Past Masters Ninety Four
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Twenty short stories gathered from magazines and newspapers, all in the Life+70 years Public Domain. Some touches of the unusual: comedy from C S Montayne, better known for private eye stories; slightly weird from H. Bedford-Jones; crime story from Guy Gilpatrtic, well-removed from his humorous sea-going tales. 1: Rose Window / Charlton L. Edholm 2: The Man Who Was Damned / Charlton L. Edholm 3: The Hollow Lens / Henry Leverage 4: Over Billowing Bunkers / Henry Leverage 5: The Understudy / Robert Barr 6: Burning Horseshoe / Frank Savile 7: The Great Boycott at the Hotel D'Angleterre / Mrs C. N

PAST MASTERS

NINETY-FOUR

]

29 August 2022

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: Rose Window / Charlton L. Edholm

2: The Man Who Was Damned / Charlton L. Edholm

3: The Hollow Lens / Henry Leverage

4: Over Billowing Bunkers / Henry Leverage

5: The Understudy / Robert Barr

6: Burning Horseshoe / Frank Savile

7: The Great Boycott at the Hotel D'Angleterre / Mrs C. N. Williamson

8: The Doctor and the Lunatic / Richard Connell

9: Condemned / Francis Beeding

10: Floor, Please / Stephen Vincent Benét

11: Yeggs Florentine / Guy Gilpatric

12: The Chance Clue / Scott Campbell

13: The Cult of the Skull / Henry S Whitehead

14: Death Cometh Soon or Late / Robert Barr

15: "Jadis" / Barry Pain

16: Freedom / Marjorie Pickthall

17: The Clean-Up / Albert Payson Terhune

18: Innocent Bystander / Clarence Herbert New

19: It Couldn't be Done / C. S. Montanye

20: The Fifth Eye / H. Bedford-Jones

Cumulative Index to #61-94

_____________________

1: Rose Window

Charlton L. Edholm

1879-1945

Weird Tales Aug 1928

Foreword

THE tottering old man with long white hair and red-rimmed eyes, who but a few years ago was a familiar figure in the streets of the South Side, the German quarter of St. Louis, bequeathed me the following history as he lay sick with a fever. He insisted that it was his death-bed confession and it turned out that he was right, for the disease took an unexpected turn for the worse and finished him. He told me what he had never confided to anyone else, that he had fled from Stuttgart where he had a shop of his own (he was a wood-carver, did altars and things for churches), left his business and a girl whom he cared for, because he was in terror of arrest and decapitation on account of the murder. Doubtless the truth of it is that his head had been turned by too much brooding over some philosophy of reincarnation, and I dare say the gargoyles and other medieval grotesques of which he was such an eager student and copyist added their share to his weird imaginings.

In going over the manuscript, I have retained the rather formal diction which marks its German authorship, rather than risk losing the atmosphere of the narrative by recasting it:

IN the little city of Tuebingen, renowned for its university, stands the old church of St. George, which is less interesting for any purely architectural beauties, though it is no mean example of the Gothic style, than for its many curious and bizarre stone carvings, among them the splendid monuments of the early rulers of Wuertemberg, Duke Ulrich, Eberhard the Bearded and other mighty wielders of the two-handed sword, who lie in the choir, full-armored, stark and rigid with watchful, wide-open eyes.

It was late in the afternoon when I entered the church, dusty and warm as I was from the parched highway, for, knapsack a-shoulder, I had walked from Stuttgart that day;— yes, I could foot it with the best in my wander years and still be fresh for sightseeing at the journey's end.

Strangely enough for a Protestant church, it was not close-locked, and a small door admitted me into the dusky choir. An old woman with a dust-brush was shuffling among the pews in an obscure corner, but I was in no mood to be led from one sight to another by a garrulous guide eager for a fee, so I moved noiselessly among the tombstones and memorial tablets, admiring those quaint art works of a more simple, more pious and far more artistic age.

The high windows on the north side interested me particularly because of an idea in ornament that I had not seen elsewhere. In their pointed arches was Gothic carving, of course, but it was not the variation of the trefoil and quatrefoil such as the medieval sculptors delighted to elaborate, but figures of saints skilfully graven with decorative effect so that they filled with credit the place of more conventional designs. The stained glass was fitted around their contours so that they stood silhouetted in a many-colored halo.

The figures, as I remember them, represented the Blessed Virgin, Saint Martin dividing his cloak with the beggar, and Saint George slaying the dragon. I had been told of another, a rose window, said to represent the martyrdom of the knightly George, but I did not find it at once for there was much else to attract the eye of a journeyman wood-carver; for instance the grim aspect of those old bishops sculptured on the choir benches, who scowled defiance at their arch-enemy, Dr. Luther, a jovial, smiling face carved on the organ loft. I remember— also a sinister device on one of the many tombstones against the wall. In the dim light this appeared at first to be the common design of a helmet surmounting a blazoned shield and bearing a winged crest, but looking closer I saw that the helmet was a polished skull through whose eye-sockets a serpent writhed, the crest a flying hour-glass, and the coat of arms that of the most unchivalrous, relentless and invincible of warriors, Time.

I know not how many hours had elapsed in studying and sketching such details when the heat and quiet rendered me drowsy and I stretched out at length in a pew of the northern aisle. The hum from the marketplace without, like the droning of flies on the pane, lulled me to sleep.

It was an eldritch dream, a confusion of menacing sounds of darkness and of blood. I have a recollection, too, of seeing the church, but it was as a building uncompleted; on its eastern front yawned a great black hole where a round window was to be built in the wall. Strangest of all was that, while everything was changed, it should be so familiar.

Many instances I can not remember connectedly, but there remains a vivid impression of some enemy who had from the beginning of things haunted me, as dream enemies do, and blighted my every hope; the fortune I was to inherit he had a later but a better claim to, for I was merely the foster-child after he, the true son, was bom; the maiden I desired, loved him because he was a goodly youth and fairer to look upon than I.

To learn the goldsmith's trade he went away, far away, and when years had passed without tidings, I believed him lost or, better still, dead, and I dared to hope that the yellow gold and the other priceless treasure which would have gone to him might yet be mine.

I was walking in the fields not far from the city (so my dream continued). It was evening; in the tavern garden near the crossroads sat two young men, drinking. I had been indulging my vain hopes when I saw the pair. "My God I he has returned!" I exclaimed, and I swiftly resolved: "He must not reach home!"

I found a secret place to hide among the bushes where the roads parted, one to Tuebingen, one to my native City, Reutlingen.

IT WAS late twilight when he passed like a shadow in the gloom, but light enough for me to drive the knife deep into his back, light enough for me to drag him under the trees with averted face, and then, ah, far too still and far too dark for me to stay and bury the dead alone in those somber aisles.

Fearful and exultant I fled homeward, but by a circuitous route, sought my foster-father's fireside— and found there the man I had tried to murder! Yes, there he sat, rosy with the wine he was drinking, a table spread with delicacies before him.

My brain was benumbed by this unaccountable horror. Had I lost my reason? Was the whole ghastly affair in the woods— the treacherous blow, the blood on my hands— all the work of witchcraft? I shuddered. Then, like a serpent, the cold, slimy suspicion crept into my mind that I had struck down a stranger in the dark woods. I had dealt a death blow, foul and profitless, to an unoffending man. God knew who he might be.

Certain it was that my foster-brother, whom I hated and had sought to destroy, was there before my eyes, boasting and laughing about his travel adventures, flushed with meat and drink. His parents, overjoyed at his return, were filling his cup and plate afresh, meanwhile plying him with questions till he could scarcely find time to eat. And the girl whom I loved sat close beside him caressing his hand, her eyes full of adoration.

I must have swooned at the sight (if one can swoon in a dream), for it seemed days before his happy parents told me of how he had returned, and how they had almost fainted with joy at the sight of their son. But their joy was presently turned to apprehension, for a charge of murder was laid against him.

Things moved swiftly to a tragic climax. The city of Tuebingen sent an armed deputation to seize his person and hold him for trial. One of their citizens, a young man returning from his travels in Italy, had been found at the cross-roads slain with a stab in the back. My foster-brother was accused by the landlord of the near-by tavern. "They had been traveling together," said he, "for they drank brotherhood and farewell after the manner of young journeymen until long after sunset; then the victim went his way; after an interval the murderer followed, and the rest had no witness but the eye of God."

When I heard that, I knew that I had done murder in vain.

Horrible it was, that dream of my treachery, of how when the city of Reutlingen refused to deliver up her son, it was I who plotted and planned with the spies of Tuebingen. Enough, it was my hand that unbolted my foster-father's door at midnight; it was I who led the stealthily treading soldiers to his bed-chamber; it was I who helped bind and gag him, all in the interest of justice, so I explained to the men of Tuebingen. A wagon loaded with hay stood in our street not too far from the door. In that we concealed him.

In the morning he had disappeared, no one in the city knew whither. The wagon loaded with hay had also gone from our street.

We could only guess at the mystery of his fate. None knew it, until the day when it was made a public spectacle. On that day I stood among the crowd in the marketplace of Tuebingen; above our heads loomed a black structure of beams and planks; the "poor sinner's bell" wailed incessantly in my ears and I saw— from the horror of that sight I started, awoke from the dream in which I had dreamed this ghastly crime and found myself lying cramped and chilled in the church of Tuebingen where I had fallen asleep. But as my eyes opened they fell upon the uncanny Thing of which I had dreamed.

It hung, black in a circle of pallid light, high on the stone church wall. How can I describe it? Its outline was somewhat like that of an enormous spider, from whose shapeless body as a center reached eight horrible radii to the circumference. It was, I could discern, the semblance of a human form, broken and tangled in the spokes of a huge wheel of torture.

Like a row of tall specters in the darkness of the church loomed the pale Gothic windows of the choir, but through the rose window poured baleful light as from a waning moon and cast upon my face the mottled shadow of the Thing. In bewilderment and terror, I struggled to rise, but my body lay quite rigid, nor could I so much as turn my head, try though I would. I felt as if I were drowning in a black and silent sea.

The straining and creaking of ropes over the wheels in the tower told me that the bell was about to strike. Thank God, I could be assured of one tangible fact! To know the hour were a plank on this vague sea of darkness and uncertainty. The first quarter chimed; how it dragged! Deliberately the second blow fell; would it never be done? The third stroke echoed sullenly through the vault; its vibrations rang on and on into infinity. What hour of the night it was, now three- fourths spent, I knew not.

I waited for the echoes to cease, but my ears were sharpened to every gradation of silence, as my eyes were sensitive to the shades of black about me, and I listened, as it seemed, for hours, to the quivering of the bell like deep and distant music of a great organ, as it became fainter and more intangible until at last I perceived it only with some latent sense.

To have broken this tremulous silence with a cry for help would have tortured my spanned nerves. I shuddered at the mere thought of it. With my gaze fixed upon the luminous orb that glared into the void like an evil eye, silent I lay for what seemed years and years of agonizing suspense, and listened.

I listened, and out of the unquiet stillness grew a rustling like that of leaves withered on the branch, as they complain in the wintry gusts; and out of the rustling grew a whispering as from a thousand parched throats, inarticulate, intermittent, now hoarse, now shrill, like the voices of conscience or of memory, attuned only to my ear that strained at first to hear, then heard but too well and too soon understood.

But why should this voice sound like one I had known for a lifetime? Why, though it was as familiar as my own utterance, did I strive in vain to associate it with some person, time or place?

It was from this voice that I heard the ending of the story in my dream.

THE BODY, broken on the wheel, hung in the marketplace until the sun had shriveled it to a mummy. The men of Reutlingen soon heard of this outrage of secret trial and judgment, and I was one of the armed band which sallied forth and, although beaten back from the walls of Tuebingen, left a breach in the fortifications that we took care should not be mended.

Then upon a cloud-laden night (and I remember now that it was a year from the night when I had lain in wait at the cross-roads), seven sons of Reutlingen stole through that ill-guarded opening and cautiously passed through dark alleys to the marketplace and there, while four of us kept watch, the other three disentangled the dried and broken limbs from the spokes and huddled them into a sack, and together we fled through the unlighted streets, through the broken wall, through the dark woods, like a flock of frightened shadows.

It was the fool's cunning of fear that had made me join them. Who would have suspected me of delivering my foster-brother over to his enemies even had I not been the most clamorous to recover his body and one of the first to volunteer in the mad expedition? With beating heart, I cursed the timidity that had made me reckless beyond my power of endurance. Why had I not stayed snug at home, clasped in the arms of my bride for whose possession I had done the black deed?

As we fled, one after another shifted the burden to his shoulders; five times had the sack been taken up and each time I had trembled lest I should be called upon next. But what folly to shudder at touching the enemy whom I had rendered harmless! That a corpse will bleed when its murderer lays even a finger upon it, I knew to be true enough, for I had seen it tested in the open court of justice, but a mummy with every drop of its blood burned out by the sun, that could never accuse me! I laughed aloud, made foolish speeches and whistled many a tavern catch to drive away the thought.

Lightning flashed in the west and threw its white glare upon us from time to time, and once, far in the depths of the wind-stirred forest, I saw and heard things too fearful for human minds to bear: souls of murdered men, unshriven, who yelled amid their torments for vengeance; souls of murderers dying impenitent, bearing ever upon them a grievous burden of sin, in all eternity never to be shaken off.

My companions, I could see, pretended to have heard nothing of this, but they drew aside from me when I sang shrilly and brandished my dagger, gathering silently about him who bore the load.

Why did they cluster so about that accursed burden? What did they see, what did they hear that was not meant for me? Had the malignant victim opened his withered jaws? Was he moving those grinning lips? Was he whispering with scorched and blackened tongue that it was I, I who had murdered his friend, here on this selfsame spot at the crossroads; that it was I who had given him up to be tortured and slain for my crime; that it was I, wretched creature, who had stolen his life, his heritage and his bride, all unpunished?

"He shall not whisper so! They are lies, all lies! I will stop his mouth with dirt!" I screamed. "Give me the sack!"

As I took it upon my back, the heavens opened; they were full of fire, and I stood revealed in such light as flashes before the judgment throne, dabbled with innocent blood.

With a mighty roar demons bore me to the earth and plucked out my soul. From hand to hand, from star to star they tossed it whirling through space.

Presently they forced me to look down and I saw my unconscious body lying in the forest; I saw the sack bursted by a thunderbolt and the shriveled limbs of the dead embracing mine. My companions had fled; I realized that the Hand which had felled me had written out my guilt plainly for all men to read.

In obedience to the judgment of God, my lifeless body was bound to the wheel on the marketplace of Reutlingen and left to burn in the sun, and when all was known to the citizens of Tuebingen and they realized that they had dealt death unjustly the city fathers and the good Duke Eberhard resolved that the town should do penance for all time. In the unfinished church they built a round window depicting as a symbol of their shame the figure of a man perishing on the wheel.

The sculptor was sent to Reutlingen and it was from my body, exposed on the marketplace, that he modeled the memorial of my victim.

THE morning-gray that precedes the dawn glazed and chilled the awful eye from which perforce I had not removed my own.

While the voice had spoken I constantly questioned: When had I heard that intonation? Was it years ago? It seemed hundreds of years ago. Was it in my earliest childhood? Was it in this life or in another existence until now forgotten? Was it the voice of one living or of one who was dead? Or of the dead returned to life?

As the light waxed I scanned anxiously the form suspended in endless torture, for a horrible suspicion grew as I watched, but not until the dawn tinged the face of suffering and I saw it as one sees his faee in a mirror did I know with certitude that memory, asleep for centuries, had awakened: The voice was my own.

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2: The Man Who Was Damned

Charlton L. Edholm

Weird Tales June 1927

"...For instance, there is a proverb that says, 'Dead men tell no tales,' but it were well to consider whether the proverb be not a concise summing up of human ignorance."

Gude: Science and Superstition.

THE last sound my dulling eyes heard was the twang of that thin polished steel, which had burned swiftly into my vitals, to be as swiftly withdrawn.

The Master of Geierstein coolly wiped the rapier with his silken scarf, while I writhed at his feet, and as I gasped out my life he stood negligently plucking the blade as one might finger a guitar; and like the taut string of a guitar it answered— zing-ng-ng; and as its vibrations slowly passed into silence, again zing-ng-ng—

All this happened in the dark woods on his side of the River Neckar, for in following the stag I had incautiously crossed the boundary that divided my estate from that of my family's hereditary foe, the race of Geier von Geierstein; Vulture of Vulture's Rock— and well named.

The encounter took place in a densely shadowed glade, and was, in truth, little less than assassination, for, as I realized when my rapier met his breast, he wore under his fair, white linen, he wore above his cruel, craven heart, a corselet of tempered links, delicate masterpiece of some Italian armorer, and my blade snapped like glass upon it.

Seeing me disarmed, he thrust me through the body, swiftly but not in passion, and with a gentle laugh stood back to watch me die. At intervals he carelessly twanged the lithe steel, which gave forth a sharp note of exultation, passing away in long musical vibrations, zing-ng-ng-

He hated me, with the hatred nursed through many generations, but it was not the hatred of a greathearted foe, which, defied even in death, ends with death. He scorned me: the scorn of his arrogant race, the scorn of a successful rival, the scorn of an ignoble victor. The bitterness of such scorn is far bitterer than death. It taints the soul, even the soul of the dead.

"Vulture of Vulture's Rock, I will avenge myself!" were the last words of mine he heard, and thereat he laughed softly and shrugged his shoulders.

"Perhaps, but I think it highly improbable, my good friend." He was secure; I left no son, and as for my words, he deemed them the impotent ravings of a dying man.

What other words I uttered with my last choking gasps were not meant for him, nor did he hear them for his own soft, ironical laughter and the twanging of his steel.

