully. Last night I couldn't sleep and got out of bed to find something to read. Being in my stocking feet I made no noise. Brooks was out here fooling with a gun. He acted startled but I paid no attention at the time. He told me that he, too, was unable to sleep and that he'd got up and decided to clean his gun.

"This morning I found this piece of wood in the woodbox. See, it's round and smooth. Brooks, damn you, it was Billy's gun you had. You plugged up the barrel of Billy's gun— drove the plug in far enough so that it wouldn't be noticed.

"And when he pulled the trigger— evidently on that rabbit whose tracks we noticed near the body— the gun exploded and the breech-block blew off and took off the top of his head! Examine the wound and see if I'm not right, Guffin.

"Do you want any more evidence that Brooks is the murderer?"

He stopped short, a look of triumph on his face. For a second Brooks was too startled for utterance. Then he straightened up, his countenance twisted into a look of hatred.

"You liar!" he shrieked. "It was you who plugged the muzzle of the gun! That's why you're so devilishly familiar with what happened!"

He leaped forward, his fists clinched, overturning the table. Seizing a chair, he swung it above his head in an effort to fell the other. Kincaide, surprised, leaped backward into the corner. As he did so his fingers came in contact with Brooks's gun standing where he had placed it after the accident. He seized it and brought it breast high.

"Get back, damn you!" he shrieked.

Guffin, his chair tipped over, leaped to his feet shouting at the two angry men. But they gave no heed. Already Kincaide had the weapon to his shoulder and was drawing a bead on the man he had accused.

An instant later there was a dull, muffled roar. The weapon dropped from Kincaide's nerveless hands, the barrel shattered. He dropped to the floor, blood splattering over the wall behind him from the ghastly wound made by the breech as it was hurled with terrific force by the explosion.

For an instant there was silence.

Then Guffin turned to the man who stood, dazed, in the middle of the floor, the broken chair still in his grasp.

"Brooks," he said slowly, "you were right. It was Kincaide. He had planned to do both of you. And in the excitement he forgot that he fixed the other gun!"

Like a man in a trance, Brooks turned away from the two horrible things lying there upon the floor. Without a word he picked his mackinaw from the peg and pulled it on. Then, drawing his cap down over his ears he walked slowly out of doors.

For half an hour he dragged his snow-shoed feet through the soft, mushy snow until he reached the spot where a clot of blood upon the trampled whiteness showed where the earlier tragedy had occurred. Close by was a gully.

Over the edge Brooks pushed his way, clinging here and there to an overhanging bush until the bottom was reached. After a short search he found the object of his quest— a shotgun, the barrel twisted and split, the breech gone. He picked it up and gazed at it with a faraway look in his eyes.

"Well, I'm damned!" he exclaimed. "They say that great minds run in the same channel. That son- of -a- gun of a Kincaide fixed my gun to get me the same way I fixed Billy's gun to get him. Wouldn't that get your goat?"

And throwing the gun across his shoulder, he commenced to climb up the side of the gully again.

________________

15: Notice of Dissolution

John E. Rosser

Blue Book, August, 1916

The writer published a small number of stories between 1914 and 1921.  Nothing else is known.

THIS is to notify all and sundry that Slim Jim and Cutaway Bill, experts in flimflamming, brace games and diverse con' schemes, have permanently dissolved partnership. What I'm saying is that I'm plumb smackdab done with Cutaway, and that I'm now looking for a new sidekick in the laudable enterprise of alienating the come-on from his exchequer.

Now, get me straight on this: I'm not sore with Cutaway, personally. With just one exception, no man could buck on any of Cutaway's habits. He never has held out on me, and the bulls haven't got pliers enough to twist a snitch out of Cutaway. And nobody could call him a fool. He's got a fine head for special and assorted graft. But you never can tell what his heart will make him do. And that's where we busted up.

Why, after we'd had a fine run of suckers and had padded our clothes with the long green until we were warm enough to side Doc Cook on his next jaunt after fiction material, I've seen Cutaway slip a kid a ten-spot for a yellow extra, and if a curbstone panhandler would whine half like he meant it, my philanthropic partner would strip off one of the yellow-backed boys and part with it with a yawn.

And although that sort of doings is somewhat out of my line, I didn't make any howl on Cutaway so long as he confined his donations to what you might call the interest on our capital and didn't dig into the principal.

My theory is, as I told Cutaway, you aren't supposed to have any heart when you get down to your working capital. And you know yourself that I'm right about it. You see, Cutaway hasn't been a crook so very lone— a half-dozen years or such a matter. I tied in with him four years ago, and I know that then he had to have a guide if he got off the main streets of New York. He had been a cashier of a bank down in Georgia, he told me, and he got a little flip-like with other people's coin. That's why they gave him a full and complete course in overall-making.

The stir sure didn't make much of a hit with him, for when he got out he was pretty sore against 'most everybody and everything, with the exception that, as I've already told you, he'd have those wild spells of giving the dough away. Cutaway wouldn't talk much about the prison part of it, but if you wanted to find out why he blew up in the bank, all you had to do was to ask him why he always wore a white carnation in his buttonhole. No matter what season it was, Cutaway could always find a flower for the lapel of his coat; and I guess he never has worn any kind of coat but a cutaway: that's where he got his monaker.

NOT long after he and I had drawn up articles of agreement preparatory to our mutual dash into high finance, I put it up to Cutaway about that flower.

"Look here. Cutaway," says I, "why in the name of smoke do you want to go around with that flower on you all the time ? It's such a dead give-away that one of those ivorydomes from the Central Station could track you with that through a Coney crowd if a Rube ever squealed on us. It ain't safe. That la-de-da coat of yours is tip enough, without that posy. Next thing, I guess you'll be wanting to advertise our business in the papers."

Then I was sorry I had jacked him up like that, because the saddest look I ever saw settled in his eyes. He sort of cleared his throat before he spoke.

"Slim," says he, "I surely don't want to be the cause of your getting the nippers put on you, but I hope you'll indulge me in this little habit of mine. I guess there's enough other guys wearing flowers in their clothes to make it fairly safe for me. Anyway, this is for the Girl's sake, or rather— er— er— her memory."

And with that he told me how a human skunk of an opera-singer had come down his way and stole the affections of the Girl that Cutaway was engaged to. I guess she must not have been fitted for the cold weather up East, because they hadn't been up there long before she contracted the T.B., and then that dirty devil deserted her. She wrote Cutaway about it after a while, telling him that she believed if she could get out to Colorado she might pull through alive.

Well, Cutaway had become reckless after she left, and he'd thrown his money to the winds. But when the Girl's letter came, he just took from the bank what he thought he needed, made a few cover-up entries, expecting to pay it back when he could, and caught the train for Boston. He gave the Girl his roll, and she started for Trinidad.

While he was gone, a bank-examiner came round, and when he stepped off the train they put the cuffs on him. They gave him ten years, and while he was making overalls, word came to him that she had died.

"Slim," says he, with a kind of gulp, "she pressed a white carnation into my hand the night she promised to marry me."

SO, after that, I never said anything about the flower, and we got along harmonious until the break came that I was telling you about. Cutaway and me made a good pair. I had had a fine bit of schooling as a crook, and Cutaway was as fine an actor as you'd expect to see in a two-dollar show. Just give him the idea, and he'd put it over in great shape.

I'm not much for looks, myself— skinny as a side-show freak, and no tailor on earth could make a suit of clothes look right on me. Cutaway would make Beau Brummel look like a hoboNot even a wise guy would ever think of us working together. And that's where we got the Rube.

But, as I said, that's all over now, and I'm looking for another partner. And I know the fellow I want to hook up with, too. That's 'Frisco Dick, the cleverest crook that ever came from the Slope, a man naturally endowed for grafting, and having had the unsurpassed advantage of a postgraduate course among the Juarez gang; and if there's a game those boys don't know, nobody has sprung it yet.

I've looked up Frisco Dick's record during the past few days, and he's the guy for me. He not only has a bunch of flossy little stunts of his own devising, but he can let the other fellow name the game and then beat him at his own lay. I know genius when I see it, and 'Frisco Dick's got it. He may be in New York right now, but whether he is or not, I'm going to stay on his trail until I find him. Me for him! But I want to make it perfectly clear why I've quit Cutaway.

We had tried all sorts of con' games, and we got results, too. But it was my idea that we ought to specialize on one trick and stick to it. Simplicity is the thing you are looking for in business methods. You want to work out something that a Rube's head can follow, or nearly follow. If you put too much paint on the fly, the trout wont strike. Given a neat, naughty little scheme that appeals to a Rube's greed, something with a get-rich-quick twist to it, especially if it's based on the ponies, and you'll get your game nine shots out of ten. That's my idea, and Cutaway agreed with me. And we were going good when the blow-up came.

IT was Sunday morning, the latter part of December, and I was strolling around on Sixth Avenue and the cross-streets along in the Thirties. Sunday morning's a mighty good time to work a trick on the wayfaring Rube: whatever suspicions he may have any other time, he seems to leave off then.

Cutting across to Fifth Avenue, I saw a tall guy standing with his back to me, looking up at the buildings on the opposite side. Just the once-over was enough to tell me that he was new to the Big Burg. When I came alongside of him, I saw that his face was sort of tan-and-red, like you see on all folks from the plains country. He was wearing a broadbrimmed black hat, and his fob was a pair of gold cattle-horns.

You couldn't ask for better game than a cattleman from the Southwest, come to town to have his little fling, and always with a roll big enough to stop a busted hydrant with. They're out for something different, and they expect to pay for it.

"Beg pardon," says I, "but can you tell me the name of that building?"

I pointed toward the Knickerbocker Trust Building.

"Nope," says he, with an easy drawl. "Looks like it might be the courthouse, though."

That was all I wanted. I always make it a point to be sure what I'm doing when I start anything.

"Ah," says I, "then you're a stranger in Little Old New York the same as me?" "

Yep," says he; "never had time to leave the ranch before. Had to come this time, though, business or no business."

The more I looked at that affidavit face of his, the better he looked to me. His clothes were wrinkly, like he had slept in them instead of taking a Pullman. I saw that he had on boots instead of shoes, and he was wearing a black string tie as an unusual concession to the requirements of city folks. I knew his kind; everywhere you poke them your finger hits a bulging wallet.

"Same way here," says I; "just run up to Philadelphia on a little business for the old man, and I thought I wouldn't go back without hitting a few spots in New York. Collected big overdue account down in Philly, so the old man can't kick if I'm a little reckless with spending money on the trip. Where you from?"

"Down in Texas," says he. If I'd had ten guesses, all of them would have been Texas.

"That so?" says I. "I'm from down that way, myself. I live in Parsons, Kansas. Old man runs a big store there. Don't think much of me, though. Gives me a little spending money,— I've got two thousand in the bank now,— but he thinks I'm too wild yet to be taken into the business. Maybe he's right; I guess I am a little gay. But believe me, whenever I'm dead I want 'em to bury me. Aint that right?"

"You bet," says he, and laughed.

"By the way," says I, "I've just started out on the Avenue to find Senator Clark's home. They say that is one bird of a place. I've read in the papers about it— cost four million, and got pictures and things in it from all over the world. Open to the public, too, they say. Don't have 'em like that down our way, do they? Thought I'd like to see it so I can tell 'em about it down in Parsons. Gee, their eyes'll bulge out on the stems! Join me?"

"Don't care if I do," he drawls, careless-like.

WE started up the Avenue, and after a while I asked a bull how far out the Clark place was. It was eleven o'clock, and the silk-hat swells were thick as flies around a bowl of sugar.

"These boys with the shiny lids wouldn't last long down our way, would they?" says I.

"I guess not," says he, and his face wrinkled up on one side.

"Thompson's my name," says I, "—just plain old John Henry Thompson. Call me John. That's the way I am— plain as an old shoe."

"Williams is mine," says he, "—Richard Williams, to be exact."

"Well, Dick," says I, "you and I both have got plain handles. Good enough for us, though, eh?"

So I rattled on, and I could tell I was getting closer to him all the time, although he was the kind of fellow that don't talk much about his own affairs to everybody. He acted like he was worried about something, too. I told him how that morning I had pretty near made up my mind to knock the block off the waiter who had turned up his nose and swept onto the floor a dime tip I had left by my plate. I could tell that kind of talk made a hit with Williams.

By the time we reached the Plaza Hotel, Williams was liking me fine. I asked a messenger-kid what building the Plaza was, and Williams said he'd like to take a look inside. Both of us said we'd had late breakfast, but I took Williams into one of the eating-rooms and asked him to have a sandwich with me, anyway.

While we were eating I said: "By the way, wait here a minute for me: I want to go find a paper from down our way; they ought to have it at this swell dump."

Then I got on the 'phone and talked to Cutaway. At the news-stand I got a copy of The Kansas City Star.

"Didn't have a copy of The Parsons Herald," says I, when I got back, "so I had to take this."

I paid for the lunch, and when we got up, Williams said he'd buy the cigars. The girl at the stand pulled some twenty-five-cent straights. Williams was going to pay for two when I said: "None of that Gotrox stuff, girlie! We don't want to go beyond ten-centers."

WE walked out the door fronting on Central Park and continued our walk along the Avenue. We hadn't gone more than three or four blocks when I squeezed Williams' arm and pointed toward a man standing on the curbing. He was wearing a cutaway coat, with a white carnation in his buttonhole.

"Do you see that guy?" says I in a whisper. "I know that bird; now see if I don't."

We drew up alongside of Cutaway, and I says: "My friend, haven't I met you before?"

Cutaway gave me the icy up-and-down and back again. "Not to the best of my knowledge and belief," says he.

"Oh yes, you have," says I. "Weren't you down in Parsons, Kansas, last summer a year ago. and didn't you win a hundred thousand dollars in a poolroom there on the Sunstar Sweepstakes in Juarez?"

"You evidently have me confused with some one else," says Cutaway. I'll bet he looked just like that when he used to turn down a fellow's request for a loan at the bank.

"Aw, come on." says I; "I was right there at the time you did it When you cleaned up, everybody said they'd never seen you before, and we couldn't find where you come from. The proprietor of the Elite Hotel offered to sell out and go with you. Now, ain't I right?"

"Since you've got the dope on me straight," says Cutaway, with a grin, "I guess I might as well own up the corn. But say, you fellows are not reporters, are you?"