THREE DAYS elapsed. My body had been found and carried to Schloss Aarberg. The two wounds (one in the breast where the rapier had entered, a smaller one in the back where it had passed out) were washed, and the corpse, shrouded for burial, was laid in the chapel whose windows overlooked the tower of Geierstein on its cliff across the Neckar.

Seven tapers burned about the bier.

Freiherr Geier von Geierstein lay in his chamber overhanging the river and slept, but not soundly, for a fever that was in his blood. By his side lay his wife, bride of a fortnight, and her placid breathing told of dreamless sleep.

The windows were open, the air had turned sultry and a black vapor obscured the heavens. Not a star, not one serene star shone in the dark void, only a solitary baleful light hung between earth and sky and shot its red rays like a burning arrow into the eyes of the sleeping man. He turned to avoid it, he tossed from side to side, he buried his face in the pillows, but with lids open or closed that sullen-glowing light tortured him like a live coal upon his eyeballs. It was from the chapel window in Castle Aarberg, illumined with the seven tapers that stood about my bier.

A faint yet distinct sound as of a guitar plucked lightly— oh, so lightly!— pierced the silence as the poisoned ray pierced the night. Again it sounded and again, still faint as dream music, a short, clear note, then long, long-drawn vibrations— the shadow of a sound.

Gradually the sound grew, drawing nearer, ever nearer, now recurring at longer, now at shorter intervals, now a low murmur, now a sharp, sudden twang, until to the strained ear of him who listened the sound-waves seemed to proceed from a source within the walls of Castle Geierstein, which they overfilled. The sound-waves deluged the room, deafening the wretched and fevered man until he wondered at the peaceful breathing of her who slept at his side.

He listened, scarcely breathing; he tried to convince himself that it was the blood throbbing in his ears; that it was a meaningless noise, not to be feared. He raised his head from his hot pillow; he would assure himself that this was some natural and commonplace sound; merely that. He opened his eyes. The light from Schloss Aarberg's death chamber smote them. He fell back upon his restless pillow. Fear of he knew not what parched his throat and turned his vitals to stone.

At last (as I had foreseen) the doomed man arose in desperation, not with courage, groped in the dark for his weapon, which he unsheathed, and very quietly turned the handle of his chamber door. The sound rang in his ears; it was not loud yet it seemed to echo down the long, stone corridor, clear, metallic, insistent.

Why must he trace that sound to its source? A strong pull at the cord by his bedside would bring servants running to do his will. He could not. He fancied that the clangor of the brazen alarm in the tense silence would be more terrifying than to go on.

He cautiously re-closed the door; quaking he picked his way along the hall, guided by the row of windows which admitted a pale light from the courtyard. As he stole along the chill length of the corridor he heard no sound but his own heart-beats, and as he reached the spiral staircase of the Burgfried, the highest tower of Geierstein, he sneered at his own folly in pursuing the fantasm of a restless dream.

He would go back; he would sleep off this fever! As he turned, once more the sound pealed forth, down the winding stairs and upon his head as if it would crush him.

A sudden thought flashed light upon his bewilderment and terror; in the topmost window of the tower his bride had fitted an aeolian harp; he remembered the resonant box with its taut strings that answered to the lightest wind in the tower. A mouse scratching on the wood or gnawing one of the strings had produced the strange noises. A mouse, a timid, foolish creature, frightened at a footfall, had struck with terror the heart of the Master of Geierstein! He laughed aloud in his relief and the spiral tunnel caught up his laughter and answered, but with an intonation so diabolical that he abruptly ceased.

He was breathless, too, from the quick ascent, and a little giddy from following the stairs around their central shaft. And so he climbed more slowly, counting the windows, or arrow-slits, as he passed them. Of these narrow apertures there were four to each round of the spiral, looking to the four points of the compass, and always as he passed three of these the light came pale and there was silence, but as he passed the fourth which faced Castle Aarberg, the light was red and the sound fell upon his ears, each time louder and more compelling.

Sometimes he responded with an impatient oath, at the last spiral, though, with a laugh of relief; and as he sprang up the remaining few steps to the circular room under the roof, his eyes, searching for the aaolian harp— met mine.

My eyes as he had seen them last, my form as he had known it in life, my rapier as it had vainly searched for his heart; but it was unbroken now, and on the long, gleaming needle the red light from the window ran back and forth like blood transmuted to quicksilver. He recoiled a step. I smiled; the smile with which one spurns a coward.

Uttering a fierce outcry like a maddened animal, he flung himself at me, aiming at my heart the same thrust that had served him so well— once.

I did not guard. His rapier snapped in his hand like glass against my breast.

My own weapon but touched his body; his impetus served me better than my force. The polished steel slid through, appearing like a flash of light behind him.

As he dropped I carefully wiped the blade with a silken scarf on which, as I took pains to show him, were dark brown stains.

While he lay writhing, I twanged but once on the weapon. It gave forth the sound, so like the vibrations of a guitar sharply touched, the sound that had drawn him from the side of his sleeping bride.

He was long a-dying. The first fiery serpent tongue of a midsummer storm darted from the cloud-laden west. He was long a-dying. The tempest burst overhead while I stood watching him.

Before the last spark of intelligence was dimmed, I bent over him and whispered in his ear, that he might hear me distinctly through the roar of the elements: "Geier of Geierstein, think not that death sets you free. There is a bitterness more bitter than death. It is mine to requite you."

IT was not until two days and two nights had passed that I allowed his tortured soul to return for a brief respite.

They had found his body in the tower chamber that same night. A bum on his breast, a smaller one on his back, and his shattered rapier on the floor, told a clear story to the physician. The storm that had shaken the mighty castle of Geierstein had felled its lord with a thunderbolt. So it was interpreted by all.

He lay in his bridal chamber two days and two nights, and all the time she whom I loved was bending over the body that she incessantly strove to recall to life. Then I realized the wealth of love that I had lost and that he had won, and I hated him the more. It was unfairly won, for he was incapable of love. He had wooed, as he had lived, as he had fought, traitorously. Vulture of Vulture's Rock!

He breathed at last, he stirred, he opened his eyes, and the horror of their gaze was unutterable. He raved, he blasphemed, he sought in vain for words to tell them of the terrors his soul had undergone in those two days when I lashed and rode it through the Universe of Death.

They could not understand nor believe. When in his terror he entreated piteously for help from the implacable foe who sat so sternly waiting at Eis bedside, they called it delirium; when, finally, I again snatched his wretched soul to myself they called it death.

Only once more did his spirit return to his body; in the tomb. But a few years ago workmen unsealing his vault (with its boastful epitaph) found the leaden casket burst and open almost wide enough for the quick-interred to escape. By the posture of the skeleton one could see that his struggles must have been superhuman.

The memorial tablet that covers my own poor bones tells in sonorous Latin that I was a good churchman, a very soldier of the faith. No tombstone flattery, that. It is true. In life my soul was my very dearest treasure (next to my sacred honor) and I ardently prayed for its salvation. Still I think you will agree with me that I was given a good price when with my last gasp I bartered my soul, my only remaining possession, to the Evil One for— well, let us say for satisfaction.

It was one summer evening, a hundred and fifty-odd years ago, in the woods by Geierstein.

_________________

3: The Hollow Lens

Henry Leverage

1885-1931

Blue Book, 10 July 1922

IN THE argot of the underworld, Chester Fay, alias Edward Letchmere, an expert on other people's strong-boxes, had lammistered to Short Hills, California, where an excellent golf-links surrounds a half-hotel, half-clubhouse of the superior order.

After finishing a game, upon the twelfth day of his stay at Short Hills, Fay tossed his golf-bag to the turf, dismissed his caddy and sat down at the Nineteenth Hole, where refreshments were at that time available.

The girl who entered his life, a few minutes after he was seated, came diagonally from the clubhouse. He mentally concluded that she had been waiting on the porch for the game to finish.

She wore a picture-hat, carried a parasol and was extremely cool, as was attested by her manner as she drew a chair up to his table and said:

"I'm Charlie Laurie's only daughter."

Had the California sky fallen upon the links, Fay would not have been more surprised. Charlie Laurie was serving fifty years in the Isolation Section of Dannemora for the crime, committed against the dignity of New York State, of forcing open a national bank, seizing the contents of the vault and escaping to Argentina, where he was later turned up by a former pal.

This man, as Fay recalled him in that long minute of his stare across the table, was bulky, rough-voiced and disfigured by a giant scar which ran from the lobe of his right ear down to, and under, his chin. The girl who now professed to be his daughter resembled him in no particular.

"Some mistake," Fay said, rising gallantly. "I'm sure that you have taken me for some one else."

The girl lifted her elbows from the table, opened her parasol, raised it and asked:

"Wont you sit down? I haven't mistaken you for some one else. You are Chester Fay, alias Edward Letchmere— an old friend of my father's."

Fay took off his plaid cap and sat down. He fingered a platinum-and-gold cigarette-case, removed a monogrammed cigarette, scratched a match on the bottom of the table and inhaled a deep breath of Turkish-scented smoke.

"By what other name was your father known?" he tested her.

"He was sometimes called 'Big Scar'!"

"Where were you born?"

"In Chi. I was with Micky Gleason's mob in Paris. I worked deep-sea with Minnie May, 'The Duchess.' I have been trained by my father to dip, forge, stall for pennyweighting and ever so many useful things."

"You don't look it!" Fay exclaimed. "Upon my word I don't believe you're Charlie Laurie's daughter. Why, he is hardly your kind— at all."

"Laying aside compliments, Mr. Fay, and how I found where you were here in California and— so many things that take up time, I've got a proposition to make which should be mutually advantageous. In other words you are the only man in the world I would let in on a great, big job."

Fay removed his cigarette from his mouth and eyed the ashes. He ran his slender fingers through his prematurely gray hair. His face lighted with retrospection.

"Go on Miss—"

"Saidee Isaacs, they call me, although you know my name is Saidee Laurie."

"Proceed, Miss Isaacs, with your plan."

The girl's olive-shaped and tinted eyes swept the golf-links. She brushed back a lock of sherry-colored hair.

"I'm going to help you crack a safe," she informed him, "The safe— or goopher, as Father would call it— is in the brokerage office of Frank Robertson Pope, otherwise known in California get-rich-quick circles as 'The Black Cougar.'"

Fay crushed his cigarette. A film dropped over his eyes. His lips hardened to a straight line.

"Go on," he said.

"You know the man?"

"I know him!"

"He deserves no mercy?"

"None."

"He is a disgrace to all the good crooks in the world— a coward and a hypocrite. He has served time— for usury. He got out of San Quentin by squealing on his pals. He is trimming suckers right and left. He makes suicides of widows. He fills the poorhouses. He is within the law— but far guiltier than you or I."

Fay realized that he faced a very well-informed young woman. He moistened his lips and gazed over the golf-links. No one was within driving distance of the Nineteenth Hole.

"Briefly," he suggested, "you believe me to be Chester Fay, an old friend of your father's. You located this Chester Fay through the underworld. You want him to help you turn off a trick on 'The Black Cougar.' What would there be in it for him if this trick were successfully turned?"

"One hundred thousand for him and the same for me."

"How is the goopher protected?"

"By every known electrical device. It is in the back of his office. It consists of three layers of vanadium steel and two layers of fireproofing. The circular door has two dials and a time-lock. The inner door has one dial. The day door has a flat-key lock."

"What is above the vault?"

"A photograph studio."

"What is in the basement?"

"The basement is occupied by a cigar-store. It doesn't close until twelve o'clock. There's a pool-room in the back. Sometimes men play poker there all night."

"How many watchmen in the building?"

"One, employed by 'The Black Cougar.' He can't be bought. I've tried."

"The regular thing, then— watchman, electric protection, standard vault built by Seaber, I suppose?"

"No— by Terryton!"

"A good box, but soft on top."

The girl tilted her parasol so that her face was in a shadow.

"Are you game?" she asked.

"The proposition strikes me as being peculiar. Suppose I am Chester Fay. How do I know that you are Charlie Laurie's daughter?"

"Would this convince you?" The girl reached in her breast and laid a folded photograph on the table. Fay picked it up. It was a good likeness taken in a rogues' gallery. A tag with a number was about the girl's neck. Her eyes were straight before her. Beneath the card was the notation:

"Saidee Laurie, alias Saidee Isaacs, alias English Kitty. Shoplifter, gun-moll, con-woman, gay-cat for Continental mobs of safe-blowers and card-sharpers. Sentences, suspended each instance: Auburn, N. Y., Rochester Workhouse, Rochester, N. Y., Bridewell, Chicago, Ill."

Fay turned the card over, then handed it back.

"Rather convincing," he said. "Frankly, you don't look it."

"Are you going to help me?"

Fay traced circles on the iron table-top. He stared at his golf-bag. He considered the situation from a score of angles. The thing that swayed him and inclined him toward the proposition was the fact that "The Black Cougar" was fair game for any self-respecting crook.

"I make one stipulation," he said, finally. "Buy out the photograph gallery and establish yourself above the vault. I'll advance the money."

"I have the money. I had already figured on that," was the girl's reply.

"You seem to have thought of most things. Do you know that if that vault is taken by either an electric-arc or an oxy-acetylene blow-pipe, I will be suspected?"

"I didn't think of that."

"It is a fact! You see the police and the private agencies know a man by his work. How can we take that vault in a new way? How can I go through three layers of vanadium steel?"

"Has it ever been done?"

"Yes, by the introduction of graduated blasts of nitroglycerin."

"Father would have opened the safe that way."

"Your father was of the old school. The presence of a watchman, the poker-players in the basement, the natural suspicion which 'The Black Cougar' will have concerning his ill-gotten gains, calls for a new idea— one that will be effective and noiseless. Can you think of a way?"

"No. That's why I came to see you."

Fay crossed his legs and leaned away from the table. The girl's face was still in the shadow cast by her parasol. Again the thought came to him that the whole proposition was a trick. Perhaps she was a tool in the employ of "The Black Cougar." Perhaps the police had sent her to Short Hills in order to arrange a trap. He dismissed this thought, however. The police of Los Angeles would have been anxious to make a quick arrest. The price on his head amounted to five figures.

"I'll chance you!" he said. "The only motive I see for your actions is the one you've explained. You want to rob a robber—cheat a cheater. Frank Robertson Pope, which is only one of 'The Black Cougar's' names, has amassed too much money, in too rotten a way. I understand he has the longest and most complete sucker-list of any bucket-shop broker in this country."

"We can steal that and sell it."

"There are people who would buy it?"

"I know a very well-known firm in New York and Washington that would pay fifty thousand dollars for the list."

"Perhaps that is all Pope has in the vault?"

The girl dropped her parasol to the turf, rose, leaned over the table and said:

"If that were all, would you still be game enough to try it?"

Fay stood erect. He pulled on his cap, pocketed his cigarette-case and smiled down at Saidee Isaacs.

"After thinking the matter over— I will do anything in my power to beat 'The Black Cougar.' He is within the law and you and I are outside the law. But I'll take my chances against his, on Judgment Day."

Saidee Isaacs thrust out an impulsive hand.

"I like you immensely for saying that, Chester Fay. I knew I'd like you—from what Father told me. You see I visited him when I was East, last week. He gave me directions how to find you here at Short Hills."

Fay recalled a letter which he had written to Charlie Laurie. In it had been a code telling where to send an answer. There was very little danger in doing this, for prison guards were notoriously stupid.

"That explains everything I wanted to know," he said. "You had better hurry to Los Angeles and secure that studio."

"I've already looked it over. I can buy all of the fixtures and assume the lease. I'll set up a Miss Sorjoni, Photographer of Children. You'll have until day-after-tomorrow to find out a way to cut down through the vault."

FAY WATCHED the girl cross the lawn to the clubhouse, where she entered a taxi which was waiting under the porte-cochère. The taxi disappeared over the dusty surface of a winding road that led to Los Angeles, via Pasadena.

He wasted no time. Picking up his golf-bag, he strode lankily to the showers, bathed, took the small elevator to his room and there changed his clothes. He went to Los Angeles, by trolley. His costume was calculated to disarm any suspicion. A closely woven Panama hat shaded his features. A plaid suit and square-toed shoes gave him the appearance of a remittance-man in town for the theater.

Of Robertson Pope, otherwise "The Black Cougar," he learned considerable. The bucket-shop operator lived in an Italian-period palace on one of the principal avenues given over to motion-picture magnates, oil-boomers and actresses. Pope had a string of seventy branch offices extending from San Diego to Boston, Mass. The Government, through the Post Office Department, had recently been defeated in the higher courts by "The Black Cougar's" attorneys. It had been proved that his business was legitimate.

Fay stayed in Los Angeles that night and went over the record in the Building Inspector's Office the next morning. He was able to do this by posing as an architect in search of villa specifications. He traced on rice-paper, a working drawing of the building wherein Pope had his main office. The floor plans gave the location of the photograph studio, the construction of the ceilings and the thickness of the walls. A skylight was shown above the studio.

He rounded out a day's hard work and went back to Short Hills. The plan he had in mind took slow form. Many details depended on Saidee Isaacs.

A PHONE CALL from her studio, the next afternoon, brought him from the golf-links.

"I've just moved in," she said. "Everything is topsy-turvy. Wont you bring little Cecil tomorrow? I'll have my camera up then. Good-by."

"Talks like a man," thought Fay. "Snappy and direct."

He passed the day considering the plan of relieving "The Black Cougar" of his available wealth. The bucket-shop operator was shrewder than most men of his type. He was a crook, at heart. Fay realized that no one, not excepting millionaires, raised a louder outcry when robbed than a thief himself. Old Charlie Laurie had once said, "The poor man never squeals when trimmed, but look out for the big grafters."

Fay's precautions when visiting the studio consisted in wearing a baggy, tweed suit, yellow gloves and sun-glasses. He found a child who could play the part of "Cecil" for the first visit.

Saidee Isaacs had accomplished the impossible. A new sign was hung in the place of the old one. New curtains were at the front windows. Grass matting covered the floor of the reception-room. The camera she had set up between the studio and the dark-room was a fair imitation of a good one. It was covered with a black cloth.

"This is all right," Fay said to her. "But there's one thing to be changed. That skylight has got to be moved south about seven feet." He consulted the rice-paper tracing while the boy sat in the reception-room.

"Why has it got to be moved?"

Fay pointed to the floor of the photographing-room. "The vault is in the wrong place. We can't move it. We have got to move the skylight."

"Has the skylight anything to do with cutting through the top of the safe?"

"Everything, Saidee."

"Then it'll be moved where you say, if a carpenter can do it."

The other tenants of the Bradock Building, so called from a stone over the doorway to "The Black Cougar's" brokerage offices, had ample opportunity to observe Miss Saidee Sorjoni, Photographer of Children. She wore shiny celluloid cuffs and a neat white ruching about her neck. Her fingers were stained with developer. Beneath this yellow stain was a coating of collodium— a sovereign cure for fingerprints.

The boy, whom Fay had picked up in the street, held down the position of messenger. He could be sent on almost any kind of pretext. He had an innocent though dirty face, that disarmed suspicion.

Fay took his time in cutting through the floor over the exact center of "The Black Cougar's" customers' room— a place of wire-wickets, tickers, soft chairs and a long board upon which two boys changed the day's quotations with lightning-like celerity.

The hole he made through the floor of the studio's front office was cone-shaped and ended in a quarter-inch opening. A view could be obtained by means of this peekhole of "The Black Cougar's" private den—adjoining the vault.

Fay neatly fitted this opening with a trapdoor covered by a small table. Upon this he placed current magazines and samples of photographic art—left by the late owner of the studio.

"Come here, Saidee," he said to her one day. "Get down and watch Pope. What is he doing at his desk? What is that he has carried from the vault?"

She dropped to her knees and looked through the opening. She bent lower. Suddenly she rose and arranged her skirt.

"That is queer," she said. "He took a large spool of wire out of the vault, set it on a spindle, passed one end of the wire through a little box he has on his desk and then started winding the wire on another spool. He's doing it now."

Fay lay flat on the grass matting. He saw, through the circular opening, the board-room, the grill and ground-glass partitions and the thick purple neck and bald head of "The Black Cougar." The bucket-shop operator was doing nothing more interesting than winding wire from one spool to another. He stopped now and then to examine a tape which came out of the box on his desk. He reached suddenly. He tore off this tape, pulled down the cover of his desk, sprang from his swivel-chair and went to a window which opened into the compartment occupied by a score of stenographers.

"Petroleum, preferred," he snarled as a timid girl took the tape. "Send them Red Letter No 10. Follow up, one day week. Quote 6574 asked. Get me?"

The girl whispered her answer. She disappeared beyond Fay's range of vision. He waited and watched "The Black Cougar" unwind the wire, tuck the spool under his thick arm and hurry into the vault. An inner door slammed. The bucket-shop operator came out, closed the outer door, twirled the combinations and started pacing the thick Turkish rug.

"That's a new one," said Fay to Saidee Isaacs. "We'll have to open that vault to find out what that spool of wire is for!"

"Could it have been an electrical connection to the little box on his desk?"

"No! It was not insulated wire. It looked to me like fine steel or iron wire—perhaps finer than the wire used in the smallest size hairpin."

"The spool was big enough."

"There was all of a thousand feet of wire on it, Saidee."

"It's some trick."

Fay nodded. He got down on his knees and watched "The Black Cougar." He rose and covered up the hole in the floor. Before going out he said to the girl:

"I'm going to have some things sent up. Tonight I start work over the safe. We shall enter the vault by Sunday, when no one is in Pope's office."

"How are you going to cut that vanadium steel? Father told me once it was the hardest kind of metal."

Fay glanced at the skylight which had been changed to a new position. "I told you," he smiled, "that I had an idea. It's so far out of my line that the police wont suspect me. I've been accused of using thermite, the oxy-acetylene blow-pipe, the electric-arc, with a water-rheostat, and other devices. This time I'll go everybody one better. The material will be up by special messenger."

Fay left the studio. His thoughts were not on the method he intended using to open "The Black Cougar's" strong box. They drifted between two mysteries— the matter-of-factness of Saidee Isaacs, who was certainly unemotional, and the spool of wire which Pope had locked in the vault.

THE SHOP Fay visited that afternoon, and where he waited while a glazier finished the last of his order, was far enough from the center of the city to admit of no danger from the police.

"You see," Fay told the proprietor, "I am making some experiments at an ostrich farm near Pasadena. Be careful when you pack the mirrors. I'll have to carry them on a trolley-car."

He took a huge, well-wrapped package after paying the man the price demanded, and rounded the block. He found a messenger standing in front of a telegraph-office.

"For Miss Saidee Sorjoni, photographer," he told the boy. "She's located in the Bradock Building. Here's a four-bit piece. Don't break anything."

Fay watched the boy until he had disappeared. He went through narrow streets to a second glazier's. This man had constructed two halves of a hollow lens. This lens was about three feet in diameter. It was far from being accurate.

"A burning-glass," said Fay, "does not necessarily need to be solid. I intend to paste the edges together with plaster of Paris and fill the whole thing with clear water."

"Going to make a sun-motor?" asked the artisan.

"Something like that. Wrap it in tissue paper. I don't want to break it on my way to Pasadena."

Having thus thrown off all clues, Fay carried the hollow lens to the studio. Saidee Isaacs had received the package, left it unopened on the dark-room floor and pinned a brief note to the table in the reception-room.

"Gone for the day. Have a headache. Will be at my hotel if you want to call me up."

Fay destroyed the note, took off his coat, tie and collar and started to work rigging the mirrors and the hollow lens upon a scaffolding beneath the skylight.

It was shortly after midnight when he finished adjusting the device to his satisfaction. He went to the window, peered out, saw the night-watchman talking with a uniformed policeman on the street-corner, and smiled with some slight degree of satisfaction.

The hole he cut directly over the vault and beneath the scaffolding was aimed to miss two floor-beams which he had located by a line of nail-heads. He reached, before dawn, the first and upper plate of vanadium steel which protected the vault. He cleared a square space and emptied the plaster and shavings in a box.

A neat trapdoor, hinged on the lower side, was the work of a silent hour wherein he used screws instead of nails on the hinges. He covered the floor with a matting, swept out the corners for chance evidence and washed up.

The arrangement of mirrors, the hollow lens, which had not yet been filled with water, the adjustable scaffolding beneath the skylight, all resembled a part of a photograph outfit designed to intensify the overhead rays of the California sun. The lens reminded Fay of a large goldfish bowl.

Saidee Isaacs came in at seven o'clock. She looked at the scaffolding, removed her gloves, lifted her broad-brimmed hat from her sherry-colored hair and exclaimed:

"You're the limit! I thought I'd got in the wrong studio."

"I've been working all night, Saidee."

"What is that thing?"

"An up-to-date method of cutting steel— particularly vanadium, chrome or high-carbon stuff. It's new in the history of safe-breaking. There's nothing like being original— even in your sinning."

"But will it work?"

"I'll tell you at noon. Lock the front door, pull down the blinds, and if the boy comes send him away. We're going to cop 'The Black Cougar's' bank-roll by Sunday. All we'll leave him is the rubber-band."

"I'm curious about that spool of iron wire, Chester."

"Same here."

"I don't see why he should lock up a ridiculous thing like that."

"He's got the reputation of being very clever. He's been an usurer—for the underworld. He's a telegraph operator and an electrician of sorts. I think he was mixed up with Larry Anderson and 'Blondie' in a phantom-circuit around a pool-room's fast wire. I expected to find the vault protected on top, but they overlooked that. Queer, isn't it, that a clever man like him— a fiend for money and a brain-worker of the first class— should neglect an important trifle?"

Saidee Isaacs said: "They all overlook the essential trifle. We must be careful we don't overlook anything. I'm not afraid of the police half as much as 'The Black Cougar.'"

Fay glanced at the matting over the trapdoor. "You're sure there's going to be two hundred thousand in the vault?"

"His last statement given to the post-office authorities showed that much, or more, balance. He also has money with the Coast National."

"How do you know?"

"It was in the newspapers three weeks ago when the trial was going on."

Fay was satisfied with the girl's answer. He heard her moving around in the dark-room. He rolled the grass matting to one side and lifted the trapdoor over the vault.

The bright sunlight illuminated the room. A beam reflected from the mirrors on the scaffolding. The city roared beyond the locked door.

Fay drew a piece of blue chalk from his pocket, knelt down on the vanadium steel plate and carefully outlined an oblong— three feet long and two feet wide. He rose and stared at his design. He went to work filling the hollow lens with water. Saidee mixed the plaster of Paris. The edges were quickly sealed. A small opening was left at the top. Through this aperture the air rushed out as the liquid ran in. This hole was finally stopped with chewing-gum.

"Useful stuff," said the girl. "With that and a hairpin you could fix anything."

Fay climbed upon the table and adjusted the hollow lens. He blocked one edge so that it could be shifted. He raised and lowered the frame upon which it rested. A sudden flash, followed by a small cloud of smoke, indicated that the focused rays had touched the woodwork at the edge of the trapdoor.

"Hotter than any electric-arc," he said. "Now watch when I get the point of light on the vanadium. This is the same scheme old Archimedes used centuries ago to burn ships."

"I thought he used mirrors—"

"Perhaps he did. I've got mirrors to heat the vanadium and keep the temperature of the plate high. Our chief difficulty will be in the loss of heat due to radiation. The—"

Saidee Isaacs sprang back from the opening. A sizzling sounded. Blue smoke filled the room. The plate was being melted along the line Fay had drawn. The movement of the sun, from east to west, was changing the position of the ray.

Fay climbed to the table and adjusted his curved mirrors. He focused them about the spot of whiter light that coned down from the hollow lens. The California sun is bright. The skylight did not require opening.

"We're getting on!" he exclaimed. "I've gone through the first plate and reached the fireproofing. I'll have to change the lens and spot across the oblong. My east and west lines are easy. The cross lines will take some time."

"How about the heat melting the paint in the vault?"

"The asbestos layers between the plates will prevent that. See! We were lucky that 'The Black Cougar's' was both fireproof and burglar-proof. But then, Saidee, they make them all that way."

The girl shielded her eyes and leaned over the opening in the floor. A narrow channel showed where the spot of light had cut through the first vanadium plate. The fused metal formed bubbles along the edges. Beneath the bubbles was the white fireproofing material.

Fay pulled her back. "Look out for that ray," he said. "I estimate its temperature to be all of five thousand degrees Fahrenheit. That'll melt anything— particularly high-carbon steel."

"Could you have done the same thing with the oxy-acetylene blow-torch?"

"No! You have to have an edge to start on. All we had here was a flat plate. This is the only way we could have done it. The electric-arc requires a heavy amperage— far more than can be obtained from a lamp-circuit. Besides, the coppers would suspect me if I used an arc."

"They're going to think this was done by electricity."

"No, they're not. We'll leave the mirrors behind us. It'll throw them off my trail."

Saidee went out at noon and returned with two lunches bought at a restaurant. She found Fay standing on the table and holding the lens so that it spotted tiny blisters first along the north, then south, lines of the oblong. The sun went behind a cloud. Fay sprang to the floor lightly. He sat down, turned in his chair, and stared at the top of the vault. "We've got the first plate pretty well cut through," he said. "Suppose you look and see what 'The Black Cougar' is doing."

She rose and dusted her knees after a long study of the operator's office.

"He's got that spool of iron wire on his desk. He's been running it through the little box. There's a lot of tape scattered about. It must be a quotation machine of some kind, Chester."

"No. The days of the old swindle are gone. He couldn't get away with fake quotations. He may have a fast wire and a slow wire in his offices. The customer trades on the slow wire while the firm sells on the fast wire. But then, I understand 'The Black Cougar's' business is done mostly through the mails. That spool he has down there has something to do with his mail game. Maybe it's a system to beat the market."

"There never will be such a thing!"

Fay nodded. "You're very wise," he mused, staring directly at her. "You don't remind me of your old man, at all. He did a lot of very heavy work—such as blasting and using a can-opener. You inherited your quick-wittedness from your mother's side, I suppose?"

"Partly."

Fay went to work with the lens as the sun came out. He finished the first cutting by two o'clock. He lifted the plate out, after allowing it to cool. It was three quarters of an inch in thickness. Its edges were brittle as glass.

"I'll cut away the fireproofing," he told Saidee, "and get ready for the sun tomorrow. I expect, from what I know of the Terryton boxes, that the middle plate will be almost twice as thick as the outer one. That means a lot of burning."

Saidee Isaacs attended to the meals. She watched the studio door in case of interruption. Once Fay saw her adjust the shade at a certain height. This shade could be seen from the street.

He recalled an old signal used by house prowlers to indicate that it was all right for pals to enter the house. The thought flashed through him that the girl had a confederate outside. He puzzled over this matter, without speaking to her about it. There seemed no reason to suspect treachery on her part.

Her interest in robbing "The Black Cougar" reached a high point when he succeeded, after two days' work, in cutting out the second, or central, plate of the vault. This plate was an inch and a quarter in thickness. It was designed to resist drills. It was hardened on the surface and somewhat soft inside.

The fumes and smoke from the burning metal floated through the skylight. The heat of the hot spot was sufficient to vaporize most metal. Fay added to this heat the radiations from the concave mirrors. He feared, at times, that there would be indication inside the vault that work was going on above.

Saidee, on watch over the peekhole, kept him informed of "The Black Cougar's" movements. The bucket-shop operator had not used the spool of wire for two days. He had entered the vault but twice. Each time he came out with yellow bills in his hands.

"Tomorrow's Saturday," said Saidee. "That's a half-holiday for brokers. There wont be anybody in the office during the afternoon or Sunday. We must go through the last plate and get that money."

Fay washed up and put on his coat.

"I'll attend to our getaway," he said. "I'll bring a lot of tourist folders and lay them around the reception-room. They'll all indicate to the average sleuth that we fled to Seattle and from there took an Alaskan boat."

"There isn't a dick in this town who wouldn't fall for that," she said. "The detectives I've met are a lot of boobs. There's only one or two in the Secret Service who are any good."

"Old Triggy Drew?"

"Yes, and Marway— the man who was never seen by a criminal."

Fay opened the door.

"I've heard of him," he said going out.

The railroad and steamship folders were secured. Saidee's inspection of her room at the hotel, and a general search of the photograph studio for overlooked clues, left Saturday and Sunday for work. It was that period of the California summer when the sun is brightest. The girl reported the office below clear of clerks and customers. The janitress came and scrubbed up. The watchman made his rounds. The time-lock on the vault's outer door had been set by "The Black Cougar" so that no one could open it until Monday morning.

Fay took the chance. He went through the inner plate Saturday afternoon. He burned a larger hole, set the lens and allowed the high swing of the overhead sun to trace out a line. Smoke and vapor rose from the sizzling pencil of light. Drops of molten metal fell within the vault, the floor of which was not carpeted.

THE JOB was finished soon after noon on Sunday. Fay looped a wire around the plate and tapped its edges with a hammer. The last of the metal cracked. The plate swung free. The way was open.

"I'll go down!" exclaimed Saidee.

"No, not yet. Let the things cool off. Help me get the lens apart. We'll destroy it. We'll clean up everything incriminating."

"But—"

"Don't be in such a hurry. The vault may be 'bugged' inside. Suppose there's an electric mat?"

"Oh, you know best! But I'm very anxious."

Fay took his time. He coolly moved to the front window, raised the blind an inch and looked out. Autos and trolley-cars hurried by. Policemen stood directing traffic. Tourists thronged the street.

He went to Saidee Isaacs. She helped him lift down the lens. He poured out the water, smashed the two halves with the hammer, and tossed the fragments into a box.

"They'll never suspect what that was," he said. "Now, give me your hand and lower me into the vault. I can't touch the edges yet. They're still hot!"

She braced herself over the opening, grasped his wrists, and lowered him. Her strength was considerable. He felt her face close to his own as she leaned.

"Let go," he said, steadying his legs.

He landed on the metal floor of the vault. The light that streamed through the jagged opening was sufficient for his purpose. He started removing ledgers and cash-boxes to the center of the strong-room. Some, but not all, of these boxes contained money. It took him ten minutes, no longer, to count up the spoil.

Allowing for small bills and silver, he had obtained thirty-seven thousand dollars. He had expected two hundred thousand.

He bundled up the larger packages of bills, snapped rubber-bands about them and began a search of the shelves. He overlooked nothing. Book after book was torn apart.

Having finished with the last ledger, he stared up at Saidee's intent face framed in the jagged opening.

"You're a fine pal!" he said. "I've only got thirty-seven grand. You've steered me wrong!"

"Have you found the sucker-list?"

"No. I didn't see it."

"Look around. It must be there. He probably had no copy. He wouldn't trust anybody with a copy. It is far more important than the money."

Fay coolly tossed up the bundle of bank-bills. He hesitated.

"Look again— it's not here," she said. "Look on the shelves. See if there isn't a secret panel, or something."

Fay had already searched for any break in the metal of the vault. It was smooth and enameled. He regarded the remaining objects.

"The spools of iron wire are here."

"Give one of them to me. Put it in my hands."

"It's very heavy. We might as well leave them."

"No! We must not overlook a single thing. Hand me a spool. I can lift it."