"Forget it," says I. "My friend here, Dick, and I are just out for a good time. We live down Parsons way. Say, you haven't got anything good you could give us to-day, have you?"

Cutaway reached in his inside pocket and took out his wallet. He tried to hand a twenty-dollar bill to me and one to Williams.

"You got me wrong, friend," says I. "We're not trying to panhandle you, and we don't want your money. What I was asking is, have you got any good tips on the races today? I don't know what your system is, but I'd back your guesses for a little one."

Cutaway looked at his watch some time before he spoke. "Well," he says, "you two look like sociable fellows, so I'll tell you. Yes, I've got the dope on Juarez for to-day. The races are just about to begin there— their time is faster than New York time, you know. I was just starting round the corner to the Commission Club. Going to lay a couple of thousand on the first race— Sea Lion, at four to one. If you want in on that, all right."

CUTAWAY took a telegram out of his pocket He showed it to Williams and me, holding his thumb over his name. Up in the corner of the message was written, "Rush." It was all in cipher, but the names Sea Lion, Myrtle Maid, Autumn Breeze and Dipper were clear enough.

"Here," says I, "take this twenty and lay it on Sea Lion. I know it's a piker's bet, but racing is out of my line."

Cutaway took my money and placed it with a handful of bills of his own. Neither of us said anything to Williams about putting up any money. Cutaway walked across the street, diagonally, and disappeared around the corner of one of the big houses of Millionaire's Row.

"If we win," I told Williams, "I'll divide with you. I just want a little sport, that's all."

Pretty soon Cutaway was back.

"Did we win?" I asks, fairly jumping up and down with what Williams was to take for excitement.

"Not so fast," says Cutaway, laying his finger on his lips. "I just put up the money; the race is being run now. I didn't want to stay over there among all those sports until my face became common to them." He looked at his watch, and says:

"I'll be going. It ought to be over now."

I noticed that Williams fidgeted a good deal where he and I were sitting on an iron bench up against the park wall. There are mighty few of them that can see easy money coming in without getting the fever. When Cutaway came back he drew out his swollen wallet and coolly skinned off a hundred dollars.

"Here's yours," he says, "—eighty dollars winnings and your twenty back." It made my hand quiver as I took it. "Take half of this," I says to Williams, holding out the money. He didn't want to take it, but I stuck it in his pocket anyway.

"Good cigar money while you're here in New York, eh?"

Cutaway made as if he were going to leave us.

"Gee," says I. "this is great! When is the next one to come off?"

"Right now, pretty quick," says Cutaway. "I've got to be going, to get my money up. It's Myrtle Maid— six to one. I'm going to put up three thousand on her."

"Look here," says I, "do you think she'll win?"

"If I didn't, I wouldn't put up my money on her. I'm not a blamed fool. What's more, I don't think she'll win; I know it."

"Well, then," says I. "I'm going to put up five hundred. That's all I've got with me!"

"Hold on, my friend," says Cutaway to me. "Now, if you want to bet on this race, you can help me. You see, I don't want to go over there too much. Those rich guys will get my number. If you will go over and put up my money with yours, I'll let you in on this."

"You're on!" says I. I took out my five hundred, and Cutaway laid a wad of greenbacks in my hand. Then he took a printed card out of his pocket. Up in the corner were the names of James R, Keene and August Belmont. Across the top, in big type, was

THE MANHATTAN COMMISSION CLUB

"Here," says he. "just go to the first door round that corner. Rap three times, and the porter will open up. Then you hold the card just so, with your thumb lying along the edge, and the doorman will take hold the same way on the other side of the card.

"Then you just walk right upstairs. You'll make it all right from there on."

I made him show me all over again, and then I started.

"Wait a minute," says Williams; "I'll go you five hundred on that myself, if you'll let me."

They can't keep out of it long. I took his money and walked across the street.

I KNEW what was happening while I was gone. Cutaway pulled a fake newspaperclipping about that Parsons clean-up, and explained that he was in with a syndicate that bet on sure things. He told how the whole Juarez bunch are crooked, and how everybody is fixed, from jockey to judges, so that, having been given in advance the winners of the day, there was no way on earth for him to lose. And he said that the syndicate cleaned up by having agents like him to go about over the country and hit the fancy betting-joints, You couldn't find a flaw in his spiel anywhere.

When I came back, Cutaway and Williams were talking.

Says Cutaway to me: "You got the money up all right, did you?"

"Now, wait a minute," says I, "and I hope you don't get sore with me. But the truth is, I didn't find the right door at first, and I got there too late to get the bet down. They were cashing in just as I stepped up. Myrtle Maid won, all right."

You would have thought Cutaway was going to bust wide open, he looked so mad. But then, I told you he was some actor.

"You idiot!" he roars at me. "I thought I could trust you, and now what have you done? You've got me in bad with my syndicate! I have to bet on the horses they tell me, and turn in their part of my winnings. You've fixed me, all right! Give me my money and get away from here!"

"Say, friend," says I, "I couldn't help it, honest I couldn't. If you'll just give me another chance—"

"Another chance! You've spoiled this one, and you want to ball up another one, do you? Not on your life!"

All the time Cutaway and I were talking, Williams was just listening and walking back and forth. Finally he says:

"If there's to be another one, I wish you'd give my friend another chance. I know he feels as bad about it as either of us. I don't think he'd lummix up the next one."

Cutaway scowled and pulled his watch again. Then he says to me: "All right, I'll try you on this last one. It's Dipper— the killing of the day, a ten-toone shot. And mind you, you'd better get it right this time!"

Then Williams said he would put up a thousand— all he had on him but twenty-five dollars, he declared. Cutaway said he would put up ten thousand even.

Then I chimed in. "I've got a check on a Philadelphia bank for twenty-five hundred. Will they let me put up a check?" I says.

"Sure," says Cutaway, "only hurry up!"

So I placed the check against the park wall and endorsed it. While I was doing this, Cutaway instinctively stuck all of our money into his pocket, but Williams didn't seem to notice this, and to tell the truth, I didn't either, at the time.

NOW I'll have to explain a little about what Cutaway and I were working toward. It was our custom when we had the sucker putting up his last bone, to work in the check stunt. You see, the horse wins, but when I go back for our winnings, they tell me that because they've lately taken in so much in bad checks, without casting any doubt on the one I have up, they must wait for it to go through the banks before they can settle with me.

That's the story I'm to bring back to Cutaway and the Rube.

Then Cutaway asks about the check, and I explain it's made out to the old man's company, and that I just signed it for him. Cutaway goes up in the air and says I've committed forgery and that we'll all be pinched, unless we can get together the money at once to cover the check, knowing that the Rube has put up his pile, just as have the rest of us. Then the Rube gets scared and beats it, and Cutaway and I divide.

WHEN I came back over, after I was supposed to have put up the money, I found Cutaway sitting on the bench, with tears in his eyes.

"Where's the Rube?" says I, quick enough.

"He's gone," says Cutaway. "Sit down."

"Gone? Gone where?"

"Back to Texas," says Cutaway. "Just be easy, and I'll tell you about it. You see, while you were gone, that fellow told me his story. A scoundrel from New York lured his girl away from her home in San Antonio, and he's scouring the continent for her. He knows that the mean devil only pretended to marry her, and he guesses she's somewhere here.

"He says that he's going to find her if it takes his lifetime to do it, and then he's going to find the scoundrel who ruined her and kill him. He said he never has bet on a horse-race before, and that he wouldn't have done it now, only he needed more money to go after that pair with. And when he said that, I turned over to him every cent I had on me and told him how we had been framing up on him. He certainly was grateful."

You could have knocked me down with a straw.

"You gave him back his money?"

"Not only so," says Cutaway, quietly, "but I've just told you that I gave him yours and mine, too. I tell you he needed it, and we can get some more some day."

DURING the next week I didn't want to see Cutaway— I was afraid I would do him violence. Around at Murphy's place— Murphy knows every crook in the country— I asked certain questions and received some real enlightenment. That's when I decided to leave Cutaway.

I found him one night drinking highballs upstairs in Mooney's. He was sitting off by himself in a corner.

"Cutaway," says I, "what was the name of that guy you gave up the dough to?"

"Why, Williams, wasn't it? That's the name he gave, I believe. Why?"

"And another thing," says I: "didn't he ask you about that flower in your buttonhole?"

"Why, yes, I believe he did."

"And you told him why you wear it, and then he told you about the girl from San Antonio— that's the way it happened, wasn't it?"

"Yes, I believe I did tell about the carnation and then Williams—"

"Williams! Williams!" says I. "I want to tell you that the full name of the guy that got our pile is 'Frisco Dick!"

________________

16: Safety First

Herman Howard Matteson

1876-1951

Munsey’s Magazine, June 1916

SERGEANT RASS BITNER, officer in command of the water-front precinct and station, sat behind his flat-topped desk. The door leading into the front office was closed and the bolt shot into place. The sergeant wanted to be alone. He wanted to think. He had to think.

In his pudgy hand he had a roll of bills. He counted them again and again. Two hundred dollars! Rass Bitner knew perfectly well that there were two hundred dollars in the roll, but he wanted to think, had to think, and the operation of fingering the money seemed to inspire and stimulate cerebration.

The possession of the two hundred, brought no joy, apparently, to his policeman’s heart. His little round head had settled itself snugly down into his number seventeen-and-a-half collar. The sergeant had no neck to speak of Sergeant Bitner was worried. He had just answered a phone call from headquarters. The chief himself had been on the other end of the line. The talk over the phone had been about a roll containing four hundred dollars. Four hundred dollars had been taken at the point of a bulldog gun from a tugboat captain named Hoy Weston. With profane and acerbic language, the chief had informed Rass Bitner that unless the stick-up artist was apprehended and the four hundred dollars returned to the seafaring person named Weston, why, Sergeant Rass Bitner was due to hear, and feel, something drop.

Whereat the heart of Bitner grew troubled. The identical two-hundred-dollar roll that he was worrying between his pudgy fingers was an exact, mathematical half of the four hundred whereof the seafaring person had been robbed.

His superior’s sharp mandate had given Sergeant Bitner an unpleasant start; but Bitner was an old hand at the game. For a few moments the chief’s words fretted his soul, but only for a few moments. Then, like the sea after a passing gust, he became serene, composed, confident.

Bitner rose, shot back the bolt, opened the door. In the outer office three plain-clothes men and a harness bull were playing checkers with a stool-pigeon named Callie Ream.

The sergeant opened the front door, descended the steps, and made his way up the street, his small, piglike eyes squinting. Sergeant Rass Bitner was thinking. He always had been a thinker, which explains why he was a sergeant and not a harness bull, why he owned real estate, a bank balance, mortgages, and notes of hand.

Sergeant Bitner knew his chief. When the chief tossed his head and began baying the moon, police folk of Barnacle City took to the tall uncut. The sergeant had been frightened only for a few minutes, but he knew just the same that it was up to him to get busy. The restoration of the whole four hundred was out of the question. It had been split several ways, the largest portion coming Bitner’s way. Every jitney had long since been squandered, save the two hundred in the hands of the careful Mr. Bitner.

Still thinking, Bitner walked on slowly. If a proven thief could be dragged forward, and say a hundred or so of the plunder restored, why, that would suffice— would not only suffice but gain Bitner praise from the chief, and perhaps a lieutenancy. About three squares from the precinct police-station a little park nestled in a triangle formed by two intersecting streets. Through this park Bitner walked slowly, his cunning little eyes no longer upon the earth, but scanning and appraising shrewdly the occupants of the various benches.

He came to a sudden pause, puckered the corner of his mouth, and, without turning his head, expectorated copiously. A long, lanky, youngish man, dressed in what was obviously a new suit, was draped over the back and arm-rest of one of the benches, sound asleep. Sergeant Bitner took a soft step forward and peered into the sleeper’s face.

ii

AS THE boss of the water-front precinct moved off in the direction of the station he chuckled softly to himself. Luck! A great chunk of luck! Luck always favored a man with nerve and get-up, and Bitner had always had plenty of both. The sergeant always claimed that the best verse in the Bible was “faint heart never won fair lady.”

Reentering his private office, Bitner closed and latched the door, and walked to the “mug file.” Tacked to a number of hinged frames were the photographs of yeggs, dips, two-story men, pete men—  members all, in police parlance, of the Johnson family.

Turning the files swiftly, Bitner finally found what he sought. The third photograph from the left showed a countenance not in the least vicious or abandoned. Indeed, the face was an attractive one, though homely as sin, with a humorous twist about the mouth— the face of the identical person in the new suit who was draped over the park bench asleep. Sergeant Rass Bitner chuckled again, slipped back the bolt in the door, took his seat at the desk, and touched a button. The blotter clerk appeared in the doorway.

“Tell Tom I want to see him.”

Promptly Tom Downey, plain-clothes man, entered the office and closed the door behind him.

“You recollect that ten-spot I shoves you here a day or so back, Tom?”

Tom nodded his head slowly. He recalled the incident. He had spent the ten. A demand for a blow-back would have proved embarrassing in the extreme.

“Well, Tom, the party in whose bankroll that ten-spot was a pewholder, has pulled out his snort stop. He’s roared. The chiefs teeterin’ on his hind legs this morning, and says we gotta bring a lamb to the block for that job, or he’s goin’ to drop a depth[1]bomb in this precink. Get that?”

Tom began to look interested, also relieved. There had been no call thus far for a return of the ten. If the job weren’t going to be too tough, he was willing to work out the ten and help the sergeant. So he said questioningly: “Well?”

“They’s a long, lanky party beatin’ room-rent on one of the park benches,” replied Bitner. “He’s wearin’ a new suit. Take a pipe at number three, left, there in the fambly album, Tom.”

Tom Downey stepped to the mug gallery and studied the photo. Detective Downey smiled and nodded his head. Perfectly he recalled the horselike countenance and lanky figure of party number three, left.

“That same bird is right this minute asleep out there in the park, Tom. Y’un[1]derstand?”

Thoroughly Tom understood. A look of rare intelligence overspread his face, reaching as far as the top of his flap-pointed collar.

Sergeant Bitner, with a sigh, pulled the roll of currency from his pocket and slowly, reluctantly, counted out seventy-five dollars. He looked at the bundle, peeled off twenty[1]five dollars, and returned it to the roll, which he thrust back into his pocket. Fifty dollars was enough for a plant; no use being foolish.