Fay poised a heavy spool between his fingers. Saidee drew it through the opening. He waited until she lowered a short piece of clothes-line. He went up this, hooked his knee over the edge of the plate, and rose to her side.

"We might as well split the money two ways and go," he said coldly. "I'm not exactly satisfied. I should never have gone into this thing. We've smeared things up. We've left more or less of a trail and gotten very little for our trouble."

Saidee sat on the floor. She started searching through the torn books. Now and then she glanced at Fay without saying anything. Disappointment stamped her features when she finished. She projected the package of money toward him with a sharp kick.

"It's all yours, Chester!"

"No. I'm not that kind of a man. But you're a foolish little moll. Here we've gone and laid ourselves open to twenty years in stir for next to nothing. We haven't even put a dent in 'The Black Cougar's' bank-roll. The chances are that he transferred most of his ill-gotten gains to the Coast National Bank."

"All I wanted was the sucker-list. That would have put him out of business. He has about twenty thousand preferred names of boobs in this country who will bite at anything."

Fay scraped the collodium from his finger-tips. He washed his hands, went through the studio rooms, looked everywhere for possible left-over clues, and then said:

"Come on. I'll carry the money. We might as well leave here."

She reached down and lifted the spool of iron wire. "You take the money and I'll take this," she said at the door. "We'll separate. I may have to come back here— so give me the key."

"What for?"

Fay caught a direct stare full of meaning. "You're not a boob, though you fell like one. My name isn't Saidee Laurie. It's Saidee Isaacs of the Secret Service, Post Office Department, at present. We intercepted your note to Charlie Laurie at Dannemora. They had me decipher your rather simple code. The order was out to bring you in. I had been working on 'The Black Cougar' case. I thought you might be of more help outside than inside. So I posed as Charlie Laurie's daughter and got you to help me rob the vault. The rogues' gallery picture was framed up to make things more convincing."

Fay's eyes flashed.

"You see," went on Saidee Isaacs, "the importance of getting 'The Black Cougar's' sucker-list overshadowed the importance of putting an end to your activities. There was no way, through the law, that would stop the bucket-shop operator. He had the list, and as long as it was in his possession, he could trim the suckers. They'd buy anything, and they wouldn't squeal on him."

Fay blurted: "Well, in that case you've lost and I have gained. Thirty-seven thousand isn't going back to him, nor is it going to the Government. I'm going to keep it— for professional services."

"It's yours, Chester. The police have been pulled off this job. You can go free."

"What about the sucker-list? Who's coming back here?"

"I may bring Marway. I may not need to bring him."

Saidee lifted the heavy spool from her knee, "After you," she said. "Open the door for me. Go out to the golf-club and wait."

"I'll wait about twenty minutes!" he exclaimed hotly. "I suppose Marway will order me pinched."

"I'm in charge of the entire case. I've failed so far— unless—"

"What?"

"This spool contains part of the sucker-list. I don't see how it can. Do you?"

Fay jerked the door open, allowed the girl to pass through, and locked it. He thrust the key into her hand.

"Good-by," he said.

"No. Promise you will wait on the links for me. You have my word you wont be pinched."

His packing of the two kit-bags in his room at the club took no longer than fifteen minutes. He paid his bill, left his bags with a porter, and went out on the links.

Golfers, a fair gallery, and caddies were scattered over the green. He sat down at a table and pulled out his watch. The California sun was sinking over the Coast Range when a taxi churned through the dust, swung under the porte-cochère and discharged Saidee Isaacs.

She crossed the turf with her face as inscrutable as ever. Her hand darted over the table. Shading her eyes with her parasol, she whispered:

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Chester, but we found the sucker-list. Part was in that spool. Marway's assistant found it ten minutes ago."

"How?"

"By experimentation. I told Marway what I had seen 'The Black Cougar' doing at his desk. You remember he ran the wire through a ticker-machine and the tape came out printed with dots and dashes?"

"I didn't know they were dots and dashes."

"Yes. He's a telegraph operator— an old Phillips code man. His stenographers could read Morse like print."

Fay began to see the purpose of the wire.

"The sucker-list," continued Saidee, "is magnetized in the fine wire that is wound about the spools. Each few inches contains a name and address in dots and dashes. The Black Cougar had an apparatus to magnetize the wire. Marway's assistant said this apparatus probably consisted of a small solenoid through which the wire was drawn at the beginning. A touch of a key would make a dot. A longer touch made a dash. The wire was special— hard and capable of being made into a permanent magnet."

"Then he could read these same dots and dashes by running the wire through the relay-ticker on his desk?"

"Yes. That part of the idea has been used in duplex telegraphy and in seeing-over-a-wire-apparatus. You can find it in the technical books."

"How did Marway demonstrate it?"

"By a small pocket-compass. It's really very ingenious and simple. 'The Black Cougar' kept his whole sucker-list on the spools. He has no copy of it. He is beaten without it. He might as well go out of business. Marway and the assistant operative are going to mail every sucker on the list a warning letter authorized by the Government. Some of them will get wise."

"But most of them will fall for another swindler."

"We did our part— pulled 'The Black Cougar's' claws."

"And I pulled the chestnuts for you."

"Thirty-seven thousand dollars and the satisfaction of knowing you did a good deed in a wicked world is no chestnut."

"I'm going East on the first train tonight, Saidee."

"Stay around. Marway would like to meet you."

"I thought he had never been seen by a criminal?"

"You're not a criminal. You only think you are."

Fay leaned over the table.

"I'm a dub," he admitted. "I'll let you put it all over me."

"And I let you go free with my best wishes," said Saidee Isaacs. "Turn for turn, Chester. Don't write to prisons and give your address in code lettering. I had orders to come here and arrest you— about a week ago."

Fay flushed. She was gone across the short-cropped turf.

"I'm a dub," he repeated, "and yet I wouldn't have had it happen any other way for the world."

__________________

4: Over Billowing Bunkers

Henry Leverage

Top-Notch 15 July 1922

1: That Remarkable Score

THE RED-HEADED black sheep who went by the name of Mike Monkey— a cast-off scion of a Rotherhithe family,  half Scotch, half Irish— an engineer with three Board of Trade certificates— stood in the clearway of the freighter Melrose and cast a bitter glance over the golf links of Craymore.

Craymore was a stretch of sand, bumpers, hillocks; hazards where port officers, coffee planters, and blue-water skippers played golf under the rays of an equatorial sun. Native caddie boys flitted ovey Craymore, English drinks were served at the nineteenth hole, and the clubhouse, bright with striped awnings, sheltered ladies who feared to test their complexions on Craymore's hot surface.

Mike Monkey's irritability and bitterness that afternoon were on account of the ship's captain delaying sailing by playing golf when the Melrose should have been on her way to another and cooler island port.

The mate of the Melrose— a Yankee named Landyard— approached the engineer.

"Skipper's late," said Landyard.

The Scotch-Irish engineer went straight up, like a jet of superheated steam. "Late!" he exclaimed. "He's daft wi' that golf game— us sizzlin' here in this iniquitous port wi' cargo perishin', an' deck seams bubblin', an' charter runnin' out! Daft, he is, wi' that owner's game called golf."

"I never played it," die mate remarked.

"I have, considerable! Ye tik th' ball, put it on a wee hill, whack it wi' a club, an' th' one who finds th' ball th' same day he hits it— wins th' game."

Landyard shot a shrewd eye toward a yellow mist below a declining sun. He turned and surveyed the half-moon beach at Craymore, the pearl-thatched houses, the vivid green of the brooding jungle over which towered inland mountains where no white man dared go.

"These islands," he said romantically, "are blessed with an entire absence of time. What does it matter when we sail? Each day is the same— each year glides into another— birth and death are the only two diversions."

"Ye are worse than th' skipper! Wot does it matter? It matters puns, shillings, pence, on my bonus for savin' coal. I ha' steam up!"

Landyard, the mate, yawned and raised a long pair of stretching arms. He lowered them quickly.

"There's the skipper!" he exclaimed. "There's the cabin boy he took ashore for a caddie. See Micky stepping into the dinghy. You can use your steam now— and save your bonus."

The captain of the Melrose came smartly over the sea and climbed to the quarter-deck. He was followed by the cabin boy, who carried a serviceable golf bag fashioned out of number one flax canvas. Mike Monkey, on tiptoe in the gangway, with a hand on the railing around the engine-room companion, eyed the delayed skipper like a simian regarding a disturbance. Landyard, the Yankee mate, had gone forward where he stood ready to edge steam on a vertical winch.

Micky McMasters, the captain of the Melrose, selected a club from the bag, placed a badly banged golf hall on one corner of a hatch, swung the club and drove the ball with a smart tap against the lee rail where it rolled along the scuppers. The cabin boy retrieved it; once more the club swung and the ball rebounded. McMasters, sun helmet poised at the back of his head selected a lighter iron and began putting the ball around the quarter-deck, popping it into water buckets, lofting it over a deck light, nesting it in the exact center of a coil of rope.

An explosion came from the waist of the freighter when Mike Monkey, unable to hold himself in any longer, shouted for all the ship to hear: "Ye senile fool! Ye driddlin' mucker!"

Slowly McMasters straightened his back, handed the cabin boy the putter, adjusted his sun helmet, hitched his duck, trousers, and came sauntering up to the quarter-deck rail.

"Who said that?" The skipper's eyes were on Mike Monkey.

"I did! Ye standin' there an' pretendin' ye don't know who said it. I' said it! What with your golf game, an' delay, an' miserable antics on th' poop deck, I've lost a ton or two o' good Wellington coal what cost three pun, seventeen shillin' in these ports."

Mike Monkey added, riled at the skipper's silence: "Golf will be your ruination!"

"My golf don't cost me much," said Micky.

"How's that?"

"I pay no club dues; I sign for 'chits'; a kind Providence has scattered splendid links all over the known world. Take Craymore— I made the remarkable score of eighty-two, just seven more than—"

"All clear— forrard!" sang out the impatient Yankee mate.

"Playing against a Scotch trader and a foreign diplomat, I made eighty-two," McMasters said proudly. "My game should get better if the weather continues fair, and I have an opportunity to practice on deck."

Mike Monkey gulped, tore off his cap, stamped on it, and ran his fingers through a grimy thicket of red hair. "Ye made eighty-two! Ye better mik eighty-two revolutions on th' propeller shaft an' quit that owners' game! D'ye know we were scheduled to leave this port at noon— here it is seven bells an' me wi' all steam up!"

The skipper of the Melrose shot forth an order that reached the waiting mate. "Hoist the mudhook, bring aboard that dinghy, see that we're all clear aft, and you"— Micky drilled the dancing first engineer with his eyes— "you get below where you belong and build the steam. I want to reach Dunden Head by this time to-morrow— where I'm to pass the time of day with the undersecretary of affairs of the Kingdom of Sarawak."

2: Across The Polished Sea

A MENACING silence was on the Melrose as the freighter cleared the port, steadied her bow and started clamping across the polished sea— a silence broken now and then by the crack of a club against a ball and the shuffling Mike Monkey, at sundown, confided to the Yankee mate: "Th' skipper's only lost seven balls overside; he must be a nabob."

''He swings a wicked club," Landyard said. "Th' cook, Carboy Jim, has a welt below the ear where Micky cracked him, and the second mate just asked for arnica to bandage his shin. It's as much as a man's life's worth to go on that quarter-deck."

"I don't mind th' cook or th' mate, but ye should see him tryin' to loft a ball into my funnel. When we reach Sarawak he should be examined for senile decay."

Shrewd reflection flashed in the mate's eyes. "Sarawak," he repeated. "You heard him give the course to Dunden Head, Mike? Do you suppose he's going out of his way to play a game of golf? Th' Kingdom of Sarawak!. What have I heard of that place?"

"I thought a sultan ruled there."

"Or a rajah."

"Sure." The engineer smiled. "A rajah! What's Micky got to do wi' th' undersecretary of a rajah?"

"He didn't say anything about Sarawak this morning when he went ashore." The Yankee mate began putting things together. "He expected to keep to the owner's schedule an' pick up that small stuff Gringham and Bell left at Aracada. Now what changed his plans, Mike?"

"A cable from Sarawak."

"That's about it, I guess— an engagement two hundred miles off our course. Wouldn't that make you whistle?"

Mike Monkey thrust his head upward and allowed a cooling breeze to fan his brow. "I've heard," he said, "there's a queen in Sarawak— a bonny English girl. Twa years ago I heard it. Maybe Micky got th' cable from her."

"Maybe so," said the mate.

Morning dawned on that eastern sea, with all the colors of the rainbow running in pluming riot athwart the sky. A hot sun leaped the horizon and hung, like a ball of molten fire, just over the swaying foremast of the Melrose. Silver-running swells, as if a sheet of tin was agitated, rocked the deep-laden
freighter. Micky McMasters appeared on the quarter-deck, Mike Monkey popped through the engine-room companion; Landyard, who stood deck watch, gave the skipper the position, drift, compass point, and started below. He was halted by a request.

"Mind passing up my golf bag?" asked McMasters. "I'll get a little exercise before I eat my breakfast."

The first engineer grasped a funnel stay and watched the captain select a club, balance a golf ball on the top of a holystone, and drive against the canvas windbreak on the quarter-deck. A lofting shot cleared the rail.

"Fore!" cried McMasters, as the spinning ball missed the mainmast, skimmed by the funnel, and landed between the eyes of a lascar who was emerging from the forecastle to join his watch on deck. The staggering impact was followed by imprecations in polyglot tongues, an excited swarming out of the crew's quarters, a glittering knife that went the length of the freighter and stuck, quivering, in the woodwork of the wheelhouse.

"Aft!" shouted Mike Monkey gleefully. "Ye didderin' fool— what d'ye think ov Malay golf?"

Micky McMasters had no answer ready; he rebagged his clubs, tucked the bag under his arm, and descended to breakfast. The freighter plowed on toward a knuckle of land that came up out of the sea until it became a fist, dark and forbidding.

"Dunden Head," said Landyard, who had returned to the deck.

The freighter's speed decreased ; Mike Monkey frugally banked the fires; an expectant hush was broken only by the sound of creaking stays and lapping waves.

A burst of white on the beach, the flash of oars, the splendid sheer of a whaleboat dancing in the direction of the Melrose, brought the skipper on deck where he leaned over a lee rail and studied the coming visitor— a magnificent native who wore only a "gee-string" and a turban.

"That's no golf player," said Mike Monkey to Landyard. "That's another ov those knife-throwers an' I've noo cloot we're in for international complications."

''Waal, it's the skipper's funeral."

"Funeral! It's breakin' owners he is, an' breakin' first-class engineers wi' three certificates. I get no bonus on my coal this passage— wot wi' golf an' gammin' native chiefs who come aboard in shameful rig. Where's th' pride of that mon if he's th' undersecretary ov foreign affairs?"

The visitor climbed a bosun's ladder, salaamed to Micky; they went below out of earshot of Mike Monkey and Landyard the mate.

"There's a deeper game than golf afloat and ashore," said the Yankee. "I wouldn't wonder if that islander came out with a message from the queen of Sarawak. He's a handsome fellow."

"Handsome! I've had that breed in th' stokehole; they're wicked enough to chew slag an' eat clinkers. Like as not this ship is doomed; every one was that mixed wi' queens an' plots an' sinful natives."

A diversion occurred aft when Micky McMasters and the islander came on deck; then they walked side by side up and down the planks, and shook hands in parting. The whaleboat was a bounding speck beneath Dunden Head when Mike Monkey was startled by a salvo of bells coming over the engine-room telegraph. These bells resembled a fish line being violently agitated by a well-hooked sea bass. Mike charged in the direction of the quarter-deck, climbed the weather steps, and confronted the skipper.

"I heard you th' first time!" he shouted. "M' fires are banked. D' ye think steam can be built in a minute?"

"Full speed ahead!" Micky McMasters' jaw was a block and his eyes drilled through and through the irate engineer.

"Ye'll ha' steam when it comes— in good time."

"Darn you! I'll have steam now!"

A muscular arm reached and marline-spike-like fingers prodded the engineer forward. "Th' skipper wants steam," said Landyard. "Take it from me, Mike, there's a good reason."

"He's lost his reason! Shades ov Watt, this is an impossible packet!"

3: Gift From a Queen

A BELL later saw the Melrose steaming over an ocean of sea room, driving from west to east, burning good Wellington coal, and trailing a plume of smoke astern like a five-day liner off Fire Island. Bars were bent; stokehole Kanakas honed secret knives; Mike Monkey danced to the skipper's tune played on nerves attenuated to the breaking point.

"Skipper wants both of us aft," Landyard said through a voice tube. "Better come right away, Mike."

Mike Monkey climbed out of the overheated engine room, shot a wild glance around and about, and mounted to the quarter-deck.

"This way," said Landyard. "Right this way, Mike. Skipper's waitin' an' the Old Man's going to tell us a secret."

The captain of the Melrose sat hunched over a small table in the after cabin; before him rested a sextant box; about him were sun-circled portholes, two bunks, a shelf of nautical books, almanacs, a golf bag, and a garishly decorated sheathing painted by some departed marine artist. Spouting whales, tropical palms, a fringe of dancing girls beneath jungle foliage, made the place more like a liner's cabin than a British skipper's domicile.

"I'm here!" Mike Monkey said heatedly. "Ye an' your jingle-bells an' meetin's wi' savages can go hang! We're wastin' coal, mon! D'ye know our present speed consumes twice as much as I've calculated on in order t' make m' bonus ?"