Then he reached into a drawer and produced a double-action bulldog revolver of ancient pattern. Bitner shoved the money and the gun toward Detective Downey, who grinned, picked them up, put them into a pocket, and departed. Again Sergeant Bitner pressed his desk bell. Promptly the blotter clerk presented himself to receive his superior’s orders.

“Dannie,” said the sergeant, his brusk, authoritative office manner having been almost completely restored, “tell Joe Rogers to caper down the street to Mann’s and fetch Divvy here, quick!”

Within ten minutes Detective Joe Rogers opened the door of the sergeant’s office and thrust through the portal a rat-faced young man who wore mauve-colored, cloth[1]top shoes. He closed the door and returned to his game of checkers.

Like a trapped rodent hunting the remotest corner of his cage, Divvy backed away as far as the confines of the room would permit and braced his narrow back against the wall.

“Divvy,” said the sergeant severely, gloating in the manifest fear that his presence inspired in the sunken breast of the cringing dip and stick-up artist, “you recollect that four hundred bucks you jips off’n a seafarin’ party here in the wharf-shed a few days back? Oh, yes, you do! You sticks him up with a gat and takes his poke off’n him. You remember all right, Divvy! Well, I—”

“But, chief—” expostulated the wretched Divvy. In his dealings with the police, Divvy always addressed the minion of the law as “chief.” It often seemed to help a little.

“Shut up! I say you recollect the episode. Well, they’s a roar. You just naturally got to beat it out of town, Divvy. Head for Oshkosh or Terry Hut, and don’t you come back here till the twittering birdies nest again. Get that, Divvy?”

“But, chief—”

“Shut up! And you ramble sudden, Divvy. Get that— sudden?”

“But, chief—” Divvy came forward boldly to the sergeant’s desk, drowning the latter’s repeated “Shut up!” with shrill and quaking expostulations.

“But, chief, I give up three hundred bucks out of that four hundred head of kale. You know who to. I had some bills to pay. I’m broke. I can’t jump out on just ‘God bless you, darling.’ I had some bills to pay. I—”

“Oh, I’m wise, I’m wise!” snorted the sergeant. “You buys a thimble of snow”— cocaine— “and another thimble, and you takes a sleigh-ride. Look how them hands of yourn tremble! Your mug is like a fish belly. Here!”

The sergeant handed Divvy a twenty[1]dollar bill.

“Now beat it. For looks, you’d better ride the plush about five dollars’ worth. Then my advice is to mope the leathers. The exercise ’ll do you good, and the twenty ’ll last longer. Now you figure you’ve kissed us all good-by, Divvy. Into the high!”

The sergeant waved an imperious hand toward the door. Divvy slid from the room, out through the front door, and faded.

iii

HAVING somewhat the expression of a man who, walking the crowded street, turns to discover that he has got some other man’s wife or mother by the arm, Detective Tom Downey entered the sergeant’s office. Tom fixed his gaze upon a spot on the wall, while he dug into a hip pocket and produced an ancient bulldog gun and a roll containing fifty dollars. He laid the gun and the money on the desk and turned back to the door.

There he paused. Whatever had happened amiss had rendered the plain-clothes man speechless. He waved his hand, traffic-cop style, while his lips opened and closed dryly, like the fluttering gills of a dying fish.

Whatever Tom Downey had intended to say remained unsaid. With a final hand[1]wave and another gill-flutter, he closed the door after him.

Sergeant Rass Bitner sat staring down hard at the gun and the money. Tom had zammed the job! Unframed, the long, lanky person no doubt slept peacefully on. Tom had zammed the job!

A man of much subtle practise in the gentle art of framing, Tom Downey did not often zam a job. Swallowing hard, Bitner touched the gun with his pudgy fingers and fondled the roll of bills. Real gun, all right, and real money!

“Whatinell!” exploded the sergeant, as he pressed the call-bell.

Joe Rogers entered in response to his superior’s waved command.

“Joe, is Tom drinkin’?”

Joe shook his head.

“Has Tom got fambly trouble? Anybody died? Is he sick? Got religion?”

To all these questions Joe continued to shake his head negatively. Far as he knew, Tom was all right.

The sergeant pointed to the bulldog gun and the wad of bills.

“You recollect them ten bucks I shoved you here a day or so back, Joe?” Joe looked apprehensive. He also had expended his ten dollars of easy money. Yes, he remembered that a little jingle of cash had come his way.

Gulping hard, stabbing his thick finger at the gun and the money, the sergeant proceeded to elucidate.

“Well, the seafarin’ party that Divvy jipped that four hundred off’n has roared. The chief says they’s got to be a blow-back, and the stick-up that done the job has got to get grabbed and crucified. Now Divvy hain’t here; he’s on his way to Salt Lake. The four hundred’s spent. Divvy’s been indulgin’ free in dope. So we got to look our hand over good, Joe. Take a pipe at number three, left, Joe!”

The sergeant pointed to the rogues’ gallery. Joe stepped over and studied the benign, homely countenance of number three, left. Joe grinned and nodded. He remembered perfectly the “phiz” of number three, left.

“Well, Joe, we just gotta drag a lamb to the altar. That number three party is asleep, if Tom didn’t give him his dinner call when he zammed this job, right here in the park. We gotta get that gun onto this party, and that roll into his clothes. Get that? Then let Ben Steen or some of the boys get a high sign and pick him up. That clear, Joe? Now, don’t you zam out on this. Whatinell d’you suppose is the matter with Tom?”

Joe Rogers zam on a job, a simple pickup like this? With a cocky toss of his head, Joe picked up the gun and the wad of bills. It didn’t matter what had been the matter with Tom Downey; there was nothing the matter with Joe Rogers. That bird roosting on the park bench was just as good as on his way, the jewelry snapped about his wrists.

iv

HALF an hour later, the harness bull on duty on the station beat knocked upon the sergeant’s door, advanced, saluted respectfully, and laid upon the desk an old[1]fashioned bulldog revolver and fifty dollars in bills.

Sergeant Rass Bitner’s jaw jarred open and hung wabbling. “I— you— he— whatinell!”

“I’m walking my beat,” explained the harness bull. “Joe Rogers comes tearing out of the park like he’d had a speed pill. As he lopes by he slips me this gat and these leaves of lettuce, and he mutters kind of crazy like for me to give ’em to you. Talking kind of loony, Joe says he’s got to see a oculist and a nerve specialist, and then take a good long rest in a sanatorium. With that he lams onto a car and beats it.”

Sergeant Rass Bitner swallowed hard a time or two.

“All r-r-right,” he stuttered. “You kin go now.”

The moment the harness bull had closed the door behind him, Sergeant Bitner rose and walked three times around his office chair. When luck ran tough, that three times around the chair frequently turned the tide. It could, at least, do no harm in the present distressing situation. Then, having worked his gambler’s supplication to the deity of chance, Bitner seated himself. With a trancelike expression in his little eyes, he absently fingered the gun and the wad of money. Then he pressed the bell.

“I wanta see Skid.”

At once Lafe Skidmore, plain-clothes man, appeared. Not only was “Skid” a natural abbreviation of his surname, but it was an appellation that fitted him to a T. No man on the force was more adept than he when it came to greasing the skids for a “fall guy.”

“You recollect them ten bucks I slips you a day or so back, Skid?”

It was difficult for Skid to recall so negligible a sum, but he did remember vaguely that a pinch of cigar-money had come his way.

“Well, Skid, they’s a roar— headquarters. Divvy is on his way to Tucson, Arizona. The chief says we gotta bring a veal to the block, and recover back that four hundred bucks for the sailor that got jipped. Get that, Skid? Well, you’re in, even if you didn’t nick the roll for but a ten-spot. Get that? You do? You’d better!”

The sergeant twisted in his swivel chair and pointed to the mug rack.

“Number three there, Skid, left.” Skid remembered number three, left, and grinned as he recalled some vastly humorous circumstance in connection with the homely young man.

“Well,” said the sergeant, “that number three bird, right this minute, is in the arms of Orpheum. Maybe you don’t get that; it’s poetry. I mean that bird’s asleep in the park, on a bench. See that old cannon there, and that wad of dough? We gotta frame this sleeping hoozus in the park. Somebody has got to get grabbed for this sailor job, and it might as well be him.”

“Soft!” exclaimed Mr. Skidmore in tones of disdain, as he pocketed the gun and the money. “Soft! That bird is just as good as in the wagon and on his way. Soft!”

Half an hour elapsed; an hour. No signs of Mr. Skidmore. Sergeant Rass Bitner paced the floor, chewed tobacco savagely, and exclaimed half aloud forty times: “Whatinell!”

At last Bitner could withstand the suspense no longer. He clapped on his gold[1]braided cap. Swiftly he walked down the street in the direction of the park. A single look sufficed. The tall, angular person, wearing a new suit, still lay draped across the back of the park bench, asleep.

Back to the station went Bitner, to take a fresh chew and another walk about the floor. Another half-hour went by, and no signs of Mr. Skidmore. Bitner thrust his head from the office door and called sharply to Callie Ream, the stool-pigeon, who still sat playing checkers with Ben Steen, a harness bull who was soon to go on relief.

“Callie,” said the sergeant, “you prance out and lamp around and see if you can find Lafe Skidmore. When you find him, you tell him to report back here quick, like he knowed we was gashin’ up a piece of soft money. Hurry!”

Breathing hard as evidence of the haste with which he had gone about the business entrusted to him, Callie Ream returned.

“I found him. Skid can’t come. He can’t walk. He can’t talk, neither. I found him in Banner’s saloon, h’istin’ ’em with two hands. He’d been cryin’. I seen the tear[1]streaks on his face. His chin was still quiverin’. All he could do was kind of gurgle, and point for me to take something out of his pocket. Here it is.”

The stool-pigeon laid upon the desk an old-fashioned bulldog gun and fifty dollars in currency.

“Yow! Yow! Yow!” Sergeant Rass Bitner settled his clawing fingers into his own hair, lifted himself from the office chair, and went leaping and yowling about the room like a rabid dog.

“Yow! Yow! Whatinell! Get out o’ here! Beat it!”

And the stool-pigeon beat it, slamming the door after him. Immediately Sergeant Bitner tore the door open again, emitted a yell that shot Ben Steen, the harness bull, out of his chair like a jack-in-a-box.

“Ben, you come here. Come on!” The sergeant gave an enginelike puff between words, betraying thereby the extreme profundity of the emotion that possessed him. “Ben— they’s a bird— settin’ on the end bench— in the park. He’s a long— gangling party. In a gray— suit. He’s asleep— or was. If he hain’t asleep— when you get there— put him to sleep. And get these— into his clothes. You understand— get these into his clothes! He’s just got to be framed. Get that, Ben?— framed. Now, beat it, quick!”

Officer Steen glared about wildly, seized the gun and the money and tore for the front door; only to return within less than fifteen minutes. As he entered the sergeant’s private office, Officer Steen was unpinning the star from the breast of his uniform coat. He reached into a hip-pocket, pulled out his leather-covered “sap,” and placed it upon the desk. He reached into the armhole of his vest on the left side and brought forth a pair of shiny handcuffs. Beside the sap and the handcuffs and the star he laid his gun and his night-stick. In addition to the exhibits named, he placed upon the polished mahogany an old bulldog gun and fifty dollars in money.

Officer Steen then threw his hands heavenward, worked his neck in his collar where it was tight, and walked out without a word. Officer Steen had turned in his tools. Officer Steen had resigned.

v

HANDS hanging limply at the sides of the chair, legs extended, toes pointing ceilingward, Sergeant Rass Bitner sat huddled, staring stupidly at the stuff on the top of his desk.

And thus for a long time he sat and stared, while the telephone rang and rang. The blotter clerk answered, as the phones in the inner and outer offices were linked in circuit.

“It’s the chief, sergeant. I thought you must be out, so I answered. The chief says this sailor, Hoy Weston, grabbed Divvy just as Divvy was climbin a train for somewheres. It hain’t no good news, sergeant. The chief says he gave Divvy the third, first taking away his thimble of snow. Divvy broke down and coughed. The chief wants you, sergeant, at once, at headquarters.”

Still the sergeant stared at the collection on top of the desk. Presently a shrewd-faced boy, who sold newspapers on the corner below, entered the outer office and asked to see the sergeant.

“I got a note for you, sarge. A hoozus in the park gimme a dime to fetch it. Here it is!”

The newsy laid a crumpled bit of paper on the desk and departed. It was some time before Sergeant Bitner could coordinate his faculties sufficiently to reach, open, and read the note:

Dere Sargun Bitner:

You remember how two years ago, when I come from the banks for an outling, you framed me and sent me to the pen for a year. Safety first, sarge. This year I takes no chances. Before arriving down at your city, I goes to Middleton and I gets the tailor to build me a new suit of clothes without no pockets. Good-by, sarge.

________________

17: The King of the Jerawahs

S. B. H. Hurst

1876-1933

Oriental Stories, Dec-Jan 1930-31

A WELL built, bearded Afghan of the Durani Clan walked past the ruins of the ancient palace of the Peshwas, in Poona, India, toward the dense native quarter that spreads about the river bank where the river Mutla joins the Mutha. He entered the warrens of go-downs and huts which the police avoid. At the door of one of these go-downs a blind man sat in the hot sun in apparent comfort. From his aged mouth dribbled the juice of the betel-nut. To this one the Afghan spoke gently.

"Brother of the dust who has gazed upon so much beauty that his eyes can no longer see common things— I am Ben Mohamet of the Clan Durani! A follower of the Prophet, a worshipper of the One God.... And, strange to say, considering the heat, I seek fish!"

The blind man nodded. "What sort of fish?" he asked.

"Bummollo mutche— the fish called bummollo, of course," answered Ben Mohamet.

"That fish does not grow in Poona," drawled the blind man. "Is there no other fish you crave?"

"Of course! Old fish! Young fish— any sort of fish so that it is fish!" exclaimed Ben Mohamet.

"Will the spawn of a very big fish serve?" queried the blind man.

"Better still!" exclaimed Ben Mohamet.

"Spawn of Alexander— will that taste good?" asked the blind man.

"The best in the world!" exclaimed Ben Mohamet.

"Pass to where that great spawn congregate!" said the blind man politely.