A softness flitted into Micky McMasters' eyes; he reached toward the closed sextant box, looked cautiously at the deck light and companion slide, then he went directly, bluntly, to the point. "Just a moment, Mike. Stow your jaw tackle. We're leaving Sarawak as I would like to leave it— full speed on the engines. We're taking something with us to England. My son, Lieutenant Robert McMasters, V.C., of King's Crescent, Richmond, London, West, has received a gift from a queen of Sarawak. It was only last year my boy was stationed at Sarawak, where he was noticed by her majesty, whose consort is a dark and powerful rajah.

"The undersecretary who 'gammed' us at Dunden Head brought the gift," McMasters added with fatherly pride. "It's in this sextant box. It isn't safe— Bob may never get it— that's why I called you from below."

"We're as good as scuttled," Mike Monkey said. "Scuttled, murdered in our sleep, slain like sheep! A dark rajah, ye say, an' a crew of lascars an' Kanakas an' Malays— knife-throwers every one o' them !"

"That's what I thought,", said Micky. "The queen's gift to my boy must be hidden beyond the rajah's reach. He doesn't know, or didn't know, that his better half plundered the royal jewel case and sent us its fairest jewel."

"An idol's eye?" Landyard questioned.

"Hardly; there are no idols in Sarawak now."

"A miserable emerald?" asked Mike Monkey.

"No. It's a pink pearl as big as an English walnut." Micky McMasters lifted the lid of the sextant box and exposed a hard, round object that held a sea glamour on its satin surface.

"I've seen one exactly like that in Cheapside," said Mike Monkey. "It was priced twa shillin' an' sixpence."

"Two and six!" The Melrose's captain rose from the small table and advanced upon Mike Monkey, who nimbly dodged him. "Two and six ! You cinder rat, I'll two and six you! The pearl is worth all of ten thousand pounds, maybe more!"

"Likely it is, skipper," Landyard interfered. "I think the best place for it is right back in the sea where it came from. We touch at Aracada to get that stuff Gringham and Bell left there, and we put in at others of these islands where the rajah's word is law."

McMasters usually listened to his mate; this time his mind was doggedly set. "The pearl is a gift from a queen— think of that. My boy, my big strapping Bob, is loved by that woman whose hand he never kissed. The pearl goes to him!"

"Ye ha' had a touch o' the sun," Mike Monkey remarked ; "you with your niblicks an' brassies an' putters an' foursomes an' drivers— instead ov log lines an' compass points an' drift an' declinations. Ye take no mark of us. We're going blindly, twa ton of good steam coal each watch, into the rajah's snare. He has a gunboat in these seas; he has spies everywhere; how can his queen give a gift to a healthy lieutenant, V.C., without incurrin' th' rajah's displeasure? D'ye think our own under-secretary won't take notice o' that?"

The Yankee mate lifted out the pearl from the sextant box and knuckled it like a boy playing marbles. "Looks like a white agate, skipper. Open a port-hole an' I'll pop it out."

"Nothing like that!" declared Micky. "We'll hide it."

"Where?" The mate looked around the cabin.

Micky's eyes followed Landyard's until they both stared at the golf bag. "There!" Micky decided. "We'll put it in a golf ball !"

Mike Monkey's red hair bristled indignantly. "In a golf ball! I said ye were in your dotage from sun. How can you put that agate inside a ball?"

"Bring me a safety-razor blade and some good glue, Mike. Have you got any strong adhesive in the engine- room?"

"I've fish glue."

"Strong?"

"I used it t' mend a cracked gauge glass once."

"That'll do; go get it."

4: The Hiding Place

GRUMBLING, Mike Monkey went on deck, and returned to the cabin with a bottle of rank-smelling glue. Luckily there was no acid in the soiled golf ball that Landyard and Micky McMasters had divided into halves by the time the engineer closed the cabin companion, after taking a squint toward the wheelsman and the members of the watch, who had gathered forward.

The finished job of hollowing out the golf ball, inserting the pearl, gluing the halves and binding the ball with many turns of. cord so that it could set without showing a trace of the cut, occupied the time between two bells,

Then McMasters said to the engineer: "Go forrard and bring me a piece of emery cloth!"

"Wot for?''

"I want to clean off the ball when it dries."

"Ye want a London District Messenger aboard this packet, instead of an engineer wi' three certificates. Get your own emery cloth; try a bit o' shark's skin!" And then Mike Monkey climbed on deck and banged shut the companion slide.

The skipper retaliated that evening by jangling the engine-room telegraph until Mike Monkey coated the quarter-deck with red-hot cinders and had the freighter's funnel glowing like a fat cigar. All the night through the Melrose drove on. The dawn brought out one speck on the horizon's rim— a danger in the shape of a gunboat that bore the crescent flag of Sarawak.

"Starboard," said Micky McMasters when he had lowered his sea glasses.

"Starbo'rd, sir," echoed the frightened wheelsman, who had swung the freighter's stern toward the gunboat.

"Steady, now," added the skipper. "Steady her there. Mr. Landyard, drop below and put the fear of death into Mike Monkey. Tell him we're all going to hang together."

Driving under forced steam the freighter, for a time, measured in moments of anxiety by those on board, held the gunboat at a safe distance. Then the overworked stokehole crew rounded on their tormentor, and ejected Mike Monkey through the engine-room companion. He stood leering toward the quarter-deck.

"My flock ha' mutinied," he said to Landyard. "Tell that miserable golf player aft he better surrender th' pearl."

Landyard listened to the sounds that came from 'tween decks— scraping shovels, clanging doors, wild imprecations from angry natives. The ship's ventilators rang with anathema.

"I'll go below," said Landyard. "They'll listen to me."

Micky McMasters came lunging up to the quarter-deck rail. "Stay away from that stokehole!" he shouted to Mike Monkey. "You're bad luck! We're losin' knots of speed by havin' you aboard."

The commander of the gunboat set from his bridge halyards an arrangement of three flags which all on board the Melrose believed to be a signal to stand by or take the consequences.

Whatever persuasion Landyard used in the stokehole was effective; the freighter regained its former speed. Land in the form of small islands came up out of a burning sea. Micky McMasters began cutting corners between these islands, trying with all his navigator's skill to elude the persistent gunboat. The Melrose grated over a shoal, dodged a coral reef, and squeezed her beam within a strait so narrow that the davits were brushed from the rails.

"Aracada lies over there," said Landyard to Mike Monkey. "Once at that port our course is run. We're heading into a trap."

"I said Micky was daft!"

"He's playing for night to come, Mike. If it don't come soon, we'll have to beach the ship or give up the pearl."

Reaching arms, the tips of the moon-shaped island of Aracada, appeared to starboard and port. Tropical palms thatched a jungle between the rays of the setting sun and the freighter. Dusk pearled and changed to gray softness; lights became visible; a red funnel of flame, followed by a rocket that arched the sky, was proof that the gunboat was still astern of the Melrose.

McMasters whispered an order to the wheelsman; the freighter spun and dipped lee rail under; she tried to draw along a shielding shore. The gunboat's searchlight spotted this maneuver. McMasters tried another swing at the wheel; the Melrose went within combing surf, hung steady, came out and inched from danger.

This temporary setback to the gunboat gave McMasters time to call Landyard aft.

"We're all right," the captain said. "We'll send the pearl on its way to England yet."

"How, skipper?"

"You get ready to go over the side and swim for the beach. There's a jungle trail starting from that white kirk that leads to Port Togo on the northern side of the island. It's a long walk, but you can make it in a day or so. At Port Togo you'll find British ships. Give the pearl to the skipper of the first to leave for home. Tell him McMasters is sending it to Robert McMasters, V.C., King's Crescent, Richmond, London, West. Tell him that for me— and the pearl is safe."

5: His Clever Suggestion

AN uncharted sand spit, formed by the bar of a small tidal river— a grain of sand almost— proved the Melrose's undoing. The freighter, stern on to the beach, bow headed toward the lights of the port, struck, staggered, canted and came to a racking stop that jarred every bolt and nut in the racing engines. The stokehole crew, the engine-room force— one white man and three heathen oilers— emerged from 'tween decks amid a scalding cloud of released steam. The ship righted, held amidship by sucking sand and coral crags.

"The jig's up," Landyard told the skipper.

Micky McMasters shot a glance at the beach, not two hundred yards away; he wheeled and stared into the actinic light that came from the gunboat's direction.

"Ye got us into a pretty pickle," said Mike Monkey.

Spinning around, the captain pointed to the surf between the Melrose and the jungle's fringe. "You can swim it!" he told the mate. "I'll get the ball. Strip to the skin, man. It's our only chance!"

This chance, before Micky climbed on deck with the ball, was lost when the gunboat came gliding nearer the freighter.

"We're a British ship!" McMasters roared through the cabin companion- way. "England will hear of this outrage on the Union Jack!"

"Ye stole their pearl," Mike Monkey reminded him. "Better pull th' flag down."

"The beach—" McMasters hesitated. "The jungle! We must get the pearl ashore before they search us."

Landyard measured the distance between the gunboat and the freighter's stern; it was not more than a mile. "They'll pick me off with rifles, skipper, if I try to swim ashore. It's too far to the beach to throw the ball. Perhaps their search, when they board ift, won't be a thorough one."

"They'll scrape our skins!" The skipper wheeled and bumped into Mike Monkey. "What are you doing— grinning an' standing there? Out of my way!"

The engineer walked to a small hatch, lifted a "prayer book" in the shape of a diminutive holystone, and set it on one edge.

"Go below— bring up a golf club," said Mike Monkey; "set th' ball with the pearl in it on th' block of stone, an' make one ov those drives ye told us about, for th' beach. It's about twa ship's lengths. Ye got about one minute an' six seconds to do it in."

"Set th' ball adrift," proposed Landyard.

"Mike's idea is a better one." Micky McMasters lurched for the open cabin companionway, disappeared, and reappeared carrying his favorite driver, a heavy club, cord-wrapped on the handle. His hands shook when he steadied the ball on the prayer book and drew back for a drive. Landyard and Mike Monkey, watching, saw the little skipper's knees knock together in agitation.

"Loft 'er, mon!" the engineer said.  "It's your last chance— her somes that gunboat!"

A fierce white light illuminated the deck of the Melrose; creaking blocks indicated that the gunboat was lowering' a boarding party.

"Fore!" Mike Monkey said. "Don't hit th' water or th' pearl will sink!"

Micky McMasters, who had faced death more than a score of times in his career, dropped the club and covered his face with his hands. "It is my boy's pearl," he said huskily. "Suppose I should lose it!"

Landyard, the mate, sensed the psychology of the captain's anxiety. "Let Mike Monkey make the drive," he suggested.

The engineer picked up McMasters' driver, and approached the ball. "I'm not given to wasting my time," he said, "but I can play a bit ov th' game my- self— like my ancestors of th' heather."

The heavy driver described an upward swing, Mike Monkey's right knee bent; the club swished and met with an obstruction.

"See it go?" the engineer asked.

Landyard, the mate, had splendid eyes. "There she soars, up, up! Now she drops; she's hit the sand; there it rolls along the beach and between those two palms with another palm crossing like the letter 'H.' "

6.  A Complete Surprise.

THE longboat from the pursuing ship grated against the Melrose's side; a magnificent native came climbing over the rail, and salaamed to the astonished trio on the quarter-deck. "The under-secretary!" exclaimed Micky McMasters. "What brought you after us?"

"The Queen of Sarawak sent me," explained the native. "She wants you to give your son, Robert, this box, without you opening it. Too bad you did not stop when we first signaled you. That is all, captain." The native removed his turban, handed McMasters a tiny, inlaid box, salaamed once more and left the ship.

McMasters went aft and leaned over the taffrail. "Well, I'll be hanged!" he exclaimed. "If I haven't been all kinds of a confounded fool! I might have known that they wanted to do my boy honor."

The gunboat was a speck in the distance when the captain turned and shouted to Landyard and Mike Monkey. "We'll go ashore and get that golf ball. Lower the dinghy!"

Searching vainly all that day and a part of the next McMasters, Mike Monkey, and Landyard were forced to admit themselves beaten. The golf ball had been lost in the thick snake grass at the fringe of the jungle.

"I told ye so at the beginning," said Mike Monkey sadly. "Golf is a game that you win if you can find the ball after you hit it. That ball's gone!"

Returning to the Melrose, McMasters set about to get the freighter off the sand reef. He had part of the cargo shifted; the engines backed and were raced forward; the ship slid into deeper water.

"Ye better cut no more corners," said Mike Monkey.

Two bells out from shore the skipper awakened the ship by bounding up the cabin ladder and charging forward.

"I just had to peek into that small box." he told Mike and the mate. "There is a note in it what says: 'I am sending you another pearl that matches the first. They are matched— they should go as one gift. Love from a queen in Sarawak!' "

McMasters thrust out his hand, and showed his companions a round, pink pearl.

"We lose one, but we go home with another. Won't Bob be proud of us?"

_______________

5: The Understudy

Robert Barr

1850-1912

The Strand Magazine, Dec 1895

THE Monarch in the Arabian story had an ointment which, put upon the right eye, enabled him to see through the; walls of houses. If the Arabian despot had passed along a narrow street leading into a main thoroughfare of London, one night just before the clock struck twelve, he would have beheld, in a dingy back room of a large building, a very strange sight. He would have seen King Charles the First seated in friendly converse with none other than Oliver Cromwell.

The room in which these two noted people sat had no carpet and but few chairs. A shelf extended along one side of the apartment, and it was covered with mugs containing paint and grease. Brushes were littered about, and a wig lay in a corner. A mirror stood at either end of the shelf, and beside these flared two gas-jets protected by wire baskets. Hanging from nails driven in the walls were coats, waistcoats, and trousers of more modern cut than the costumes worn by the two men.

King Charles, with his pointed beard and his ruffles of lace, leaned picturesquely back in his chair, which rested against the wall. He was smoking a very black brier-root pipe, and perhaps His Majesty enjoyed the weed all the more that there was just above his head, tacked to the wall, a large placard, containing the words, "No smoking allowed in this room, or in any other part of the theatre."

Cromwell, in more sober garments, had an even jauntier attitude than the King, for he sat astride the chair, with his chin resting on the back of it, smoking a cigarette in a meerschaum holder.

"I'm too old, my boy," said the King, "and too fond of my comfort; besides, I have no longer any ambition. When an actor once realizes that he will never be a Charles Kean or a Macready, then come peace and the enjoyment of life. Now, with you it is different: you are, if I may say so in deep affection, young and foolish. Your project is a most hare-brained scheme. You are throwing away all you have already won."

"Good gracious!" cried Cromwell, impatiently, "what have I won?"

"You have certainly won something,"resumed the elder, calmly, "when a person of your excitable nature can play so well the sombre, taciturn character of Cromwell. You have mounted several rungs, and the whole ladder lifts itself up before you. You have mastered two or three languages, while I know but one, and that imperfectly. You have studied the foreign drama, while I have not even read all the plays of Shakespeare. I can do a hundred parts conventionally well. You will, some day, do a great part as no other man on earth can act it, and then fame will come to you. Now you propose recklessly to throw all this away and go into the wilds of Africa."

"The particular ladder you offer me," said Cromwell, "I have no desire to climb; I am sick of the smell of the footlights and the whole atmosphere of the theatre. I am tired of the unreality of the life we lead. Why not be a hero instead of mimicking one?"

"But, my dear boy," said the King, filling his pipe again, "look at the practical side of things. It costs a fortune to fit out an African expedition. Where are you co get the money?"

This question sounded more natural from the lips of the King than did the answer from the lips of Cromwell.

"There has been too much force and too much expenditure about African travel. I do not intend to cross the Continent with arms and the munitions of war. As you remarked a while ago, I know several European languages, and if you will forgive what sounds like boasting, I may say that I have a gift for picking up tongues. I have money enough to fit myself out with some necessary scientific instruments, and to pay my passage to the coast. Once there, I shall win my way across the Continent through love and not through fear."

"You will lose your head," said King Charles; "they don't understand that sort of thing out there, and, besides, the idea is not original. Didn't Livingstone try that tack?"

"Yes, but people have forgotten Livingstone and his methods. It is now the explosive bullet and the elephant gun. I intend to learn the language of the different native tribes I meet, and if a chief opposes me and will not allow me to pass through his territory, and if I find I cannot win him over to my side by persuasive talk, then I shall go around."

"And what is to be the outcome of it all?" cried Charles. "What is your object?"

"Fame, my boy, fame," cried Cromwell, enthusiastically, flinging the chair from under him and pacing the narrow room. "If I can get from coast to coast without taking the life of a single native, won't that be something greater than all the play-acting from now till Doomsday?"

"I suppose it will," said the King, gloomily; "but you must remember you are the only friend I have, and I have reached an age when a man does not pick up friends readily."

Cromwell stopped in his walk and grasped the King by the hand. "Are you not the only friend I have," he said; "and why can you not abandon this ghastly sham and come with me, as I asked you to at first? How can you hesitate when you think of the glorious freedom of the African forest, and compare it with this cribbed and cabined and confined business we are now at?"

The King shook his head slowly, and knocked the ashes from his pipe. He seemed to have some trouble in keeping it alight, probably because of the prohibition om the wall.

"As I said before," replied the King, "I am too old. There are no pubs in the African forest where a man can get a glass of beer when he wants it. No, Ormond, African travel is not for me. If you are resolved to go, go and God bless you; I will stay at home and carefully nurse your fame. I shall from time to time drop appetizing little paragraphs into the papers about your wanderings, and when you are ready to come back to England, all England will be ready to listen to you. You know how interest is worked up in the theatrical business by judicious puffing in the papers, and I imagine African exploration requires much the same treatment. If it were not for the Press, my boy, you could explore Africa till you were blind and nobody would hear a word about it, so I will be your advance agent and make ready for your home-coming."