The Afghan, Ben Mohamet, stooped and entered the hut, through the fragile wooden door. He walked six paces— until he felt a rug under his bare feet. Coming into the gloom out of the light he could see almost nothing. He lifted the rug and felt for a ring of brass under it. He found the ring and raised a narrow trapdoor. It was so small that he had to squeeze his wide shoulders through it, while his feet felt their way down wooden steps. As he dropped the trapdoor over his head the blind man came in swiftly and replaced the rug.

Ben Mohamet went down a dozen steps, his hands groping against the earth walls. He came to a very solid door of heavy teak. On this he knocked twice, then once, then three times. It was opened and a fierce face looked out— another Afghan.

"Well," asked the face, "who in Jehannum are you?"

Ben Mohamet laughed. "Jehannum— hell, eh? So you must be Shitan [Satan]!"

"I am a better man than Shitan," growled the other Afghan. "But answer my question!"

"My name is Ben Mohamet, of the Durani Clan!" exclaimed Ben Mohamet. "You have heard that name before!"

"A fairly common name among the Durani," said the other. "Who was your father?"

"Alexander the Great!" snapped Ben Mohamet.

"You had an excellent father," answered the other.

"Your mother was—?"

"I never had any mother!" said Ben Mohamet.

The other Afghan threw the door wide open.

"Come in, brother Jerawah," he said courteously.

And Ben Mohamet entered the Sanctuary of the Jerawahs, a criminal society which claimed that it was founded when Alexander the Great gave their founder permission to steal from his camp followers, over two thousand years before, when he conquered northern India.

It was a fairly large place, this underground room. Three old brass lamps showed some light, but more shadows, through stained glass and fretwork. The room was full of eager men. Fifty or sixty Jerawahs. They were waiting for their king. Their king had sent word some days before that he was old, and getting tired, and that he would meet his subject Jerawahs in the Sanctuary, where he would appoint his successor, and give him the Key to the Great Secret. But the old king had not arrived. Ben Mohamet had hurried, afraid he would be too late. But something had apparently delayed the king. Conversation buzzed.

The day passed in anxious waiting. Then the Jerawahs grew angry. They were equal with their king in everything but authority— an authority recognized through the years by the Society as necessary to its existence, its continued success by the maintenance of some sort of discipline among such wild, turbulent, brave outlaws....

Among these men Ben Mohamet circulated. His popularity was great. To begin with, his reputation was remarkable. He was magnetic, and swayed his fierce friends easily— both by strength of mind and body. Then— and this was the crowning glory!— he could tell the smuttiest tales in the most delightful manner. In a land of sparse amusement, among such men, Ben Mohamet's ability in this line made him as popular as a free vaudeville theater in a desert....

ANOTHER day passed, and still the king did not arrive. Three more days, and then Ben Mohamet acted.

He addressed the men in a strong talk. He told them he was going out to find the missing king, and practically ordered them to wait and do nothing until he returned. The men cheered his decision.

But when he left the go-down, and walked away from the native quarter, Ben Mohamet did what for a member of a criminal society was a most extraordinary thing. He went boldly to a row of buildings which housed certain white officials.

So far nothing unusual, perhaps. But then he went directly to the private office of the coroner, and opened the door without knocking!

The coroner looked up, startled. Natives do not enter the offices of Englishmen this way. The coroner looked keenly at his visitor. He was alone, and when Ben Mohamet shut the door quickly, the coroner reached into his desk.

"Never mind the gun, doc! I won't bite!" exclaimed Ben Mohamet, in English.

"Oh, Bugs!" the coroner laughed. "Another instance of your marvelous diversity. No one in the world would have taken you for anything but a big, tough and somewhat dirty Afghan!"

The doctor sniffed.

"And, by jingo, you have even taken on the typical Afghan stink with the stain on your skin. I congratulate you. But what's doing?"

Ben Mohamet— Horace Sinnat, Indian Secret Service 006, Domestic, known to his intimate friends as "Bugs"— laughed.

"I licked you, doc, for far less cheek when we were at school. You old son of a gun! At school you were the dirty little fag, and it was my job, as a member of the Sixth Form, to tell you to go and wash yourself. How are the mighty fallen! Ye gods, yes! That dirty little boy, now grown to more or less man's estate, tells me I stink.... Well, he is correct! The stink is a sort of life insurance!"

"What can I do for you?" laughed the doctor.

"I want to find out about an old Afghan who seems to have disappeared. Any dead old Afghans come your way recently?"

The doctor stared. "Gad, Bugs, you are positively uncanny. How did you know about that old chap?"

"I didn't," exclaimed Bugs. "I thought something had happened to him, though!... Don't ask me too many questions, please, doc. What happened to him?"

"Can you identify the old man?" asked the doctor.

"I can," answered Bugs.

"Come back here with me, then, and see if I have the body of the man you are looking for. I am glad you dropped in! There seems to be quite a mystery! The old fellow was murdered!" "Murdered?" exclaimed Bugs.

"Yes! But you are the first person I have told. I just found out— did a bit of a post-mortem.... Here we are— is this your man?"

Bugs nodded. Lying in the morgue was the missing King of the Jerawahs!

"Please give me all the facts," said the secret service man. "Then have him buried without any comments. Not a word that he was murdered— that is a secret only you and I must share with the murderer. No relatives will turn up to claim the body— I know that! I was looking for the old man, remember! I will straighten out the entire affair. Make out an order in which I assume all responsibility. I will sign it, to protect you— although there will never be any need of that, never any investigation. And don't say a word to a soul!"

BUGS left the morgue and went back to the sanctuary of the Jerawahs....

"The king is dead! Long live the king!" he muttered. "They don't know it yet, but the Jerawahs are going to elect another king— according to the rules when a king dies without appointing his successor. And that new king will be myself!"

He went down into the sanctuary. There he called the big, fierce men about him.

"The king is dead," he shouted.

For a moment there was silence. Then a roar that began to grow. Bugs managed to stop it.

"It is easy to find another king, and a younger and stronger king who will lead you to fresh conquests," he shouted. "For years it has been that our king was useless to us. The new king will be your help. So I have decided to help you— by becoming your king!"

Not a word greeted this announcement. The men just stared. They liked Ben Mohamet, knew him for a strong man, a man to follow; but his sudden announcement took their breath away. Bugs followed up this advantage.

"You will take me for your king," he spoke with authority, "because the Key to the Great Secret died with the old king, and I am the only man able to find it. And as king I will change the old law in this one way: For whereas all our kings have for more than two thousand years kept the Great Secret a secret— telling us they kept it for Alexander, who promised to come back— I will reveal the secret, and make you all rich men!"

A howl of questions answered him. How did he know what the secret was? Or where the key was hidden, and so on.

Bugs laughed at them.

"I wonder you have been content to wait so idly for so long," he said sarcastically. "Have you turned Buddhists?"

This was calculated insult. They demanded what he meant. They were all of them good Mohametans.

"Only a Buddhist expects a man to come back to earth again for another life!" he sneered, "Yet our kings have been waiting, it seems, for Alexander to return.... Oh, hell, forget it! The king is dead. And I am the administrator— of Alexander and our own old king— administrator of the dead king's bequest! And I have the Key! I will fight any man who says I am not his king! But I obey the law! And the law of the Jerawahs says the new king must be elected if the old king does not name him before the assembly! Now, elect me swiftly, and don't make faces when you do it. Some faces are insults, and I will knock the face off the man who insults me!... Elect me, quickly. And I will share this treasure with you, my subjects!"

The strong braggart whom the Afghans love! This was Bugs as he spoke. He was elected unanimously. Then he gathered his men around him, and gave them very careful and very positive instructions. After that he left the sanctuary.

IT was night and grown a mite cooler. Fireflies, low stars, bats and flying foxes across the face of a low moon. Bugs walked toward a small house that stood, of course, in its own compound. It was the house of a white man— rented by a white man.

It is easy to enter a white man's house in India. Bugs slipped into the outer corridor. The old man sitting on his haunches pulling the punkah cord was startled by a big man sitting down by his side. He was relieved when he saw the big man was an Afghan and a fellow Mohametan. But he stopped pulling the punkah for a moment.

"Tano!" [pull!] growled an English voice inside the house.

Bugs grinned at the punkah waller, and whispered.

"I have heard this white man is going on a hunting trip, and will need a good man to go along. I want that job! When he asks thee if you know of a good man— which he surely will do— then tell him that your cousin Ben Mohamet is a fine, strong man. Such will be true, and I will give you eight annas for your trouble. If you don't do what I order I may break your neck! Now, pull your cord— I go forward a space to listen about this hunting trip. The man has a friend with him— hear them! Keep your mouth shut, punkah waller, and earn thy money!"

The scared punkah waller, cherishing the hope of eight annas in real money if he obeyed this truculent Afghan, continued to pull.

Bugs crept forward, until he could hear two Englishmen talking in low tones and drinking whisky.

"The hell of it is," Bugs was thinking, "that I haven't got the Key to the Secret. I know what it is— every Jerawah does. But I don't know where the Treasure is hidden— only the old king knew that! I believe this murderer in here tortured the king and made him, an old man, tell where the Secret Place of Alexander the Great is hidden. If he did, I will make him tell me— and without either torturing or killing him. But if this brute hasn't got the Key to the Secret, well— then I will have to cease being a Jerawah. Because I won't be able to keep my promise to my 'subjects'! Hate to do that, because being a member of that old criminal society— about which no official in India has ever heard!— has helped me to pull off a lot of successful jobs.... Now—let's listen!"

Two Englishmen were talking.

"Well, Harris," said one, "now we have had the drink and the preliminaries may be said to be over— what's the great news you have been bragging about for the last ten minutes. Or are you just drunk?"

"Walters," answered Harris, "I am not drunk, although I have had a lot. The stuff won't take hold tonight, and I know why. You know, Walters, you and I have been partners in crime for many years, and have always trusted one another— we can trust each other, can't we?"

"Oh hell, cut out the chatter! What's wrong with you?" growled Walters.

"Murdering a man," Harris lowered his voice, "murdering a man always affects me like this—so it does you!"

"Don't use that word, you drunken fool!" hissed Walters.

"All right—anything to oblige," answered Harris. "It was only an old native, anyhow. Funny thing. Old chap was taken sick outside my door, and my tender heart had him brought into my house. The old bird babbled quite a bit, and I listened. What he said determined me to keep him here till he— er, died! He would have died soon, anyway, being very old.... Well, Walters, you have heard about the buried treasure of Alexander the Great, haven't you?"

"Everybody in India has heard about that," growled Walters. "Many archeologists say it must be worth twenty millions. But it never will be found, so why talk about it? Besides, looking for it— how many hundreds have hunted for it, until now everyone says it never will be found!— looking for it would be hard, honest and expensive work!... What in hell are you talking about, Harris?"

"I know where it is," said Harris softly. "And I am cold sober!"

"What!" exclaimed Walters. "Not so loud! That old chap whom I— er, allowed to die. He talked. Oh, after his first babblings I used drugs to make him tell me all. I may have beaten him a little. Made a few mild threats, you know, too! Old men are like young men— they don't enjoy having the soles of their feet roasted. What does it matter? I had the body taken to the proper authorities— the morgue. I said I had done all I could for him, and was complimented upon my charity. Forget that! The big thing is that I know to within a few feet how to enter the underground pleasure room of Alexander the Great, up north in the Punjaub, and how to get the stuff! It's a desert now— where the place is!"

"But," broke in Walters, "do you realize that you are talking about what is probably the greatest hidden treasure in the world? The historical, the archeological value! Millions! The old man was kidding you, Harris!"

"No, he wasn't. He babbled about being the Keeper of the Secret of Alexander the Great, or words to that effect. He said he was on his way to pass the secret to some other man before he died, because one man had always known the secret, and only one was allowed to know it. Talked crazily about keeping the Key to the Treasure until Alexander came back to use it! Sort of Buddhist rot. But he didn't fool me about the directions. He begged and pleaded with me to let him go— so he could pass the secret on. But, naturally, I wouldn't let him go. Then, when he realized I meant to keep him till he died, he got scared that the Key would be lost. So he gave it to me— after I swore on a brass crucifix I went out and bought in the bazar that I would not tell about it except to one man. I don't know the man he had in mind. He was too near dead to talk coherently, but he babbled something about a Jerawah— which in some dialects means an outlaw, as you know. That's all. The old man is dead and buried, and no one suspects I did him in. Now, our finances will permit us hiring one husky native to fetch and carry for us. When we get the stuff under our hands we will dispose of the husky native— we can't be too particular about this, and can't afford to have the government step in. Treasure trove is a funny law, you know. Now, call that punkah coolie. He will know of some strong native. Then we will raise all we can on promises and bad checks. Then, ho for the golden north! Call the punkah waller!"

Walters called. His heart throbbed at the wonder of the tale he had just heard.

The treasure room of Alexander was authentic— no man in India doubted that; but no man believed it ever would be found. The years had covered it— with ruins, sand, what not. And India is a big country. But the place was— somewhere in the Punjaub, probably. Had Harris realty obtained the secret of the place— supposed to have been when Alexander the Great died unexpectedly?

The punkah stopped and the coolie entered cringing. To him Harris spoke in fluent Hindustani about a hunting trip, as Bugs had easily deduced he would do. Did the coolie know of a strong native, not a Hindoo, but a Mohametan, of course?...

The coolie did know of such a one. His cousin!

"Sahib, I will find my cousin, who will be honored to work for the sahib, and send him in to you!"

Presently a well-built, swaggering Afghan came in. He did not bow or cringe. He was a man of the hills....

"Did the sahibs need me?"

"We need a good, strong man who is not afraid. We go on a shooting trip. Have you references?"

The big Mohametan had references— many of them. They were all good, even laudatory. His name was Ben Mohamet.

Harris hired him. "Do you understand or speak English?" asked Harris.

"I am sorry, but I don't know a single word except gotohell," said Ben Mohamet.

"You'll do," grinned Harris.

IT was a long journey, in terrible heat. Northward and through the country of the Rajputs, through the Punjaub, the land of the Sikhs, to a small station at the end of a spur of single line, which ended at the desert, where there was nothing but a broken down dak bungalow, and an old man who lived in the deserted place.

Their belongings were dumped off the train. The train crew seemed amused. The Scotch engineer wiped his face with a piece of waste.

"I am taking my train back the now," he said. "It will be five days before I am back, and there is no other train. Was it to shoot jackals you came?"

He laughed.