At this point in the conversation between these two historic characters, the janitor of the theatre put his head into the room and reminded the celebrities that it was very late, whereupon both King and Commoner rose, with some reluctance, and washed themselves; the King becoming, when he put on the ordinary dress of an Englishman, Mr. James Spence, while Cromwell, after a similar transformation, became Mr. Sidney Ormond; and thus, with nothing of Royalty or Dictatorship about them, the two strolled up the narrow street into the main thoroughfare and entered their favourite midnight restaurant, where, over a belated meal, they continued the discussion of the African project, which Spence persisted in looking upon as one of the maddest expeditions that had ever come to his knowledge; but the talk was futile, as most talk is, and within a month from that time Ormond was on the ocean, his face set towards Africa.

Another man took Ormond's place at the theatre, and Spence continued to play his part, as the papers said, in his usual acceptable manner. He heard from his friend, in due course, when he landed. Then at intervals came one or two letters showing how he had surmounted the unusual difficulties with which he had to contend. After a long interval came a letter from the interior of Africa, sent to the coast by messenger. Although at the beginning of this letter Ormond said he had but faint hope of reaching his destination, he, nevertheless, gave a very complete account of his wanderings and dealings with the natives, and up to that point his journey seemed to be most satisfactory. He inclosed several photographs, mostly very bad ones, which he had managed to develop and print in the wilderness. One, however, of himself was easily recognisable, and Spence had it copied and enlarged, hanging the framed enlargement in whatever dressing-room fate assigned to him; for Spence never had a long engagement at any one theatre. He was a useful man who could take any part, but had no speciality, and London was full of such.

For a long time he heard nothing from his friend, and the newspaper men to whom Spence indefatigably furnished interesting items about the lone explorer began to look upon Ormond as an African Mrs. Harris, and the paragraphs, to Spence's deep regret, failed to appear. The journalists, who were a flippant lot, used to accost Spence with: "Well, Jimmy, how's your African friend?" and the more he tried to convince them, the less they believed in the peace-loving traveller.

At last there came a final letter from Africa, a letter that filled the tender, middle-aged heart of Spence with the deepest grief he had ever known. It was written in a shaky hand, and the writer began by saying that he knew neither the date nor his locality. He had been ill and delirious with fever, and was now, at last, in his right mind, but felt the grip of death upon him. The natives had told him that no one ever recovered from the malady he had caught in the swamp, and his own feelings led him to believe that his case was hopeless. The natives had been very kind to him throughout, and his followers had promised to bring his boxes to the coast. The boxes contained the collections he had made, and also his complete journal, which he had written up to the day he became ill.

Ormond begged his friend to hand over his belongings to the Geographical Society, and to arrange for the publication of his journal, if possible. It might secure for him the fame he had died to achieve, or it might not; but, he added, he left the whole con- duct of the affair unreservedly to his friend, in whom he had that love and confidence which a man gives to another man but once in his life— when he is young. The tears were in Jimmy's eyes long before he had finished the letter.

He turned to another letter he had received by the same mail, and which also bore the South African stamp upon it. Hoping to find some news of his friend he broke the seal, but it was merely an intimation from the steamship company that half-a-dozen boxes remained at the southern terminus of the line addressed to him; but, they said, until they were assured the freight upon them to Southampton would be paid, they would not be forwarded.

A week later, the London papers announced in large type, "Mysterious disappearance of an actor."The well-known actor, Mr. James Spence, had left the theatre in which he had been playing the part of Joseph to a great actor's Richelieu, and had not been heard of since. The janitor remembered him leaving that night, for he had not returned his salutation, which was most unusual. His friends had noticed that for a few days previous to his disappearance he had been apparently in deep dejection, and fears were entertained. One journalist said jestingly that probably Jimmy had gone to see what had become of his African friend; but the joke, such as it was, was not favourably received, for when a man is called Jimmy until late in life, it shows that people have an affection for him, and everyone who knew Spence was sorry he had disappeared, and hoped that no evil had overtaken him.

IT WAS a year after the disappearance that a wan, living skeleton staggered out of the wilderness in Africa, and blindly groped his way to the coast as a man might who had lived long in darkness and found the light too strong for his eyes. He managed to reach a port, and there took steamer homeward bound for Southampton. The sea- breezes revived him somewhat, but it was evident to all the passengers that he had passed through a desperate illness. It was just a toss-up whether he could live until he saw England again. It was impossible to guess at his age, so heavy a hand had disease laid upon him, and he did not seem to care to make acquaintances, but kept much to himself, sitting wrapped up in his chair, gazing with a tired-out look at the green ocean.

A young girl frequently sat in the chair beside him, ostensibly reading, but more often glancing sympathetically at the wan figure beside her. Many times she seemed about to speak to him, but apparently hesitated to do so, for the man took no notice of his fellow-passengers. At length, however, she mustered up courage to address him, and said: "There is a good story in this magazine: perhaps you would like to read it?" He turned his eyes from the sea and rested them vacantly upon her face for a moment. His dark moustache added to the pallor of his face, but did not conceal the faint smile that came to his lips; he had heard her, but had not understood.

"What did you say?" he asked, gently.

"I said there was a good story here, entitled 'Author! Author!' and I thought you might like to read it," and the girl blushed very prettily as she said this, for the man looked younger than he had done before he smiled.

"I am afraid," said the man, slowly, " that I have forgotten how to read. It is a long time since I have seen a book or a magazine. Won't you tell me the story? I would much rather hear it from you than make an attempt to read it myself in the magazine."

"Oh," she cried, breathlessly, "I'm not sure that I could tell it; at any rate, not as well as the author does; but I will read it to you if you like."

The story was about a man who had written a play, and who thought, as every playwright thinks, that it was a great addition to the drama, and would bring him fame and fortune. He took this play to a London manager, but heard nothing of it for a long time, and at last it was returned to him. Then, on going to a first night at the theatre to see a new tragedy, which this manager called his own, he was amazed to see his rejected play, with certain changes, produced upon the stage, and when the cry "Author! Author!" arose, he stood up in his place; but illness and privation had done their work, and he died proclaiming himself the author of the play.

"Ah," said the man, when the reading was finished, " I cannot tell you how much the story has interested me. I once was an actor myself, and anything pertaining to the stage appeals to me, although it is years since I saw a theatre. It must be hard luck to work for fame and then be cheated out of it, as was the man in the tale ; but I suppose it sometimes happens, although, for the honesty of human nature, I hope not very often."

"Did you act under your own name, or did you follow the fashion so many of the profession adopt?" asked the girl, evidently interested when he spoke of the theatre.

The young man laughed for, perhaps, the first time on the voyage. "Oh," he answered, "I was not at all noted. I acted only in minor parts, and always under my own name, which, doubtless, you have never heard— it is Sidney Ormond."

"What!" cried the girl, in amazement; "not Sidney Ormond the African traveller?"

The young man turned his wan face and large, melancholy eyes upon his questioner.

"I am certainly Sidney Ormond, an African traveller, but I don't think I deserve the 'the,' you know. I don't imagine anyone has heard of me through my travelling any more than through my acting."

"The Sidney Ormond I mean," she said, "went through Africa without firing a shot; whose book, A Mission of Peace, has been such a success, both in England and America. But, of course, you cannot be he ; for I remember that Sidney Ormond is now lecturing in England to tremendous audiences all over the country. The Royal Geographical Society has given him medals or degrees, or something of that sort— perhaps it was Oxford that gave the degree. I am sorry I haven't his book with me, it would be sure to interest you; but someone on board is almost certain to have it, and I will try to get it for you. I gave mine to a friend in Cape Town. What a funny thing it is that the two names should be exactly the same."

"It is very strange," said Ormond, gloomily, and his eyes again sought the horizon and he seemed to relapse into his usual melancholy.

The girl arose from her seat, saying she would try to find the book, and left him there meditating. When she came back, after the lapse of half an hour or so, she found him sitting just as she had left him, with his sad eyes on the sad sea. The girl had a volume in her hand. "

There," she said, "I knew there would be a copy on board, but I am more bewildered than ever; the frontispiece is an exact portrait of you, only you are dressed differently and do not look—" the girl hesitated, "so ill as when you came on board."

Ormond looked up at the girl with a smile, and said:—

"You might say with truth, so ill as I look now."

"Oh, the voyage has done you good. You seem ever so much better than when you came on board."

"Yes, I think that is so," said Ormond, reaching for the volume she held in her hand. He opened it at the frontispiece and gazed long at the picture.

The girl sat down beside him and watched his face, glancing from it to the book.

"It seems to me," she said at last, "that the coincidence is becoming more and more striking. Have you ever seen that portrait before?"

"Yes," said Ormond, slowly. "I recognise it as a portrait I took of myself in the interior of Africa which I sent to a dear friend of mine; in fact, the only friend I had in England. I think I wrote him about getting together a book out of the materials I sent him, but I am not sure. I was very ill at the time I wrote him my last letter. I thought I was going to die, and told him so. I feel somewhat bewildered, and don't quite understand it all."

"I understand it," cried the girl, her face blazing with indignation. "Your friend is a traitor. He is reaping the reward that should have been yours, and so poses as the Afiican traveller, the real Ormond. You must put a stop to it when you reach England, and expose his treachery to the whole country."

Ormond shook his head slowly and said:—

"I cannot imagine Jimmy Spence a traitor. If it were only the book, that could be, I think, easily explained, for I sent him all my notes of travel and materials; but I cannot understand his taking the medals or degrees."

The girl made a quick gesture of impatience.

"Such things," she said, "cannot be explained. You must confront him and expose him."

"No," said Ormond, "I shall not confront him. I must think over the matter for a time. I am not quick at thinking, at least just now, in the face of this difficulty. Everything seemed plain and simple before, but if Jimmy Spence has stepped into my shoes, he is welcome to them. Ever since I came out of Africa I seem to have lost all ambition. Nothing appears to be worth while now."

"Oh!" cried the girl, "that is because you are in ill-health. You will be yourself again when you reach England. Don't let this trouble you now— there is plenty of time to think it all out before we arrive. I am sorry I spoke about it ; but, you see, I was taken by surprise when you mentioned your name."

"I am very glad you spoke to me," said Ormond, in a more cheerful voice. "The mere fact that you have talked with me has encouraged me wonderfully. I cannot tell how much this conversation has been to me. I am a lone man, with only one friend in the world— I am afraid I must add now, without even one friend in the world. I am grateful for your interest in me, even though it was only compassion for a wreck— for a derelict, floating about on the sea of life."

There were tears in the girl's eyes, and she did not speak for a moment, then she laid her hand softly on Ormond's arm, and said, "You are not a wreck, far from it. You sit alone too much, and I am afraid that what I have thoughtlessly said has added to your troubles." The girl paused in her talk, but after a moment added:—

"Don't you think you could walk the deck for a little?"

"I don't know about walking," said Ormond, with a little laugh, "but I'll come with you if you don't mind an incumbrance."

He rose somewhat unsteadily, and she took his arm.

"You must look upon me as your physician," she said, cheerfully, "and I shall insist that my orders are obeyed."

"I shall be delighted to be under your charge," said Ormond, "but may I not know my physician's name?"

The girl blushed deeply when she realized that she had had such a long conversation with one to whom she had never been introduced. She had regarded him as an invalid, who needed a few words of cheerful encouragement, but as he stood up she saw that he was much younger than his face and appearance had led her to suppose.

"My name is Mary Radford," she said.

"Miss Mary Radford?" inquired Ormond.

"Miss Mary Radford."

That walk on the deck was the first of many, and it soon became evident to Ormond that he was rapidly becoming his old self again. If he had lost a friend in England, he had certainly found another on board ship to whom he was getting more and more attached as time went on. The only point of disagreement between them was in regard to the confronting of Jimmy Spence. Ormond was determined in his resolve not to interfere with Jimmy and his ill-gotten fame.

As the voyage was nearing its end, Ormond and Miss Radford stood together leaning over the rail conversing quietly. They had become very great friends indeed.

"But if you do not intend to expose this man," said Miss Radford, " what then do you propose to do when you land ? Are you going back to the stage again ? "

"I don't think so," replied Ormond. "I shall try to get something to do and live quietly for awhile."

"Oh!" answered the girl, "I have no patience with you."

"I am sorry for that, Mary," said Ormond, "for if I could have made a living, I intended to have asked you to be my wife."

"Oh!" cried the girl, breathlessly, turning her head away.

"Do you think I would have any chance?" asked Ormond.

"Of making a living?" inquired the girl, after a moment's silence.

"No. I am sure of making a living, for I have always done so; therefore answer my question. Mary, do you think I would have any chance?" and he placed his hand softly over hers, which lay on the ship's rail. The girl did not answer, but she did not withdraw her hand  she gazed down at the bright green water with its tinge of foam.

"I suppose you know," she said at length, "that you have every chance, and you are merely pretending ignorance to make it easier for me, because I have simply flung myself at your head ever since we began the voyage."

"I am not pretending, Mary," he said. " What I feared was that your interest was only that of a nurse in a somewhat backward patient. I was afraid that I had your sympathy but not your love. Perhaps that was the case at first."

"Perhaps that was the case— at first, but it is far from being the truth now— Sidney."

The young man made a motion to approach nearer to her, but the girl drew away, whispering:—

"There are other people besides ourselves on deck, remember."

"I don't believe it," said Ormond, gazing fondly at her. "I can see no one but you. I believe we are floating alone on the ocean together, and that there is no one else m the wide world but our two selves. I thought I went to Africa for fame, but I see I really went to find you. What I sought seems poor compared to what I have found."

"Perhaps," said the girl, looking shyly at him, "Fame is waiting as anxiously for you to woo her as— as another person waited. Fame is a shameless hussy, you know."

The young man shook his head.

"No. Fame has jilted me once. I won't give her another chance."

So those who were twain sailed gently into Southampton Docks, resolved to be one when the gods were willing.

Mary Radford's people were there to meet her, and Ormond went up to London alone, beginning his short railway journey with a return of the melancholy that had oppressed him during the first part of his long voyage. He felt once more alone in the world, now that the bright presence of his sweetheart was missing, and he was saddened by the thought that the telegram he had hoped to send to Jimmy Spence, exultingly announcing his arrival, would never be sent. In a newspaper he bought at the station, he saw that the African traveller, Sidney Ormond, was to be received by the Mayor and Corporation of a Midland town, and presented with the freedom of the city. The traveller was to lecture on his exploits in the town so honouring him, that day week. Ormond put down the paper with a sigh, and turned his thoughts to the girl from whom he had so lately parted. A true sweetheart is a pleasanter subject for meditation than a false friend.

Mary also saw the announcement in the paper, and anger tightened her lips and brought additional colour to her cheeks. Seeing how averse her lover was to taking any action against his former friend, she had ceased to urge him, but she had quietly made up her own mind to be herself the goddess of the machine.

On the night the bogus African traveller was to lecture in the Midland town, Mary Radford was a unit in the very large audience that greeted him. When he came on the platform she was so amazed at his personal appearance that she cried out, but fortunately her exclamation was lost in the applause that greeted the lecturer. The man was the exact duplicate of her betrothed.

She listened to the lecture in a daze; it seemed to her that even the tones of the lecturer's voice were those of her lover. She paid little heed to the matter of his discourse, but allowed her mind to dwell more on the coming interview, wondering what excuses the fraudulent traveller would make for his perfidy. When the lecture was over, and the usual vote of thanks had been tendered and accepted, Mary Radford still sat there while the rest of the audience slowly filtered out of the large hall. She rose at last, nerving herself for the coming meeting, and went to the side door, where she told the man on duty that she wished to see the lecturer. The man said that it was impossible for Mr. Ormond to see anyone at that moment; there was to be a big supper ; he was to meet the Mayor and Corporation; and so the lecturer had said that he could see no one.

"Will you take a note to him if I write it?" asked the girl.

"I will send it in to him; but it's no use, he won't see you. He refused to see even the reporters," said the door-keeper, as if that were final, and a man who would deny himself to the reporters would not admit Royalty itself.

Mary wrote on a slip of paper the words, "The affianced wife of the real Sidney Ormond would like to see you for a few moments," and this brief note was taken in to the lecturer.

The door-keeper's faith in the constancy of public men was rudely shaken a few minutes later, when the messenger returned with orders that the lady was to be admitted at once.

When Mary entered the green-room of the lecture hall she saw the double of her lover standing near the fire, her note in his hand and a look of incredulity on his face.

The girl barely entered the room, and, closing the door, stood with her back against it. He was the first to speak.

"I thought Sidney had told me everything ; I never knew he was acquainted with a young lady, much less engaged to her."

"You admit, then, that you are not the true Sidney Ormond?"

"I admit it to you, of course, if you were to have been his wife."

"I am to be his wife, I hope."

"But Sidney, poor fellow, is dead; dead in the wilds of Africa."

"You will be shocked to learn that such is not the case, and that your imposture must come to an end. Perhaps you counted on his friendship for you, and thought that even if he did return he would not expose you. In that you were quite right, but you did not count on me. Sidney Ormond is at this moment in London, Mr. Spence."

Jimmy Spence, paying no attention to the accusations of the girl, gave a war-whoop which had formerly been so effective in the second act of "Pocahontas," in which Jimmy had enacted the noble savage, and then he danced a jig that had done service in "Colleen Bawn." While the amazed girl watched these antics, Jimmy suddenly swooped down upon her, caught her around the waist, and whirled her wildly around the room. Setting her down in a corner, Jimmy became himself again, and dabbed his heated brow with his handkerchief carefully, so as not to disturb the make-up.

"Sidney in England again? That's too good news to be true. Say it again, my girl, I can hardly believe it. Why didn't he come with you? Is he ill?"

"He has been very ill."