"No!" snapped Harris.

"That's all there is on the desert," grinned the engineer, "except desert fever, which the doctors don't savvy, and a few other things, including vultures. The vultures are the undertakers here[1]abouts! It's a cheap burial, but not one I'd choose for myself.... Scotch, am I? Well.... But, thankit, I'm no maniac to go out on a blooming desert to shoot! I have heard there are 'holy men' to be found among the ruins. Maybe ye came here to shoot them!"

"I'll shoot you if you don't shut up!" shouted Harris.

The engineer put his thumb to his nose.

"Goodbye," he said as he started his engine. "Be careful the holy men don't eat you before the vultures get you!"

In the meanwhile Walters was inquiring of the kitmatgar regarding means of crossing the desert— was there a camel or two, or a bullock cart to be hired?

"Nay, sahib." The kitmatgar spread his hands pathetically. "Here there is nothing like that. Just heat waves, and some jackals, who are sick, and some facquirs [holy men] who are mad. Only the sick and the mad go out on the desert—for the holy men are lepers, also!"

"Nice prospect!" growled Walters. He walked out of the dak bungalow and met his partner returning from his unprofitable argument with the Scotch engineer. To him he told the ill news.

"Curses!" snarled Harris. "We can't walk. What in hell will we do?"

"Search me," answered Walters. "Looks like a lot of bad luck. There are lepers and madmen and sick jackals in the desert, and scorching heat and fever no doctor ever cured."

"Shut up," stormed Harris. "Or if you want to go back there is still time to flag that train! I'm going on, whether you do or not!"

"We're partners," responded Walters placatingly. "I'll stay with it. But have you seen Ben Mohamet recently?"

"Why, no! I thought he was in the bungalow with you!"

"And I thought he was out there in the sun with you— giving you his immoral support against the engineer!"

They called and searched, but Ben Mohamet had gone. He had gone so suddenly and quietly that he might have evaporated.

"So!" growled Harris. "He found out what the desert was like, heard about the lepers and so on, then heard there were neither camels nor bullocks— and then he deserted. Well, I'd like to shoot him, but you can't blame him— he has no stake in this and don't know what it's all about. Let's see what sort of a chicken the kitmatgar has for dinner. I expect it will be one Alexander did not take away with him because it was too old to eat!"

It was a very ancient chicken. The kitmatgar, who had done his best in a place where six white men in two years was a fair average, began to dislike Harris. Walters was not so bad, but Harris was not like a sahib at all.

At length he turned angrily.

"The chicken was born on the same day as yourself, sahib— it was a day of ill omen!"

Harris jumped to his feet. Walters tried to restrain him. "I'll shoot the banchoot cabutcha!" Harris was shouting furiously, dragging at his revolver. The frightened kitmatgar ran— just as Ben Mohamet appeared at the door.

"Oh," said Harris, becoming calm, for be had no wish to start trouble with this powerful Afghan. "Oh, where have you been?"

The Afghan grinned. "Sahib," he said, "this place is surely Jehannum [hell]. Behold, there is nothing for men— even the women have left it! But, back some miles, I had seen from the train a man with three camels. He was going back the way we came, but I managed to catch up with him. I— hem— I borrowed the camels!"

"You borrowed the camels?" gasped Harris.

"It is the way of my country," grinned Ben Mohamet. "When one wants a thing— a horse or a woman or some little thing— he takes it. That is, if he is a better fighter than the owner of the woman or horse or what not. As he pays nothing he says he borrowed it— the woman of the horse, or, as in this case, camels! But let us go swiftly, sahibs. The camels are here. The man I borrowed from may find police somewhere. Such men, who can not protect themselves, usually do. So let us go— wherever the sahibs desire to go!"

"My God!" exclaimed Harris enthusiastically. "You big Afghan, you are a man after my own heart. You won't lose by this, either. Will he, Walters?"

"I should say not," agreed Walters.

They started an hour after sundown. Day travel in that desert was well-nigh impossible.

BEN MOHAMET seemed to know a lot about camels, which was lucky as neither Walters nor Harris did. As they ambled through the vague sheen of the moon's reflection on the sand, the Afghan regaled them with typical Afghan stories— the sort which would have made Boccaccio blush. There was one about an interesting Sultan of Swat, at which Walters protested, but which Harris enjoyed.

"But," said Ben Mohamet with marvelous surprise, "I expected the sahibs would require entertainment in this dry march. However, if Walters sahib does not enjoy my tale— and he is the only man I ever met who did not—then will I talk of other things.... That old rock lying over there! It must be an ancient burial place. The sahibs know, of course, that this midnight moon-sheen, near graves, is the best place to see ghosts!"

"Shut up!" growled Harris. Ben Mohamet stopped the camels suddenly.

"See there!" he hissed. The two Englishmen looked, and shivered. On the rock— a fallen piece of vast masonry— an apparition leaped in the light of the moon. It looked like a skeleton at its religious devotions....

"He is worshipping Shitan!" exclaimed Ben Mohamet in awed tones.

"Worshipping Satan!" echoed Harris.

"Yes," answered Ben Mohamet in a matter-of-fact way, although his yoke seemed to indicate that, brave and tough man though he was, he would rather be somewhere else. "Yes, he worships Shitan. Would the sahibs like to go and join him?"

"What the hell do you mean?" both sahibs asked the question.

"Oh, I thought the sahibs came out into the desert maybe to study the things of the desert!" apologized Ben Mohamet. "That is not a ghost over there! No, only some devil-worshipper with leprosy. Quite harmless!"

"Drive on!" growled Harris. "Our ideas of what is harmless differ!"

Ben Mohamet urged the camels forward, but that night ride was a ride through the dead of ages, and the Afghan, with all his country's love and dread of ghosts and djinns could not help talking about it....

The sand stirred by the camel's feet was the dust of dead men— the dust of an army of long ago, the dust of many armies!

"What armies?" asked Harris.

"All of them," answered Ben Mohamet with historical generosity. "From the time of Adam and Eve, from the time the sons of Abraham came hither to spy out the land!"

Walters coughed sarcastically.

"But what does it matter to a ghost, what army he fought in?" asked Ben Mohamet.

"That mess of ruins, lying so black in the moonlight, let us rest there!"

"We will not rest until dawn!" growled Harris.

"As the sahib commands," grunted Ben Mohamet.

Spectral shadows of monuments of lost faces. Fragments of forgotten peoples. Old when Alexander crossed the Indus. Matters of deep speculation when Buddha dreamed under the Boh tree. Bits of the beginnings of the world. Stained by blood and tears, scorched by the same old sun....

And, as Ben Mohamet kept muttering, the air was so full of lost souls that breathing was difficult!

"And the devil-worshippers and lepers eat snakes and rock toads— else they would starve," added Ben Mohamet in the tone of a moonshe [teacher].

"Will you shut up— choop row, toom!" shouted the exasperated Harris.

Ben Mohamet laughed. "Surely if the sahib commands! But be not afraid, for I am with you!... Yet it is strange that ye are more afraid than I— for the English did certainly beat hell out of us Afghans in a couple of wars!"

Harris started to swear. His band was on his revolver. Walters restrained him.

"Don't be a fool, and don't let him see you reach for that thing! We are helpless without him to drive the camels. Don't you know what talkers all these Pathans are? Take it easy, old man— he still obeys and will continue to obey, but he must talk— he can't help it any more than he could help stealing a camel or a horse or a woman that looked good to him!"

"Men came to India forty thousand years ago," muttered Ben Mohamet. "They drove the monkeys before them and took their cities—also adopted some of the monkeys' customs. But a Chinaman was here before them. He wrote in his book, '...The desert bleaches souls and faces, and is terrible always, especially at night.' So, when he went back to China his face had turned yellow, and the Chinese faces have been yellow ever since!"

Walters laughed.

"Some day a man, or a hundred men, will collect the notions of the Afghans in a book," he said. "They are wonderful beyond education!"

"Get along, you spawn of filth," Ben Mohamet urged the camels.

And so the dreadful night passed. Ended in heat and sand. Clothes, eyes, ears, hair— all filled with sand. A horrible, clinging sand.

"Blood in it!" said Ben Mohamet cheerfully. They made a weary camp among some ruins, so lonely and deserted that it might have been an apex of the world never reached by men— the ruins the broken toys of young gods.... They were too tired to eat.

Ben Mohamet tethered the camels, but there was neither drink nor food for them.

Then the three men sank into uneasy sleep. But before sleeping Ben Mohamet faced in the direction of Mecca and said his prayers.

THEY started again that night. That desert has never been properly explored, and India is so filled with ancient ruins and buried cities and monuments to the great dead— King Asoka alone erected sixty-nine thousand monuments all over the country to Gotama Sidartha— that the archeologists had never troubled the desert ruins, merely classifying them, more or less correctly or incorrectly, with certain periods. To Walters these wrecks of empires were intensely interesting, but they were not there to explore.

"I am coming back here some time," he whispered to Harris.

"You'll come alone, then," stuttered Harris as his camel put its foot into a yawning hole, which Ben Mohamet explained, with his usual air of knowing all about the world's horrible things, was the grave of a woman who was never properly married!

"No grave of such woman ever closes," he said, "because the ghost of the woman who did not obey the Law ever tries to crawl out to go and get married properly— then slips back and crawls out and slips back for eons, until the time appointed!"

But they saw neither jackals nor holy men, which was a relief, and on the dawn of the fourth day Harris checked up and told Walters that the place was only a few miles ahead.

"If that old man you, er— hum," growled Walters, who was tired and nervous.

"If he what?" snapped Harris, who was equally worn out.

"If he really knew what he was talking about, and wasn't kidding you," Walters replied.

"He wasn't kidding me," answered Harris. "He believed I would keep my promise and carry the Key to the Secret to his friend. I swore I would, you know, on that crucifix! Unfortunately, the old man was unable to tell me the name of his friend! He only managed to babble about a Jerawah, which means an outlaw. Otherwise, of course, I would have taken the Key to whoever the old man desired me to!"

"Of course!" laughed Walters. "By the way, it's a damn good job you made certain that Ben Mohamet does not understand English!"

"He's a good man," replied Harris, "and should be able to dig well. There may be quite a bit of digging, you know!"

But when they reached the spot which, according to the Key given by the King of the Jerawahs, was the entrance to the pleasure room of the great Alexander, Harris got a surprise.

Ben Mohamet positively refused to dig!

"I am a Durani. I am a fighter. It is beneath a Durani to work," he said shortly.

"But—" began Harris.

"Dig yourself," said Ben Mohamet insultingly, and one must know India to appreciate what an insult it was, coming from an Afghan to an Englishman. "I knew you were lying when you said you wanted to hunt! Men don't hunt with little revolvers and shovels. But dig! I will sit here at my ease and watch you!"

Harris dragged out his revolver. Walters shouted at him not to shoot, but Harris aimed at Ben Mohamet and pulled the trigger. There was a click. Ben Mohamet laughed. Harris screamed:

"There are no shells in it!"

Ben Mohamet laughed again. "Of course not," he gibed. "I extracted them! I even threw away the extra ones you had! I did that when I discovered you were liars! Such liars might get angry with me, and try to shoot me! Well, I may be shot some day, or more likely, be hanged— as you will be. But if I am shot I want to be shot by a man— not by a liar!"

Astounded by the sudden turn of events, Harris could only gasp. Here was the servant he had expected to make do the heavy work of digging first refusing to dig and then reviling both Walters and himself, after carefully making their revolvers harmless.

Ben Mohamet was thinking: "Now, while eventually I intend to let these dirty crooks know who I am, I must be careful not to let them suspect I am a friend of certain members of a criminal society. The existence of the Jerawahs must remain unknown to them. Quite an interesting job! Because, also, I have to be very careful that the Jerawahs don't even imagine I am a secret service man!"

Aloud he drawled:

"Go ahead and dig, sahibs! I won't stop your digging! All I will prevent is your shooting me! And as that is already accomplished— I will now rest and watch you dig!"

"You traitor!" stormed the helpless Harris.

"Not that," laughed Ben Mohamet. "You hired me to go hunting, not to dig. Had you told me all the truth there would have been no trouble."

Walters broke in with: "Wait till evening. We're all hot and tired now, and don't feel like doing anything. Wait, and keep quiet. We will find a way to handle this damned Afghan!"

So they waited through the heat of the day, until the dusk began etching fantastic shadows among the ruins— rains of monoliths of the Dawn Men showing strangely among fallen facades of bits of Buddhist temples and palaces of dead and forgotten kings and empires— with an early moon lending a ghostliness to it all.

"You won't dig, Ben Mohamet?" asked Harris.

"Digging is for coolies!" drawled Ben Mohamet. "I will watch!"

There was nothing for Harris and Walters to do but dig. And the sand was loose and difficult, and the night was hot. But to their surprise the way was not long.

A few feet below the surface of the spot so carefully marked on Harris' chart— made from the feeble lines drawn by the fingernail of the dying King of the Jerawahs— their shovels struck wood. Exultantly they tore into their digging. The delighted exclamations rang oddly in broken English phrases among the ruins, where the dark lay like black pools edged with silver.

"Someone has been here not so very long ago!" panted Harris.

"The boards proved that!" gasped Walters as he tugged at the end of one of them. "And they also prove that it was not robbers. Robbers would not have troubled to cover the place again after getting the loot!"

Ben Mohamet, apparently indifferent, watched eagerly....

The boards were lifted, disclosing a short flight of old stone steps.

"So," thought Ben Mohamet, "the kings, or some of them, who preceded me came here to see that everything was in order." He chuckled, "But I'll bet they didn't have two Englishmen to dig for them! Had to do it themselves!"

But Harris and Walters had dashed down the steps, and were trying to open a door of heavy brass— a beautifully wrought thing, green with the patina of twenty-two hundred years. They could not budge it. They sweated and pushed and tried to pull it open. They were tired with digging, and the door defied them. The powerful form of Ben Mohamet came down the steps.

"I do not mind opening the door," he drawled, "Digging in the sand is different. But what in hell is this place? Tell me that!"

Walters answered, after a warning touch on Harris' elbow. "An old tomb," he said. "We may find some little gold or other treasure there. Help us with the door, and you shall have some of the gold!"

Ben Mohamet laughed. "I would open a lot of doors for gold," he said. "But I will not allow you to give me any. No! If I see anything I want I will take it— as I did the camels!"

"Let's jump him! There are two of us!" whispered Harris.

"Let him do the heavy work first," cautioned Walters, while Bugs grinned. He grinned, and then, as the swaggering Ben Mohamet, he cried out:

"One side, weaklings! Let a man do this thing!"

Bugs was an unusually strong man, with the gift of being able to release every pound of energy at a given moment. He applied himself to the door strongly. The door moved slightly. Bugs gathered himself and went at the door like a halfback making a touchdown through the line.

Next moment he was sprawling in the stuffy darkness of the Pleasure Room of Alexander of Macedon. The door lay under him. He had broken it down, not opened it!

Astonished at such athletic force, Harris and Walters ceased for the moment to be crooks. They applauded as at a football game.

"Bring the lamps!" ordered Ben Mohamet, and the two Englishmen hastened to obey. What did it matter? Nothing mattered now they had the place! So they tried to comfort themselves as they ran to obey their servant, the Afghan!

EAGERLY, with trembling fingers they lit the lamps and carried them down the ancient seeps— steps once trodden by Alexander, his court, his slaves, his dancing girls. The brief movements of the acrid desert air stirred faint whisperings in the sand, until even the callous crooks felt awed by a feeling of the supernatural, a sense of something beyond the senses....

At the doorway Ben Mohamet waited.

"I can hear, smell and see ghosts," he said hollowly. "And we had better wait a few minutes for the air in there to clear!"

"You afraid?" snarled Harris.

"Much afraid," answered Ben Mohamet, calmly and without shame. "Go in there in the dark— one may breathe but not easily— go in there in the dark, and maybe you will see what I saw! If you do you will... but go in, in the dark!"

"Hell," growled Walters. "The air's all right. Ghosts are the bunk. Come on, Harris, let's go in, with the lamps, of course!"

But Harris hesitated. The fear that comes to the murderer had gripped him.

"I'm just as eager as you to see what's inside, but let's wait a moment," he gasped.

Walters had better nerves. He laughed.

"What was it you saw in there that scared you, Ben Mohamet?" he asked.

"The ghost of an old man," answered Ben Mohamet, with an excellent shiver. "That ghost motioned me to go away. Its lips moved. I thought it was the guardian of the tomb— you said it was a tomb! But I was mistaken. Because the ghost tried to tell me that he had been a king when alive! I could not understand what country he was king of, but he did manage to make me understand that he had been murdered. So, I came out quickly, and very much afraid. All men know that the ghost of a murdered king is the most dangerous sort of ghost."

Harris felt sick. But the word "king" somewhat reassured him. He did not know that he had killed the king of the Jerawahs.

"King?" he asked.

"He said so!" exclaimed Ben Mohamet. And then he very accurately described the old king whom Harris had so cruelly murdered....

"My God!" Harris leaned against the wall.

"Oh hell, come on in!" sneered Walters. "What's eating you? Scared of ghosts! Well, no ghost shows under lamplight, and we have three lamps! Come on!"

He went through the doorway, and Harris got hold of himself and followed. And what he saw dispelled any fear of ghosts he might have had.

The Treasure of the Conqueror! The place of his many loves. The hidden sleeping room and banquet hall of Alexander the Great, heaped high with the loot of conquered cities of India, which he had left there before he crossed the river Indus for the last time. The treasure he had left in charge of a criminal! And which the kings of the criminals had guarded ever since!

The marvel of this faithful care was, of course, lost to the two crooks, who knew nothing about the Jerawahs, but to the secret service man it was a greater wonder than the treasure itself.

Two pillars of gold, carved with ancient Greek inscriptions. The two crooks only cared that the pillars were gold, but Ben Mohamet was more interested in the inscriptions.

"Hollow!" exclaimed Harris, tapping the pillars. "But worth thousands!"

"Sayings of Aristotle engraved in gold!" thought Bugs. "Very fitting! Aristotle was Alexander's first teacher, of course! By Jove, Oxford University did teach me something besides football!"

"Those old lamps!" Harris' voice cracked. "Solid gold!"

Bugs noticed that the lamps had been left trimmed and ready— as if Alexander had gone hunting and was coming back there to his home to sleep.

Then suddenly the marvel of the place got Walters, who had some poetry in his soul and no recent murder on it.

"That little silver slipper in the corner there," he exclaimed. "The slipper of a slave girl. Lovely as a flower! The slipper dropped from her foot a few moments ago! She was scared by our coming in, and ran away in a hurry! See! There! She is watching us from over there, in the shadows!"

"Oh, cut it out!" growled Harris. "Do your play[1]acting on a stage when we get out of this with the stuff! Attend to business now! How are we going to get it all away from here? It will require a couple of motor trucks. More than that... . Never mind seeing girls among the shadows!"

He walked toward the shadows.

"My God!" he exclaimed.

"What?" Walters almost squealed. He might well cry out. For the shadow in which he had pretended to see the dancing girl was thrown by what has been called "The Legend of India."

The magnificent bed of Alexander. Even the working coolies, the lowest castes, have been told the story of that bed by their mothers when they were children....

That great bed of ivory, of perfect elephants' tusks, a marvel of arrangement, interlaced and bound together by bands of gold.... That was the bed— all India knew of the bed! But the story— and all India knew the story! For on the great bed, among the fragments of her tattered finery, lay the skeleton of the favorite dancing girl of Alexander....

And the simple, pathetic tale. She had danced her best for the king, but he had been— as he often was at that time, when he was beginning to claim that he was a god— he had been irritable. He had not meant to hurt her, but he had said that her dancing was not pleasing to him. And the girl had flung herself on the great bed and thrust a dagger into her own heart, and died there. So grieved that her dancing did not please....

The fallen slipper was hers. The two crooks did not know the story. They were merely Englishmen, and the mothers of India do not tell their prettiest stories to the conquering race.

But Bugs, Ben Mohamet, knew the tale.

How Alexander had gone away from the place, leaving the body of the girl on the bed. How sudden remorse had overtaken him.

"Close the door," he had ordered. "The place shall be her tomb!"

One of his generals had suggested they remove the enormous treasure, but Alexander had turned savagely on him.

"Close the door!" he commanded. Then he had placed the criminal Jerawah in charge of the tomb of the dancing girl.

"Guard it until I return!"

Then he had gone, leaving the dead girl amid the gold of a hundred cities.

So, just as the Taj Mahal was the tomb of Mumtaz Mahal, the favorite wife of Shah Jehan, so was the ancient pleasure house of Alexander the tomb of a little dancing girl, whose name was quite unknown.

Harris had turned away from the skeleton, and Walters was saying,

"Now, who do you think that was when it was alive?" He spoke callously, sneeringly.

He little dreamed that Ben Mohamet, who of course knew no English, had to hold himself, to control his anger with all the self-control he had so long cultivated— lest he, too soon, betray his identity as Horace Sinnat by thrashing Walters, as such sacrilege deserved.

Harris was shouting. The old walls echoed to an alien language. Never before had they heard English.

"Urns! Urns! Golden urns!"

"Wine urns!" exulted Walters. "Open one and see if there's a drink in it!"

Harris tore the top off a magnificent Grecian urn. The light showed some little red mud at the bottom of it— the wine had dried to that. But even to such gluttonous crooks the sight of so much gold became oppressive. They began to wonder how they were going to get it across the desert; how they would sell it to the best advantage....

They were discussing this when Harris noticed that Ben Mohamet was not in sight.

"Where the hell has that swine gone?" asked Harris. He learned quickly.

Ben Mohamet came running through the doorway from outside. He was plainly scared.

"The robbers of the desert, sahibs!" he said. "And the big fool I was— throwing away the shells for your revolvers. The robbers come. They will kill us all! We cannot fight them. They are terrible men. Let us run quickly, sahibs!"

"But the loot?" snarled Harris painfully.

"If we run quickly the robbers will not find us," Ben Mohamet spoke hurriedly. "We may close the entrance, and they may not find the place. But if we stay here they will hear and find us.... Let us run. We must, to save our lives. Quick, let us close the entrance!"

The robbers were very close! The two crooks hurried. They had laid down the planks— to lift the great door would have taken too long— and were trying to hide the planks with sand, when Ben Mohamet pointed with a trembling finger.

And Harris and Walters saw!

Stalking among the ruins, the moonlight that glittered on their weapons making them seem gigantic, was a body of men.

"Quick!" Ben Mohamet gripped an arm of each of his employers. "Run! This way!"

Fear took possession of the two crooks. They ran, stumbling through the sand and over fallen stones of antiquity— Ben Mohamet guiding them they ran— northward. They ran until the Englishmen could run no farther. Harris and Walters threw themselves down, choking with fatigue; and even Bugs was tired. But the loss of the loot rose in agony in them.

"I can never find my way back among those twisting ruins," sobbed Harris. "My compass and the chart are with our things in camp— and the robbers must have them. If this swine hadn't stolen our shells we might have shot it out with the robbers!"

"He's just a cowardly boaster," gasped Walters. "He was worse scared than we were!"

He stopped talking suddenly— horrified. Harris gripped him in terror. Ben Mohamet seemed unmoved. Soft footsteps in the sand. And a horrible sound— men with broken mouths trying to talk, mewing like strange, sick cats....

"The lepers!" said Ben Mohamet shortly. They came forward cringing, those poor outcasts. The moon showed their hideous deformity, their starved and wasted bodies, the horror of their fell disease. They came and crowded about the horrified Englishmen.

But Ben Mohamet waved them back gently. He turned to the two crooks.

"Find some small coins in your pockets," he commanded. "Then I will get rid of these. Otherwise they will crowd so close that they will touch us— and you know what that will mean!" he concluded significantly.

Harris and Walters thrust their hands into their pockets and searched. They found altogether three rupees and six annas. They gave them to Ben Mohamet.

Ben Mohamet waved the lepers farther back, and spoke sonorously.

"In the name of Allah the Compassionate Compassioner!" he intoned. "In the name of the One God and His Prophet Mohamet. In such great Names, and of the Charity ordained by the Kuran, do I give thee these alms. Take them, brothers of pain, and go thy ways, for, behold, it is all we have. In the name of Allah, the One God whose compassion for His children never dies— take these poor alms, and go in peace!"

He threw the money to the poor fellows. They picked it up painfully with broken and withered fingers. They bowed like shadows and went. The three rupees six annas was a small fortune to them....

"My God," exclaimed Walters. "Ben Mohamet spoke like a Mohametan Mullah— with the voice of an English bishop of Oxford!"

"Forget the talk," growled Harris. "I am dying of thirst, and when I get a drink I shall be starving!"

"We need food and drink badly," Walters spoke to Ben Mohamet. "You gave all our money to those sick beggars. We have left millions behind us! What are we to do?"

Ben Mohamet laughed. "That is easy," he said. "Money would not help you— there are no bazars on the desert. But I will get food and drink. You stay right here, so that I may find you easily when I come back with the food!"

"How will you get it?" Walters was incredulous.

"As I got the camels," laughed Ben Mohamet. "Steal, of course. Those damned robbers will be in our camp. They will have food of their own, too. I will go back and take what we need— all I can carry— from those robbers. Steal it!"

Ben Mohamet walked away.

"The fellow is the most wonderful bunch of contradictions I ever saw," said Walters.

"Are you fool enough to think he will come back?" asked Harris.

"We'll wait and see, anyhow!" exclaimed Walters.

BUGS walked away from the two crooks. He walked fast, but he did not have to go all the way back to the treasure room of Alexander. Half a mile from where Harris and Walters waited, two "robbers of the desert," Jerawahs of course, met him with both food and drink.

"You obeyed orders well, Coomer Ali," said Bugs as he took the stuff. "Now act in my place, and guard the treasure until I come for it. The others will obey me, of course, even if they did not realize that they would be helpless trying to dispose of the gold. The British Raj is not so hard on poor men, and the Raj will pay us very well for the gold— better than anyone else. The Raj will claim some of it— that is the law— for getting us money for it that we can use. But be at peace. We are just poor wandering men who found the treasure, and reported the finding honestly. The government will never know we are Jerawahs!"

"What did the white men know?" asked Coomer Ali.

"Just as I thought, and told you when you brought the camels," answered Bugs. "They were doctors in the hospital where the king died. They gave our king a talking drug, and got the Key of the Place from him! But they told no one else. They dare not tell. They won't tell now, because they hope to come back some day— when it will be too late. And if they did tell they know that no one would believe them— because they are both known to be awful liars!"

"They must die!" exclaimed Coomer Ali.

"Don't worry," said king Ben Mohamet grimly. "They will both die!" He made a significant gesture about his throat, and walked back to Harris and Walters with the food....

"We are near the edge of the desert, to the north," he told them as they ate eagerly. "We will walk a few more miles. You must walk, or you will never have a chance to come back for the loot, because the robbers will miss the food and follow my tracks and find us and kill us! Hurry, now!"

They walked, painfully. As they walked they whispered a plot to turn and kill Ben Mohamet.

"We can't let this fellow get away with the secret of the place," said Harris. "See, the sand is getting firmer. We are at the edge of the desert, and soon will be at some town. When you are ready, say so. Then we will jump this damned Afghan!"

"Ready!" whispered Walters a few moments later. The dark hour before the dawn was paling to the coming sun.

Harris and Walters jumped suddenly at Ben Mohamet. With a swift movement he eluded them, laughing as he dodged. Then his voice grew stern, and he said grimly, in English: "That's enough!"

And so quickly that neither Harris nor Walters could see where he got if from, Bugs pulled his automatic from under his clothes....

The two crooks were staring with open mouths. Then Walters gasped brokenly: "You... talk... English?"

"Naturally!" drawled Bugs in that language.

"But... but... who are you?"

"My name is Sinnat... of the secret service!" drawled Bugs.

"My God!" Harris cried. "The one man every crook in India fears!"

THE DAY CAME with its usual suddenness. Walters was pointing as he shivered. Three men— three splendid Sikh policemen on horses— were cantering toward them. Harris was babbling. He had lost his head entirely.

"Sikh police!" he gasped. "But... we don't want them!"

"No," answered Bugs. "But they want you! You are wanted— for murder! And you, Walters, as an accessory! Probably there are many other crimes! Stand up now. You are a couple of rotters, but try to remember that you were born white, and don't act the coward before these Sikhs!"

_______________

18: The Vanished Freight

E. Florence

Augustus Wittfeld, 1861?-1935?