"Ah, that's it, poor fellow. I knew nothing else would have kept him. And then when he telegraphed to me at the old address, on landing, of course, there was no reply, because, you see, I had disappeared. But Sid wouldn't know anything about that, and so he must be wondering what has become of me. I'll have a great story to tell him when we meet; almost as good as his own African experiences. We'll go right up to London to-night, as soon as this confounded supper is over. And what is your name, my girl?"

"Mary Radford."

"And you're engaged to old Sid, eh? Well! well! well! well! This is great news. You mustn't mind my capers, Mary, my dear; you see, I'm the only friend Sid has, and I'm old enough to be your father. I look young now, but you wait till the paint comes off. Have you any money? I mean, to live on when you're married; because I know Sidney never had much."

"I haven't very much either," said Mary, with a sigh. Jimmy jumped up and paced the room in great glee, laughing and slapping his thigh.

"That's first-rate," he cried. "Why, Mary, I've got over £20,000 in the bank saved up for you two. The book and lectures, you know. I don't believe Sid himself could have done as well, for he always was careless with money— he's often lent me the last penny he had, and never kept any account of it; and I never thought of paying it back, either, until he was gone, and then it worried me."

The messenger put his head into the room, and said the Mayor and the Corporation were waiting.

"Oh, hang the Mayor and the Corporation!" cried Jimmy; then, suddenly recollecting himself, he added, hastily, "No, don't do that. Just give them Jimmy— I mean Sidney— Ormond's compliments, and tell his Worship that I have just had some very important news from Africa, but will be with them directly."

When the messenger was gone Jimmy continued in high feather. "What a time we shall have in London. We'll all three go to the old familiar theatre, yes, and by Jove, we'll pay for our seats; that will be a novelty. Then we will have supper where Sid and I used to eat. Sidney shall talk, and you and I will listen; then I shall talk, and you and Sid will listen. You see, my dear, I've been to Africa too. When I got Sidney's letter saying he was dying I just moped about and was of no use to anybody. Then I made up my mind what to do. Sid had died for fame, and it wasn't just he shouldn't get what he paid so dearly for. I gathered together what money I could and went to Africa, steerage. I found I couldn't do anything there about searching for Sid, so I resolved to be his understudy and bring fame to him, if it were possible. I sank my own identity and made up as Sidney Ormond, took his boxes and sailed for Southampton. I have been his understudy ever since, for, after all, I always had a hope he would come back some day, and then everything would be ready for him to take the principal rôle, and let the old understudy go back to the boards again and resume competing with the reputation of Macready. If Sid hadn't come back in another year, I was going to take a lecturing trip in America, and when that was done, I intended to set out in great state for Africa, disappear into the forest as Sidney Ormond, wash the paint off and come out as Jimmy Spence. Then Sidney Ormond's fame would have been secure, for they would be always sending out relief expeditions after him and not finding him, while I would be growing old on the boards and bragging what a great man my friend, Sidney Ormond, was."

There were tears in the girl's eyes as she rose and took Jimmy's hand.

"No man has ever been so true a friend to his friend as you have been," she said.

"Oh, bless you, yes," cried Jimmy, jauntily. "Sid would have done the same for me. But he is luckier in having you than in having his friend, although I don't deny I've been a good friend to him. Yes, my dear, he is lucky in having a plucky girl like you. I missed that somehow when I was young, having my head full of Macready nonsense, and I missed being a Macready too. I've always been a sort of understudy, so you see the part comes easy to me. Now I must be off to that confounded Mayor and Corporation. I had almost forgotten them, but I must keep up the character for Sidney's sake. But this is the last act, my dear. Tomorrow I'll turn over the part of explorer to the real actor... to the star."

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6: Burning Horseshoe

A Tale of the Afghan Border

Frank Savile

1865-1950

The Strand Magazine May 1903

Savile was an English novelist whose scope ranged from sea tales to fantasy, the best known fantastic novel being "Beyond the Great South Wall", a novel of a lost race in Antarctica. His own life was adventurous, even to the point, aged 50, of fighting in WW1 and being wounded at Gallipoli.

"I DON'T think much of your botany," said Miss Grey.

Streatfeild swung lazily in his hammock and pondered on the joys of quarrelling— actually quarrelling— with the object of his devotion. For two long years he had adored her, but his opportunities of making it manifest had been limited to hours— or, at any rate, to single days— at intervals. of two months or more. Now, thanks to his attack of fever and to his chief's hospitality, he had been basking in the light of her countenance for a week—a whole exquisite week that had brought them to a pitch of intimacy that actually made a squabble possible. He smiled contentedly.

"And yet," he deprecated, "I have been studying plant life upon the hills for over five years !"

"And to such little advantage that I have discovered more than you in a little less than two. I tell you gnaphalium abounds below the snow line— if you know where to look for it."

Streatfeild shook his head.

"Seeing will be believing, have never come across it."

"And I repeat that I know where to find it in acres— simply in acres!"

"Where, may I ask, if the information isn't a monopoly?"

She smiled at her father as he came up the veranda steps and dropped into a basket-chair.

"Captain Streatfeild refuses to believe that the dried bunch of gnaphalium above the looking-glass is home-grown, dad," she said.

"Nonsense, my boy," said Sir Robert. "You mustn't think that your barren district of Kotal includes the whole flora and fauna of the Hindoo Koosh. It's a perfect weed above Burning Horseshoe Fall."

"Burning Horseshoe?" Streatfeild considered for a moment. "That's in the Kalentar district, isn't it?"

"Yes. Half-a-dozen miles across the border."

"Wasn't that where Futteh Khan—?" began Streatfeild.

"Yes," interrupted his chief. "Ten years ago that was the scene of his exploits. It's as safe as Piccadilly now."

Streatfeild nodded. —

"So they tell me," he said. "But Burning Horseshoe? What's the origin of such an extraordinary name?"

Sir Robert Grey laughed.

"You wouldn't ask if you saw it at mid-day. The water drops a sheer hundred feet over a perfect horseshoe rock. When the full sun is on it and the reflection from the red rocks tinges it, it looks like molten brass. It's a wonderful gorge, and as for gnaphalium, it abounds on both sides of it."

"Well— are you satisfied?" asked Miss Grey, as her father rose and passed on into the house. But Streatfeild was not going to let the luxury of dissension drop too soon.—

"Seeing is believing," he repeated, obstinately, and the two continued to bandy words till the dusk and the tinkle of the gong reminded them that dinner still holds a place in the most Elysian order of things.

Next morning, as the dawn broke over the hills, Streatfeild came leisurely down the veranda steps. He was smiling to himself as he strolled towards the stables. Argument had carried him far into his intimacy with Miss Grey the day before, but he considered that he had worked it a little threadbare. To-day, he told himself, he would reverse his tactics. He would ride out to the gorge !n Kalentar, obtain a specimen of the dispute: plant, and, with the visible sign of his penitence in his hand, would secure the grace of a prolonged forgiveness— one that should be fled with possibilities of tenderest submission. He clapped his hands to rouse the drowsy syce.

The man came out, rubbing his eyes, disappeared into the stable.

Three minutes later Streatfeild's impatience made him follow. He noted suddenly that the loose-box next his own was empty.

"Where is the memsahib's mare?" he demanded, with a sudden vague misgiving.

With a cringing obeisance the man answered that its owner had already ridden it out— to exercise.

"With escort ? " asked Streatfeild, curtly.

"No, sahib," answered the groom, "alone"; and at the word Streatfeild swung himself to the back of his chestnut and trotted quickly down the Residency road. He halted at the guard-room, which was the extreme limit of the little cantonment.

"Has Miss Grey passed, corporal?" he asked, as the man saluted; the chestnut was bucking and dancing in the tingle of the cool dawn air.

"Yes, sir," said the soldier, and pointed north along the valley towards the frontier hills; "half an hour ago."

The switch fell sharply on the charger's withers, and Streatfeild thundered off across the cultivated lands and down to the river-bed. Instinct told him what had occurred. Beatrice Grey's thoughts had run in a parallel groove to his own. She, too, had risen early to prove her contention, and by now was two miles or more ahead, riding for Burning Horseshoe Gorge, intent on bringing back what would crush his incredulity to earth. He frowned as he understood how his brilliant plans of submission would be set awry.

A little reflection, however, cleared his brow. Let him but overtake her before she reached her destination, and he would avow his pursuit as proof of his penitence and of his devotion. The spurs went home into the chestnut's flanks at the thought.

Along the river-bed the going was good enough. The pebbles, it is true, were loose, and spun from beneath his horse's hoofs, but the sandy loam between them made the footing good. And it had another advantage. Distinctly every few yards he could trace that a rider had passed. A mile farther on, as the hoof-prints veered sharply to the left, he blessed the luck that made them visible. Without this trail he would probably have missed his way.

The path grew more and more difficult. In places the great grey cliffs overhung, and the winter snows had brought down drifts of rubble that almost filled the narrow gorge. The little streams that purred beneath the boulders were well-nigh lost to sight, so deep were the crevices. His horse began to breathe heavily.

He topped a ridge-like formation that hid the further vista of the ravine, and then saw far away, but white and gleaming in the rising light, what could only be the end of his quest— Burning Horseshoe Fall. A huge volume of water burst from the head of a precipice and fell without a break into the pit of the valley below. It looked like the spreading tail of some gigantic milk-white steed, stark and shining against the shadowing rocks, falling in a curve of exquisite grace.

He lifted his helmet and shouted. But not only in satisfaction at his discovery. A couple of furlongs ahead, guiding a horse skilfully between the granite blocks, he had recognised a rider. Beatrice was in front of him! All was well!

His voice reached her. She turned in the saddle, and the faint echo of a laugh came back to him. Her horse began to canter sharply. He understood. She was spurring to be first at the goal. It was to be a race, was it? Well, he would back his chestnut, in spite of all the prizes the mare had won her owner in Simla itself. He gave another shout, and sent his nag racing down the slope at a reckless gallop.

At first her light weight told. Streatfeild's horse, too, was winded from the long ascent, while hers had already had ten minutes of downhill to recover in. But by degrees, as the chestnut regained breath, and as its rider's fine hands and careful handling came into play, the interval decreased. Streatfeild sent a laughing challenge across it.

He was answered, but not by her. A shot clanged from the heights on his left, and echoed from crag to crag down the gorge. His horse gave a convulsive bound, reared, fought the air, and fell in a motionless heap, sending the rider flying from the saddle, to roll stunned upon the boulders.

Streatfeild heard a cry and then the clatter of returning hoofs. He tottered to his feet as Beatrice drew rein beside him. She slid trom the saddle, and another shot pealed into the silences of the gorge.

"Are you hurt?— are you hurt?" she wailed, her fingers trembling upon his arm. He shook his head. The bullet had sung harmlessly down the ravine, but the mare, frightened though untouched, tore the rein from its mistress's hand, and in a moment was galloping wildly back in the direction of her stable. Another bullet whizzed and fell beside them with a flip.

Streatfeild gripped the girls hand and dragged her behind the nearest rock. From beneath its protection he peered up the crags.

A swarthy Pathan face grinned wickedly over a rubble heap, and a cry of triumph rang up to the heights. Lifting his eyes, Streatfeild was aware of a score of figures leaping from ledge to ledge as they hurried to join the watcher in the gorge. He fumbled hastily for the revolver that every white man carries on the border line.

The single figure rose into the open, hold- ing up the long jezail that had dealt death to the chestnut's fiery heart. Streatfeild drew a breath and steadied himself. Evidently the Pathan believed him to be unarmed.

With the sure foot of a trained cragsman the man came bounding from cranny to cranny, eager to be the first to claim and handle the spoil his lucky bullet had dealt him. Streatfeild crouched motionless till he was within twenty yards.

Then, as he rose, another report stormed the echoes. Without a cry the man flung up his arms and pitched forward into a crevice. A yell of rage floated down from above, while Streatfeild, grasping at Beatrice's wrist, began to run with all his strength down the gorge, dodging warily from cover to cover among the boulders, and dragging the girl desperately after him.

There was no escape— that he knew well enough ; no booted feet can hope to compete with the slippered Pathan in his own hills. But there was the off-chance of finding a position— a cave, the summit of a rock, a niche between the granite blocks— that he might hold with his revolver till aid came. For aid must come, he told himself. Two native regiments and half an English battalion would not allow a white woman to be kidnapped into those upland wilds without most fierce and persistent inquiry. Let him but hold out till evening— even till afternoon— and rescue would surely come.

For half a mile they ran almost blindly. The bullets flicked the pebbles beside them; the yells of rage rang behind them. The soft river silt clogged their riding boots; Beatrice stumbled in her clinging riding-habit. But still they ran doggedly, the chafe of the flinty rubble torturing their feet, the breath coming from their lungs in agonized gasps.

And then, at a sudden jerk, the girl's hand was torn from her companion's grasp. She sank down, speechless, panting. Her foot had slipped between two pebbles, and the fall had finished what the half-mile race had begun. Streatfeild realized that she, at any rate, could not move another yard.

He stared desperately about him, cursing grimly below his breath as he heard the triumphant howl of the pursuers. A hundred yards away, across the stream, a splinter had slid from the cliff top and leaned against the crag foot at an angle which left a gap a bare yard wide. He eyed it keenly.

A bullet struck the earth at Beatrice's feet and flung the sand upon her face. She gave acry. Streatfeild wheeled round, swung her up in his arms, and raced desperately across the river-bed. This frail fortress would suffice for these hill dogs— they would know surely enough the fate that would befall the first man who cared to force that narrow way. He would defy them till the hour of rescue came. Another instant and he had rounded the breastwork of stone and laid his burden in safety behind it.

Turning, he saw the mob of pursuers race across the open, charge up the slope, and halt. For the first time they realized the position that had to be won.

They chattered and gesticulated, and one by one others joined them, till every gorge and cañon seemed to give up its man. Then a leader gained a hearing, and, apparently, a meed of approval. A mighty laugh rose jeeringly from the listeners, while a couple of runners separated from the rest and sped back up the gorge. The others settled down contentedly to rain filthy Pahktu jests at the tenants of the improvised fort, though any attempt at an attack on it they seemed to have foregone altogether.

"If they do no more than yell and shake their fists," said Streatfeild, "we shall scrape through yet. In an hour or two five hundred men will be perspiring up this gorge. How the Tommies will swear!" he added, with a half laugh, to keep the humorous side of the question uppermost.

For an instant Beatrice was silent. Then she shook her head.

"I don't trust them," she said. "Wait till the men who ran up the valley return; they have some plan in their heads, some  cunning device we don't bargain for."

Streatfeild smiled grimly.

"One thing is certain," said he. "I have five cartridges left. Four men will have to die to win this gap. I think they realize it."

She looked up at him questioningly.

"Four?" she asked; "four?"

He hesitated a moment before he answered; then he met her eyes steadily.

"You would wish me to keep one cartridge —if—if the worst came?" He saw her cheeks whiten beneath the tan, but her eyes were as unflinching as his own.

"Yes," she answered, quietly, "yes, I should certainly wish that," and for the next ten minutes there was silence between them, broken only by the distant roar of the torrent or the scream of a hovering kite.

Then by some sudden instinct Beatrice raised her eyes towards the overshadowing cliff. A cry rang from her lips; Streatfeild whirled round, followed her glance, and was just in time to thrust her to earth and fling up his elbow. A dozen swarthy faces peered over the crag top, a jeer rose from the waiting mob beside the river, and Streatfeild's shoulder received the lump of granite that would have fallen upon his companion's head. A second missile struck his temple, stunning him into unconsciousness.

With a roar the hillmen rose to their feet and swept up the slope. Struggling beneath the weight of Streatfeild's body, Beatrice grasped the revolver he had dropped just as a hairy Pathan hand fell upon her wrist. There was a gasp, a jerk, and with the sound of a muffled report a Pathan body sank upon the stones and lay still. It was no bloodless victory, after all, for the attack.

Half an hour later, as Streat- feild's senses fluttered back to him, the roar of many waters was in his ears, and the aching pain of tight-lashed flax about his wrists and ankles. The rhythmic swing of men keeping step bore him along. He peered from side to side.  Half-a-dozen men held him by his lashings, while, beside him, as many more were carrying Beatrice. Her face was white, her eyes were closed. She was dead, he told himself, and thanked Heaven that she had had the courage to do for herself what he had meant to do for her. That must have been 53?

it—that shot that had rung in his ears as he fainted beneath that stunning blow.

And then the thanksgiving died upon his lips. Beatrice opened her eyes and looked at him, and for a long instant those two plumbed in each other's glance the uttermost depth of despair. Do what he would he could not restrain the groan that burst from him, and the Pathan carriers, hearing, laughed with cruel zest.

He stared up the rugged path, and understood the increasing thunder of waters that he heard. The procession of their bearers was advancing steadily upon the cascade— they were within a furlong of Burning Horseshoe Fall. The blow-back of its spray was actually upon his face; he forced his head round and, looking down, gazed straight into the boiling pit of eddies below. And then for a moment his heart stood still.

This was their fate, then— this was to be the end of it all. Beatrice and he were to be flung into that yeasty whirlpool beneath, to be crushed out of life in that cruel mill of rock and leaping foam. He shuddered, and then, re flecting, thanked Heaven again. At least it would be quick— a moment's agony and then forgetfulness. Nay, compared with some possibilities of Pathan savagery it was mercy itself!

Yet he turned away his eyes. He would be brave when the time came— he prayed that it might not be long— but it sapped even his steady nerve to look down into that pit. His heart went out to Beatrice in agony. If it appalled him, a man who many times had met death face to face, what must it be to her, whose life had known nothing of peril or despair?

They were within a stone's throw now, standing under the very shadow of the cascade's brim. The boom of it was deafening ; the rocks were dripping with its drifting rain. At a word from the leader the men halted, laying down their burdens upon a ledge that overlooked the very heart of the turmoil.