The Railroad Man's Magazine Nov 1909

Apart from a very small number of stories for the above magazine around 1909-1910, and his real name, little is known of the writer.

THE loose-jointed individual and the watery-eyed one met on common ground. They had both been fired from the same freight, and were drawn to each other— or, more correctly speaking, fired at each other, for they came near colliding in the process of ejectment.

"Must take us for blooming cannon-balls," grunted the loose-jointed one.

"Yes; those fellows are certainly on the firing-line, all right," replied the watery-eyed one. "Reminds me of the way I've often floated through space in Kansas, riding bareback on a cyclone."

"So you've been in Kansas, too?" queried the loose-jointed one. "Now, there's a State that can boast some about nearly everything. And, talking of cyclones, did you ever hear how they are formed?

"Well, I met an ex-college professor out there who had succumbed to the wanderlust and hit the road, and he explained the whole thing to me.

"You see, cyclones are formed in this way: First of all comes one of those scorching-hot days when the sun is on to the job for a raise. He gets focused on a certain locality, and fricassees the atmosphere at that location, and keeps on plugging at it until the air is all consumed.

"This creates, as it were, a hole in the atmosphere. Then nature gets busy, and sends a wireless to the spot where there is an oversupply of the ethereal fluid, and as soon as the C.Q.D. is received the air makes a bee-line for that vacuous void.

"Sometimes it travels in a straight line, and sometimes not. However, as it travels, it assumes a rotary motion, due to a law of physics that all swiftly moving bodies must rotate. As it advances in its swift flight, it is utterly unselfish, for it takes everything along that it comes up with.

"Houses, trees, and cattle are gathered in its loving embrace, and the whole blooming outfit forms a sort of relief expedition to the afflicted place. The world moves, but Kansas is a whole moving[1]picture show. Talk about the shifting sands of time! A Kansas cyclone is the sine qua non of motion, and is entitled to full honorary membership in the Scene Shifters' Union. "It may leave a path of devastation behind it, but think of what would become of that airless void if the C.Q.D. was ignored."

"That's so," replied the watery-eyed one. "Nature has got railroads skinned alive when it comes to delivering the goods. Then, again, a cyclone is a great factor in promoting social intercourse. There are lots of people out there who would never see each other were it not for the fact that they are thrown together by the thoughtful cyclone. I know of a couple of fellows who had not seen each other for years, who met in the air, both joy-riding aboard the same cyclone.

" 'Hallo, Bill!' shouted one; 'I haven't seen you for a good while.' 'No,' yelled the other fellow; 'I don't often get up this way.' "

"Speaking of railroading," said the loose-jointed individual, "I'd like to relate to you some of my experiences in the railroad business. Back in the seventies I did key-pounding down in Kansas, on the P.D.Q. road. I held down a shanty up along the line, forty miles from the nearest refectory.

"Did nothing much but give the trains clear track or hold them up to side[1]track so's to let another train pass. The old P.D.Q. was a single-track road, with shanties and sidings at regular intervals, at which a number of other jays like myself did the brain-work of the system.

"I was holding down this King William job in that Queen Anne cottage, with no great white way nearer than the milky 'baldric of the skies,' and the only stars I could flirt with were those winking at me across millions of miles of space. But I was not astronomically inclined— gastronomy has always been my long suit.

"Well, this particular incident I have in mind happened on one of those days when nature seems to be resting and getting ready for a grand-stand demonstration. Even the grasshoppers had ceased their campaign against the crops. As a rule, the quiet of my position never bothered me much, but that day the silence seemed to get onto my nerves.

"I seemed to sense something was going to happen, and felt as fussy as a magnetized kitten. There was a south-bound train due at my villa at 7.30 P.M. I had orders to hold it on the siding until the north-bound passenger, due at 7.45, had passed.

"I set my signals and busied myself doing nothing until the south bound should arrive. I felt mighty glad of the chance for human companionship which the side-tracked freight would supply.

"The sky had assumed a dirty-gray color. The clouds seemed to hang balanced overhead, without any sign of motion. The temperature had dropped quite perceptibly, and, from indications, I felt certain that there was a cyclone sashaying around somewhere in my vicinity.

"I was wondering if my villa was in the path of the whirling dervish, when the stillness was suddenly fractured by the shrieking of the south bound's whistle.

"I got ready to do the reception act, and wondered why Jim Bludsoe kept his whistle blowing.

"In a few seconds the big engine loomed in sight. Along she came, like a race-horse on the home-stretch, and suddenly I realized that the big galoot at the throttle was going to give us the go-by.

"I grabbed my red flag and got busy with the wigwag performance, but old iron horse swished past with his long, brown tail of empty freights strung out behind like the appendage of a comet.

" 'What the Sam Hill's the matter with that giddy choffer?' thinks I. Then it struck me all of a sudden that in about seven and a half minutes there was going to be trouble, likewise a lot of scrap-iron scattered over the scenery of the Sunflower State.

"The north-bound train had already entered the same block, and the two trains would meet about half-way between my bungalow and the next one south, on the curve around a grove thereabouts. In my mind I pictured the horror of the scene.

"Say, did you ever read 'Ben-Hur'? Do you remember the chariot-race, and how that gay Lothario of the Ghetto had ornamental spikes on the hubs of his chug car? Then, do you remember how, when coming up the home-stretch, he spoke to his team in Yiddish, and they spurted to overtake the fellow on the lead?

"Also, do you remember how the bully boy tacked a little to leeward, so that, by the time the lead horses of the two teams were neck to neck, his chariot swung toward that of mister-man-on-the-lead, and that harveyized toothpick on bully boy's chariot[1]hub slid in between the spokes of the other fellow's wheel, and there was a sound like the tearing off of several yards of dry noise, and mister-man-on-the-lead's chariot turned turtle, and Benny-boy finished first amid the plaudits from the bleachers and the showers of American beauties from the grand stand and boxes?

"You remember that, do you? Well, that's the kind of noise I expected would vibrate the atmosphere of Kansas in a few minutes; but, as compared to this noise, the noise of that chariot-race would sound like the joyful coo of a happy infant.

"My mind was full of the possibilities of the situation, and I was standing there, paralyzed, as it were, when suddenly there was a roar, and the topography of Kansas began doing the Wilbur Wright act.

"I was picked up bodily and hurled against that shanty of mine with sufficient force to knock the sense out of me. When I came to I saw a train standing on the siding. The crew were emptying the contents of a water-pail over me and searching my anatomy for injuries.

"As my gray matter resumed operations, I realized that it was the northbound passenger-train that stood upon the siding. 'How the Sam Hill did you get here?' I asked the engineer.

" 'Why, came in on my engine,' he replied. 'Where's No. 23— isn't she in yet? I had orders to run through to X, and expected to see No. 23 side-tracked here. Not seeing anything on the siding, I pulled up to investigate. What's up?'

" 'Didn't you smash into 23?' I gasped.

" 'Sure not,' he replied. 'What's the matter? Did you strike your head?'

" 'My head's all right,' I replied. 'Twenty-three passed here in a blaze of glory some time ago, and if you didn't see her, where is she?'

" 'Come, man,' coaxed the engineer, get word along the line and find out when she is due. I don't want to stay here all day.'

" 'But I tell you she passed here.' I insisted, and in desperation I rushed to the key and pounded off an inquiry to the fellow south of me as to whether 23 had passed.

"The reply staggered me. He answered in the negative.

" 'Where's that train?' I shrieked. 'It passed here at 7.30,' I persisted.

"Just then the rear brakeman came running up the track with a cap in his hand. 'Found this down the track,' he said. 'That's old Jim Bludsoe's cap; and if his cap is here, he must have passed here himself.'

" 'That's so,' rejoined the engineer. 'But what am I going to do? I can't hang around here any longer.'

"Well, I wired to the northern end for instructions, and got word to send the passenger along. Then the word went over the line to the next station south, to send out a searching-party for the missing train. The track between my shanty and the next one south was closed to traffic pending the arrival of the searching-crew. In due time they pulled in on a hand-car, and reported that they had seen nothing of the missing train. I wired the information to headquarters, and asked for instructions.

" 'Open up the road for traffic and send men on foot to make a thorough search for that train; we need it,' came the answer.

"I did as directed, and sent the searching-party down the track. Told them to spread out on either side of the track, and work along until they found the wreck, for I felt sure it must have run off the track somewhere.

"After they had been gone about fifteen or twenty minutes, and I had raked my brain for a solution of the matter. I heard a whistle away off in the distance. It sounded low, appearing to come from the south. There was nothing due at my place for an hour or so; so I thought at first it was a relief-party coming up to help solve the mystery, but as the sound continued, and did not get any louder, I concluded that, whatever it was, it was stationary.

"The sound kept up for about ten minutes, and then stopped. I waited for about half an hour, and then I saw one of the searching-party returning on the run. In the meantime headquarters had been hammering me for news of the engine.

"When the special courier arrived, he was winded; so I saw it was no use trying to pump anything out of him until he got through with his breathing exercises.

"When he got his bellows working again, I learned that they had found Jim Bludsoe and his train about three miles down the road, about a mile and a half away from the track. Several of the cars were standing on end, but the engine and the balance of the train were right side up, scattered over the face of the virgin prairie.

"The searchers had heard the whistle, and proceeded to investigate. They had found the wreck as reported, with old Jim standing in the cab, scared, wild[1]looking, and battered."

"How the heck did they get there?" asked the watery-eyed one.

"Well, they couldn't get anything out of Jim. He seemed plumb locoed. When I sent in my report over the wire, they sent down a lot of experts to try and salvage the train. Jim Bludsoe was the only living critter left of the crew.

"They figured that the cyclone had caught up to the train on its wild whirl down the track, picked it up bodily, like a blooming air-ship, and carried it across the country to where it was discovered. This was verified by the crew, who came straying in like lost sheep from the prairie whither they had blown.

"It was learned from them that the engineer had developed a crazy streak some time before passing my station and chased the fireman out of the cab. That explained why they gave my signal the go-by. However, Jim Bludsoe never had to answer for his crazy act, for the last I heard of him he was in a dippy domicile, quartered in an upholstered boudoir."

"And what became of the locomotive and cars?" inquired the watery[1]eyed one.

"Oh, they built a mile and a half of track out to the scene, and the wreckers salvaged the whole outfit. The strange part of it is that a prosperous settlement, known as The Lost Freight, sprung up at the terminus.

"But, then, that seems to be the custom in Kansas. Whenever any of the real estate is shifted by a cyclone, the natives send a tracer after it, and if it is found in good order they migrate to the spot.

"Why, I've seen the same family living in the same house in a half-dozen different counties. It's a cheap way to move, and, besides, you don't have to bother about the selection of a site."

"That's so," replied the watery-eyed one. "You don't happen to be related to Anner Nias, do you?"

"No," replied the loose-jointed individual. "My familiars call me Monk Hausen. So long, pard. Thanks for a very entertaining afternoon."

_____________

Index to Past Masters Nos 61-93

The "Author Index" to Issues 1-60 has been uploaded separately at MobileRead

Achmed Abdullah

—Grafter and Master Grafter 84

—The Fetish of Remorse 83

—Framed at the Benefactors' Club 73

—A Full House 93

—Home Wind  91

—The Incubus  90

—Interlude 84

—The Mystery of the Talking Idols 63

—Poker 89

Cleve F. Adams

—Default With Doom  81

A. St. John Adcock

—Ambitious Man 89

—Polly's Favorite 91

George Ade

—Making the Grade 78

"A. E. P."

—The End of Sherlock Holmes  67

W. L. Alden

—After the Comet 67

—A Case of Dual Consciousness 84

—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

Harley S. Aldinger

—The Green Intelligence 85

Frederick Irving Anderson

—The House of Many Mansions 91

—The Signed Masterpiece  82

Leonid Andreyeff

—Lazarus  91

Anonymous

—Armistice  78

—A Barrack Ghost Story 76

—Beautiful Decoy 89

—Beauty in Flight 76

—A Chance Meeting 84

—Chinese Murder  80

—A Detective Adventure  80

—The Diamond Necklace 62

—The Great Auk's Egg Affair 61

—Fool Proof  75

—The Hachma Ruby 86

—The Hat Trick 71

—Haunted  78

—Jacobs and Gale, Tobacconists 70

—John Sherlock's Alibi 86

—Local Color 75

—An Old Norman-French Story 76

—Outwitted: A Lawyer's Story 90

—The Petrie Plan 83

—The Pretty Passenger 88

—A Railway Murder 70

—Remorse 76

—Retribution 74

—Revenge 74

—Rogue's Room 86

—The Ruins of the Abbey of Fitz-Martin 64

—The Skipper's Scheme 73

—A Solicitor's Story (as by "S.S.")  75

—The Stamp Thief 71

—The Thriller 71

—The Two Chignons 85

F. Anstey

—Taken By Surprise  66

Edwin L. Arnold

—The Haunted "Smoker" 87

Alice and Claude Askew

—Heritage of Lucille Rivers 82

Francis Henry Atkins

—The Lay Figure  63

James L. Aton

—The Box of the Ivory Dragon 90

Edouard A. Aujard

—The Flood 75

—The Swing of Sentiment  75

—Laola of the Isles 85

Stacy Aumonier

—A Source of Irritation 73

—The Bent Tree 93

—Straight Griggs 78

F. Britten Austin

—Into the Blue 79

J. F. B.

—Throne of Chaos

Irving Bacheller

—Holy Poker 71

—The Prodigal Village 71

Mrs. Baillie-Saunders

— The Wrong Reception  83

Louisa Baldwin

—The Weird of the Walfords 89

Edward Ball

—The Floating Beacon 93

James Barr

—The Man in Moccasins  82

Robert Barr

—A Dramatic Point 91

—The Great Mogul 91

—Lady Letty's Literary Lesson 91

—The Last Straw 72

—Marcella's Intervention 91

—A Sweet Thing in Trusts 91

—An Unjust Accusation 91

—The Doom of London 92

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

George Barton

—The Burglar That Failed 91

Frederick R. Bechdolt

—Before Michael Came  63

—The Lie-Detector 73

L. Adams Beck

—The Interpreter 62

H. Bedford-Jones

—The Arizona Callahan 93

—The Artificial Honeymoon 66

—Bradford's P-Luck 83

—Breakfast at the Savoy 79

—The Coral of Idris 83

—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

Elizabeth W. Bellamy

—Ely’s Automatic Housemaid 88

E. F. Benson

—Negotium Perambulans  64

—The Terrace 69

J. D. Beresford

—The Hidden Beast 75

—The Looking Glass 87

Sarah Bernhardt

—A Christmas Story 93

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

Farnham Bishop

—Ten Thousand Hectáreas  91

Michael Bittner

—No Greater Love  88

Algernon Blackwood

—The Kit-Bag 76

M. McDonnell Bodkin

—The Will and the Man 79

Edward Boltwood

—Foghorn Fernando 86

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

—Other People's Money 89

—Solly's Last Forgery 64

—When Mr. Clackworthy Needed a Bracer 64

Guy Boothby

—By Right Of Conquest 72

—His Better Half 91

—The Treasure of Sacramento Nick 91

—Uncle Joe's Legacy 91

—Obituary: Mr. Guy Boothby (Anonymous)

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

—Hole-in-the-Wall Barrett 92

Percy James Brebner

—Cat or Devil 65

—The Corner of John Street 80

—A Diabolical Experiment 87

—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

—The Green-eyed Remedy  82

—The Man Who Over-Reached Himself 91

—On the 6.15  80

—Two Women in the Case 80

Thomas Burke

—The Bloomsbury Wonder 61

—The Horrible God 62

—Laughing Lillian 62

—The Yellow Imps 62

Frances Hodgson Burnett

—The Christmas in the Fog 87

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

Donn Byrne

—The Wake 88

Thomas Byrne

—Prima Donna's Diamonds  80

William Caine

—Bread Upon The Waters 91

Sir Gilbert Campbell

—The Mystery of the Essex Stairs 62

Scott Campbell

—In the Powder-Box 80

—The Man and the Motive 83

—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

Russ W. Carter

—The Pink Envelope  89

Agnes and Egerton Castle

—The Great Todescan's Secret Thrust 70

Stephen Chalmers

—The Great God Ananzi  86

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

—Mayfair Melody 86

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

Marie Corelli

—The Sculptor's Angel 88

Anne Crawford

—A Mystery of the Campagna  85

W. E. Cule

—A Ship's Bell 88

Atwater Culpepper

—Gunfire at Scarlani's 89

Captain Henry Curties

—Redeeming Flames 79

Norbert Davis

—You Bet Your Life 77

Sam Davis

—Bigler's Barometer

E. M. Delafield

—The Luggage in the Hall  66

Donald Devereux

—Mr. Keeble's Funny Story 83

Charles Caldwell Dobie

—The Open Window 71

Douglas M Dold

—A Creeping Terror 84

Laurence Donovan

—Death Makes a Man Mad 84

—Death Rolls Its Own 90

—He Gave Him a Gun 84

—Murder Tees Off  92

—Not Quite Dead 92

—The Pin-Up Girl Murders 93

—She Loved to Murder 93

—Whispering Death 84

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

—The White Lady of the Snow 92

J. Allan Dunn

—The Screaming Skull 85

Edward Dyson

—A Golden Shanty 65

—The Third Chair 65

Charlton L. Edholm

—Gorilla Girl 84

—The Man Marked For Slaughter 93

—Red Evidence 84

Fred Engelhardt

—Heritage of Osiris 75

George Allan England

—Drops of Death  68

—A Question of Salvage 81

—Ribbon of Fate 81

Gwyn Evans

—The Pool of Secrets 88

Ernest Favenc

—The Murder of Tom Bates 91

—A Hypnotic Experiment 91

Thorpe Feesh

—I Married a Torso 93

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

E. Florence

—The Vanished Freight 93

Hulbert Footner

—Assorted Chips 86

Ford Madox Ford

—Riesenberg 61

Andrew Forrester Jr.

—Arrested on Suspicion 61

Robert Edward Francillon

—A Circumstantial Puzzle 62

Ralph Franklin

—Reward in Hell 86

R. Austin Freeman & Clifford Piers

—By the Black Deep  64

Tom Gallon

—The Haunted Picture 87

Ltnt Edgar Gardiner

—The Cruise of the Vega  82

—The Snake Strikes 81

—Up Irrawaddy Way 74

Arthur Gask

—The Judge's Secret 92

—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

—Blind Man's Buff  92

—Not Down on the Bill  82

—The Wicked Flea 92

—Zapt's Repulsive Paste 90

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

Alan Graham

—The Bat And Belfry Inn 87

Dahlia Graham

—Her Fatal Gift 79

Gordon Graham

—The Great George Mystery 85

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

C. Ranger Gull and Reginald Bacchus

—The Adventure of the Whisting Omelette  92

—The Automaton 93

—The Dragon of St. Paul's 92

Walter Hackett

—The Gazebrook Necklace 91

James Norman Hall

—Death on an Atoll 72

—Fame For Mr. Beatty 75

—Uncle Ned's Teeth 76

Julian Hawthorne

—Calbot's Rival 67

—An Inter-Planetary Episode 93

Nathaniel Hawthorne

—The Great Stone Face 66

—The Oubliette Cryptogram  92

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

—The Soul of a Ship 87

George Hibbard

—The Allard Burglars 88

Robert Hichens

—The Nomad 85

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

William Hope Hodgson

—Bullion!  88

Clifford Howard

—The Levitation of Jacob   92

S. B. H. Hurst

—The Ball of Fire  74

—The King of the Jerawahs 93

—The Receipt 74

Washington Irving

—The Adventure of the German Student 86

W. W. Jacobs

—Captain Rogers 71

—A Love Knot 70

M. R. James

—Canon Alberic's Scrap Book  82

Malcolm Jameson

—The Anarch  69

—Doubled and Redoubled 85

—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

Robert Keene

—The Dangerous Day 86

—A Hand-Bag Too Many 86

—The Vanishing of Benjamin Vex 86

Hugh Kingsmill

—The Ruby of Khitmandu 93

Otis Adelbert Kline

—The Dragoman's Secret 74

—Stolen Centuries 65

Thomas H. Knight

—The Man Who Was Dead 61

Alexander Kuprin

— Menagerie 83

—Terror! 89

Edmund Leamy

—My First Case 74

R. C. Lehmann

—The Umbrosa Burglary 67

H. Field Leslie

—The Winged Ones 86

Bruno Lessing

—The Party Line 91

Henry Leverage

—The Absconder 83

—Black Light 66

—The Crimp 66

—Crooked Charity 67

—Over the Wall—76

—$-Rays 84

Lazar Levi

—Mistress of the Undead

Sinclair Lewis

—The Cat of the Stars 68

—Seven Million Dollars 68

—The Willow Walk 61

Sumner Locke

—A Question of Rights 82

W. J. Locke

—The Conqueror 89

H.P. Lovecraft

—The Colour out of Space 81

—Obit: Henry St. Clair Whitehead 71

Marie Belloc Lowndes

—An Unrecorded Instance 61

Harris Merton Lyon

—The Weaver who Clad the Summer 88

Herbert MacAlpine

—A Dog-House Detective 89

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

—At the Pyramid of the Sacred Bulls 93

—The Brigand of Kairouin the Holy  82

—The City of the Scarlet Scarabeus  82

Francis Marlowe

—Hostile Witness 83

Don Marquis

—Accursed Hat!  70

—Leopards 92

—The Table-Cloth Millionaire 92

H. B. Marriott-Watson

—The Devil of the Marsh 89

Richard Marsh

—The Mask 88

—A Silent Witness  77

Herman Howard Matteson

—Safety First 93

Huan Mee

—The Russian Cipher 65

J. J. Meehan

—The Squirrel Motor 69

Abraham Merritt

—The Woman of the Wood 72

Robert Duncan Milne

—Ten Thousand Years in Ice 85

William Henry Moberley

—The Great Valdez Sapphire 63

C. S. Montanye

—Old King's Coal 72

—One Hour Back 85

—That Finished Product 85

—Thieves Three 84

—To Skid or Not to Skid 85

—White as Snow 85

F. Frankfort Moore

—The Crock 87

—Joan Dark 65

Cary Moran

—Murder Magic  89

Ainsworth Morgan

—Lady in Lower Eleven  72

Arthur Morrison

—Myxomycetes 90

Ward Muir

—A Blind Man's Home-Coming 87

—Detective Tempest Faces the Music  80

—Europe is Wonderful 87

—Sargasso 86

Talbot Mundy

—Bengal Rebellion 69

Neil Munro

—The Tudor Cup 88

Edith M Nesbit

—In the Dark 64

—Man-Size in Marble  65

—Number 17— 61

—The Third Drug 88

Clarence Herbert New

—The Passing of an Angel 79

—The Warburton Mystery 82

—Where There Ain't No Ten Commandments 79

C. C. Newkirk

—The Scientific Circle  92

Douglas Newton

—Girls Don't Count 80

—Straight Enough 73

Hume Nisbet

—His Reward  88

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

Miles  Overholt

—Wrong Number 75

Thomas Nelson Page

—What was the Lady's Choice? 62

Barry Pain

—"Owing to the War" 88

Sir Gilbert Parker

—At the Sign of the Eagle  70

K. R. Patterson

— Conscience 83

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

Muriel A. Pollexfen

—The Conjurer of the Clouds 83

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

A. T. Quiller-Couch

—Our Lady of Gwithian 83

Allan Ramsay

—The Adventure of the Table Foot 86

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

—Before and After 91

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 67

Michael Romain

—Genesis 76

David C. Roose

—Dobson's Plots 86

John E. Rosser

—Notice of Dissolution 93

Anthony M Rud

—The Invisible "Blinker" 73

Rafael Sabatini

—Intelligence 84

G. Morris Sand

—Carnival Killer 84

Duncan Campbell Scott

—The Witching of Elspie 78

Marie B. Schrader

—Stranded in a Street Car 91

Chris Sewell

—The Intruder 82

Marion Shaler

—The Court of the Wicked Queen 87

Sandy Sharp

—The Diamond Bracelet 89

Lurana W. Sheldon

12: The Ghost and the Jewels   92

Helen Simpson

—Hotel Evidence 89

—At the Mickleham Arms 92

Fred C. Smale

—Caught Out 90

—The “V” Force  90

J. Johnston Smith

—Queen Of Diamonds  75

Thorne Smith

—Birthday Present 66

Andrew Soutar

—Bluebeard 63

D. H. Souter

—Conroy 74

Raymond S. Spears

—The Cruise of the Cadis  84

—The Horse Thief Rendezvous 89

—Mississippi Medicine 88

—On the Dodge 89

—A Pearl of Price 88

—Soft-Paw Ignorance 88

F. St. Mars

—Another Pawn of Fate 84

Charles B. Stilson

—Dr. Martone's Microscope 72

—The Pipe of Death 85

—The Sky Woman 67

—The Soul Trap 72

Bram Stoker

—Our New House 89

Halliwell Sutcliffe

—Handsome Jack  67

—Miss Phyllis Brown 67

—Murgatroyd's Wife  67

Georges Surdez

—The Baturu Mandarin 89

—Charles the Bold 76

—The Man from Nowhere 89

—Spite Corner 76

Annie S. Swan

—Concession 85

—Dead Men's Shoes 86

—The Diplomat 86

—The Mystery of the Old Tin Box 86

—Somebody's Sons 88

Carl N. Taylor

—The Opium Smugglers  80

Emile C Tepperman

—Coffin Cache 63

—No Living Witness 89

Basil Thomson

—The Burglary in Middlesex Street 86

E. Temple Thurston

—A Cameo 69

Roger Torrey

—Black Murder 78

—The Bookie Bets on Murder 90

—Dice and No Dice 77

—The Frankie and  Johnny Murder 83

—Justice Borrows Bullets 85

—The Missing Mr. Link 83

—Murder Backstage 83

—Murder By Accident 77

—One Escort— Missing or Dead 85

—Printer's Ink Runs Red 90

—Three Dead Men 83

—Ticket to Death (as by John Ryan)  77

—Two Little Men 84

Edward W Townsend

—A Deal in Mines and Morals 77

Louis Tracy

—An Idyll of the Hills 88

—The Wrong Number 87

—The Force of Circumstances 90

—(Obituary)  90

Katharine Tynan

—Lettice Langworthy's Prince 87

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

Hugh Walpole

—The Tarn 86

—The Twisted Inn  86

"Wanderer"

—Waif of the Bush 74

Harold Ward

"Great Minds Run—" 93

Cy Warman

—"Sycamore": A Ghost Story  87

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

—The Ship of Silence 86

Harvey Wickham

—The Man With the Painted Nose 75

Edith Wharton

—Kerfol  87

Ethel Lina White

—An Unlocked Window  78

—White Cap 89

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

—When Sky Crooks Fall Out 84

H. C. Witwer

—Money to Burns 71

Mary E Wilkins

—The Shadows on the Wall  64

Lee Willenborg

—The Queen's Emerald  88

Edward Woodward

—Clarence 75

John Worne

—The Brink of Destruction 87

—Bertie and the Doorstep 87

May Wynne

—Cornflower Blue 86

Leroy Yerxa

—O'Sheen's Photo Finish 85

—O'Sheen's Sweet Tooth 85

Gordon Young

—Bogus Gems 89

Arthur Leo Zagat

—Coward's Kill    69

—The Little Walking Corpses 86

—Satan's Scalpel 878

E. F. Ziska

—Man of Ages 78

______________

Table of Contents

1: A Christmas Story / Sarah Bernhardt

2: The Automaton / C. Ranger Gull and Reginald Bacchus

3: A Full House / Achmed Abdullah

4: The Ruby of Khitmandu / Hugh Kingsmill

5: She Loved to Murder / Laurence Donovan

6: The Pin-Up Girl Murders / Laurence Donovan

7: The Bent Tree / Stacy Aumonier

8: The Arizona Callahan / H. Bedford-Jones

9: An Inter-Planetary Episode / Julian Hawthorne

10: At the Pyramid of the Sacred Bulls / Charles J. Mansford

11: I Married a Torso / Thorpe Feesh

12: The Man Marked For Slaughter / Charlton L. Edholm

13: The Floating Beacon / Edward Ball

14: "Great Minds Run—" / Harold Ward

15: Notice of Dissolution / John E. Rosser

16: Safety First / Herman Howard Matteson

17: The King of the Jerawahs / S. B. H. Hurst

18: The Vanished Freight / E. Florence

Cumulative Index # 61-93