He beckoned forward two other of his underlings—huge, muscular, dark-limbed fellows these, agrin with malignant glee. They stooped, one at Streatfeild's feet, one at his head. They lifted him. Slowly at first, but with increasing impetus, they began to swing him backwards and forwards, gaining momentum, so he told himself, to send him with one final heave far out into the grip of the cataract, to be ham- mered into pulp in the teeth of the rocks below.

Out and back they swung him, out and backagain. Once more— the pace increased — a second time —a third— he felt the relaxation of their grip that was the prelude to the final release— now— this was the end— with tremendous impetus he flew outwards— believed that the bitterness of death was past, and— stopped.

His guards still held him, panting, while the surrounding ruffans whooped their devilish merriment. Oh, it wasa grand game this— to see the hated giaour gasp and strain his thews to meet the end— to note the wild agony change to the final despair in his eyes— to watch each pang of alternate hope and fear throb across his face— this was sport, if you like; this was a joke that failed to pall; that could and should be repeated till every possibility of torture had been probed. In eager couples they pressed forward to take their share in the entrancing revel, grumbling as they told each other regretfully that the woman had fainted, and that there was no chance to double these exquisite joys of torment. And so through long minutes of agony the inhuman game was played.

A rifle-shot pealed in the valley below. The leader, a tall, savage-looking greybeard, leaped upon a boulder, shading his eyes. He gave a curt order. The prisoners were hastily seized and lifted. Holding to the rocks with one hand while they supported their burdens with the other, the bearers climbed from niche to niche, scrambling, panting, bruising their captives as they dragged them up the sheer ascent. They seemed to be entering the very fall itself; the little streams that flanked it fell heavily upon them, wetting them to the skin. ,

They poised themselves for an instant upon a narrow ledge, then, with a sudden rush, passed through a solid curtain of water, and in an instant were within an empty chamber of the rock, a spacious cavern behind the very centre of the cataract. The sunlight flamed through it in a thousand rainbow rays.

The two were laid upon the dripping slope. Then, at a haughty wave of the hand from their leader, the bearers withdrew. The man himself stood over them, smiling like some evil faun. He bent, and raised his voice to a shout to make himself heard above the uproar of the cascade.

"The sahib and the memsahib have learned one secret of the hills!" be cried, "even the mystery of the Burning Horseshoe Fall. Hear another one! Who am I that address you? Nay— puzzle not your brains. "lis news too recent to have reached you. Futteh Khan am I— Futteh Khan, who ten long and weary years have grizzled in Agra Gaol— Futteh Khan, true lord of these uplands, who have come like a homing pigeon to mine own— come, too, in a happy hour to find recompense for the long torments of my shackling! Truly that is worth the hearing, is it not? Speak, son of my gaolers!" he cried, and swung his slippered heel on Streatfeild's face.

The other looked up at him steadily, the red mark of the blow flushing his ashen cheeks.

"Little have you learned of our rule in ten years, Futteh Khan," he answered, "if you think that this matter will go unpunished. Before the sun is low two thousand men will be storming the farthest pinnacle of your hills to call you to account. Release us on the instant if you would keep your villages from the flames and your followers from the harrying and the blood tax."

The Afghan laughed malignantly.

"They come already, sahib, they come! Their skirmishers top the end of the ravine. Call to them— cry aloud— shriek— and then know that not the roar of cannon can pierce the bellow of the fall. Ravish our homes? By Allah's Holy Prophet they may make our hills a barren desert before I bate a jot of my revenge. Will they fight? A thousand of my men seek no dearer joy than to slay them from behind every sangar of the slopes. Let them hunt and hunt again! Will they stay, think you, when their search is vain? Nay— they will come, they will be about you a few paces and they might stand at your side— and they will depart, knowing nothing. Think of it, sahib, think of it! Ponder of rescue, know it nigh to touching you, and know, too, that it must go by unheeding. And then, sahib, and then—" He licked his cruel lips.

Streatfeild's eyes did not waver.

'And then, Futteh Khan, and then?"

The Afghan grinned, ferociously.

"Then— aye, then, the days of my exile shall have recompense! Did I groan beneath the lash? Nay, I met their tortures silent. But you shall cry aloud, man of my oppressors, when my brand is on your flesh. Did my wives and my little ones weep for my pardon, whining as many a one hath done, at your booted feet? Nay, the pride of the hills was with them, but your sister shall furnish tears, and more than tears, before my knife grants her the mercy of her release. Revenge? By the Prophets beard it shall bé one worthy of me— one that shall be sung when you and I and all who tread these hills are dust in as many graves! And now I go to deal with those who seek you, sahib— to deal with these clumsy swine of Sikhs and English, who search to find no more than bullets from my jezail. Be patient, sahib— not willingly do I desert you, and swift will be my return. Lie there and meditate— muse on the rescue at the very threshold of your cage, and know it vain, sahib, know it vain!" He gave a mocking wave of the hand and was gone.

And alone, with that interminable roar dinning in their ears, with that pauseless avalanche of water seething past their eyes, bound, helpless, hopeless, the two were left to ponder of death, and worse than death— to pray, in very truth, for the merciful release of madness itself!

As the hours passed the reaction of stupor set in. The ceaseless roar, the flashing of myriad lights of spray, hunger, pain— these all did their work. For Streatfeild life itself seemed ended, and the future but a vague emptiness of the unknown. He sank by degrees into a  semi-consciousness that scarcely recognised even pain.

And then a sharp pang gripped his arm— a burning stab of anguish that stung his numbed nerves to life. He opened his eyes, to be dazzled by a blinding glare. In spite of the cool draughts that were astir about the falling waters the atmosphere was suffocating. The rock on which he lay was an oven.

He looked along the water-worn granite. The rocks were no longer shining with the misty rain. It fell, but in the act of falling turned to steam. Nay, in one place, not a yard from his side, where a tiny stream trickled from the cavern roof, the drops boiled and sizzled as they touched the stone. As he moved the flesh of his bare hand met the crag. He nearly shrieked. It was hot— red-hot, as if some mighty furnace burnt below! Was this mystery of the hills a deeper one than even he had thought? Were they in some chance outlet of eternal volcanic fires?

Then, suddenly, as he turned his eyes again upon the glare that pierced the torrent, the secret became plain. The furnace was above— not below; the blaze reached him from without—not from within. That great arc of water was concentrating the rays of the sun, focusing them into a white-hot bead of light. upon the rock beside him. He was behind a stupendous burning glass!

For an instant his breath came in gasps. He shrunk — he writhed back from the dazzling speck. Was this part of the torture evolved from the Afghan's savage brain?— were they purposely set in its path to be scorched, grilled alive by that relentless flame?

The next instant he was shuffling towards, not away from it, using every nerve and sinew of his limbs to thrust him nearer. For it meant hope, liberty, life itself. With desperate eagerness he plunged his fettered wrists upon the glowing disc, straining the flaxen cord to the utmost tension of its strands.

He groaned ; the core of the blaze was centred upon the knot between his palms, but the rim was upon his very flesh. The skin grew crisp, scorched, and flaked away before his very eyes. He set his teeth, the perspiration dripped from. every pore. His heart was pulsing in beats that seemed to choke him. The cords grew black, charred, but only, so it seemed, on the outside. He levered his arms apart, frantic with pain, but as yet there was no giving of his fetters, while the burnt flesh simmered down to his very bones.

Something— some tiny breath of sound— seemed to filter through the drowning uproars of the cataract. Was it a rifle-shot?—were his friends indeed at his prison doors? He tugged madly, convulsively, at the ungiving bonds.

He heard the pad of slippers. With his hands still grimly motionless upon the grilling stone he looked up.  Futteh Khan was emerging from the curtain of the spray.

The Afghan regarded him with malignant, satisfied eyes. As yet no suspicions had reached him. He laughed.

"They are within a hundred paces, these friends. of yours, sahib, so near that I, a peaceful man, have had to join you to avoid them. Cry upon them, summon them, suffer them not to pass and lack your hospitality. In Allah's name invite them in!"

There was no answer in words. With a twang the blackened strands parted, and Streatfeild was tearing at his still pinioned feet. Futteh Khan roared a fierce oath and sprang forward, unsheathing the great knife in his belt.

The Englishman half rose, feinted a blow with his fist, and then flung himself across the Afghan's path.

There was a shock. The slippered feet slid on the sun-smoothed rock, and the slash of the dagger met empty air. The weapon itself flew wide and clattering as its owner sprawled heavily upon his elbows, stunning himself against the granite ledge.

Streatfeild's heavy riding-boot came home upon the turbaned head. The Afghan scrabbled wildly at the polished stone, to find no hold. He began to slide, gaining momentum at every yard. The shriek that rang out seemed to pierce even the sullen thunders of the fall; the desperate hands clutched and clutched again, to grasp— nothing. The red waistband streaked the green wall of water for one lightning instant, and then was gone, as a wisp of straw might go, into the churn of the boiling eddies below.

Still with the dull stupor of one who dreamed, Streatfeild found himself picking up the gleaming blade and slashing at the cords on Beatrice's wrists, and as one in a vision he supported her through the veil of waters, down the spray-glossed cliff, and almost into the arms of a score of burly Sikhs who were peering aimlessly into the crannies, while they sent hideous threats and unavailing bullets at the jeering Pathans on the heights. And to them his explanations were vague and incoherent. When Sir Robert Grey and five hundred other wholesome English faces came in a wild cheering rush up the ravine, he felt a sudden throb pulse into his head and watched gravely, without remark, the fainting of Beatrice in her father's arms.

He sat down weakly. His hands fell upon something velvet soft, and he recognised that all round him grew a wide bed of grey-leaved plants, with wool-like, downy petals.

At that he gave a queer laugh, stooped down, and plucked a generous handful.

"Gnaphalium!" muttered Streatfeild, and smiled broadly as he, too, reeled down in a dead faint.

THE MOON shone into the veranda that evening with vivid beams that made the shadows bands of velvet and the open square a silver lake. Streatfeild, deliberating on their beauties, turned at the rustle of a gown. Beatrice stood before him, the light upon her face, the shadow on her hair. Her eyes were misty and her lips trembled. For a long instant the two kept silence.

"After all," he said, suddenly, "you were right."

He pulled the bunch of crumpled leaves from his pocket and smoothed them between his bandaged hands.

"Will you take them?" he asked, "and keep them?" he added, with his eyes upon her face.

A smile began to grow through her rising tears.

"With your penitence?" she answered, holding out her hand.

He shook his head.

"No— but with my heart," he said, and took her in his arms,

_________________

7: The Great Boycott at the Hotel D'Angleterre

Mrs C. N. Williamson

1869-1933

Strand Magazine, Sept 1902

IT WAS at dinner that the Horror first burst upon the guests of the Hôtel d'Angleterre at Métretat, in Brittany.

The season of Métretat had only just begun, but already all the usual people were there; for Métretat was different from other watering-places, and the Angleterre was different from other hotels. Both were exclusive, in the most esoteric sense of that abused term; both were at this time of the year given up to the English. One of the leaders of a certain set which had a hereditary right to look down upon persons merely "smart" had " discovered" Métretat some years before, and had discreetly confided its charms to a few of the brightest and best; consequently a colony of exactly the right people had practically annexed Métretat and the one hotel of the place. Rooms were engaged during one season for another, so that, if intrusive strangers dared try to break the charmed circle, the landlord was able to thwart the attempt by announcing that the house was full.

To spend August and September at the Hôtel d'Angleterre was like being a member of a big country-house party, for everybody knew everybody else, and most of the forty-five or fifty people called each other by their Christian names, or, still better, nicknames invented as a souvenir of some funny adventure, or to fit some pleasant little peculiarity. If strangers contrived to get in they were not really strangers, but guests, or, at least, friends of someone in the set; everyone knew all about them and (unless they were particularly amusing, in which case ancestors could be dispensed with) who their great-grandfathers had been.

There was nothing of the mushroom, nouveau riche element among the guests who came each summer to the little, old-fashioned, sleepy village on the rocky coast of Brittany. There was no ostentation, no outshining one another in dress. The women wore short serge skirts and blouses or white piqué frocks till dinner-time, when they changed to the simplest possible gowns; and it was an unwritten law that there should be no jewellery, and no bodices revealing more than an inch of white skin below the collar- bone. As for the golfing or walking men, they lived in knickerbockers until sundown, while the boating and fishing men apparently valued their flannels according to their shabbiness.

The season at the Hotel d'Angleterre had been in full, comfortable, lazy swing for about a week in the sixth August of its possession by the British ; and, the dinner- gong having sounded, as usual, at eight o'clock one exquisite blue evening, the party had assembled. As it was a party of friends it was considered pleasant to have several tables, each capable of seating about a dozen. Thus the people who knew one another best could sit together, and when somebody at one table had anything to say to somebody at another he simply turned in his chair and called across the room. Consequently there was a great buzz and chatter; but everybody seemed to know what everybody else was talking about, and all were interested in the same subjects.

"What a shame Kit Vance should have got the flu!" remarked Lord Strathallin (known, as "Woodsey "), nodding at one of two unoccupied places at his table. "She and Tom will be a big loss; they're both so ripping. Hope old Dupont won't be such a beast as to let their rooms to any bounding outsiders."

"He wouldn't dare," Lady "Jack" Avery reassured him from across several candle-lit, flower-decked tables.

At this instant the door of the dining-room opened, which it had no business to do, as everyone was in his or her proper place, and the soup was being taken away. There was a shrill rustle of new, rich silk linings, a luscious swish of heavy satin, a burst of white heliotrope scent, a tintinnabulation of many bangles, and a girl came into the room.

So insistently was she heralded to shocked ears and nostrils that, instinctively, eyes turned for confirmation of the announcement, remained fixed upon the vision for a frozen second, then met one another under raised brows for a long, expressive gaze.

Sudden, chill silence had fallen, and the walters understood its meaning with awe which was half a fearful joy. None of their number envied the dignified head-waiter, whose duty it was to conduct the intruder to her seat. But he did it in a way worthy of a soldier of the Old Guard leading a forlorn hope; while, thrillingly conscious of the effect she was creating, but completely misconstruing its cause, the girl sailed, joyously rustling and tinkling, up the room. The head-waiter advanced to one of the only two unoccupied places  (those which should have been sacred to the memory of Sir Thomas Vance and Katherine his wife, unavoidably absent), and drew out the chair next to Lord Strathallin.

The girl, with a hopeful, agreeably anticipating expression on her pretty face, sat down, unfolded and spread out her serviette with a coquettish flourish, then beamed about her with the friendly beginning of a smile. Nobody returned it. Nobody looked at her. It was as if the whole company, surprised into the vulgarity of a stare for a brief moment, had combined in the defensive system of ignoring the invasion. The murmur of pleasantly modulated voices had risen again, and continued with one accord as if there had been no interruption. There was talk of things that had happened at Cowes last week, before people had come on here; gossip of news from those who preferred Scotland even to dear little Métretat: chat of the day's events, golf and fish stories, with an undercurrent of croquet; and excited discussion concerning bridge, past, present, and to come.

The girl listened for a while, eating her dinner, glancing from face to face, dress to dress, taking in everything, and appearing radiantly satisfied still with herself and her surroundings ; though occasionally, as fish gave place to roast, and roast to entree, a faintly puzzled expression lifted the charmingly pencilled dark eyebrows, which contrasted so strikingly with the bright, gold-dusted brown of the wavy hair.

Finally, when she had made due allowance for English stiffness to a stranger, which must be thawed by the sun of the stranger's smile, she could bear her splendid isolation no longer. She listened to the description of a glorious game of bridge, enthusiastically described across her to Lord Strathallin by a pretty, youngish woman in a simple black dress. In a pause which this lady made for breath, the patient new-comer considered that her chance had arrived.

"Is bridge an easy kind of game to learn?" she cheerfully thrust into the opening. "I've heard such a lot of it, over in Denver. I'm an Amurrican."

The woman in black trained a slow, very slow, gaze upon the speaker, permitting it to dwell upon the pink and white face for a moment, or rather to pass through it, as if it were an obstruction which hid a more attractive object beyond. "Really?" she remarked, and removed the gaze.

The girl's complexion became more dazzlingly brilliant than before, thus, at all events, justifying itself as a natural product. She swept a hasty glance around, received an impression of other eyes, fixed and fish-like, noted with a spasm of hope that they were women's, and then hurriedly turned towards Lord Strathallin as if—being a man—he might be looked upon as a port to be sought in storm.

"My goodness!" she exclaimed in a half whisper, accompanied by a winning appeal from under long lashes, "is that lady snubbing me, do you suppose ?"

As it happened, the lady in the plain black dress was a bright, particular star in that set which came to Métretat each year to enjoy its own exclusive society. Why this high place-had been accorded her, nobody knew precisely, for she was neither beautiful, titled, rich, nor superlatively agreeable. But she did and said things in an original way, and somehow she had made herself indispensable. Lord Strathallin had just been admitted to her friendship, and he had no mind to sacrifice it for a strange young person who, on her entrance to the room, had been audibly christened a "Horror" by Mrs. Llynn-Gryffyth. The girl was incredibly pretty, though the worst possible form, and if he had been addressed by her when no eyes were there to see he would have answered with a certain pleasure. As it was, however, he knew what his country expected of him, and would not disappoint it.

He looked at the girl, whose accent had proclaimed her "Amurrican" before her words confessed it. He looked at the diamond butterfly perched on high above yellow-brown masses of hair; at the necklace of large, glistening pearls twined round her firm young throat, and falling in a second strand to her slim waist; at the three or four quaintly- fashioned ornaments (one of which was a tiny American flag in diamonds, rubies, and sapphires) scintillating among the laces on her girlish bosom; at the low-cut bodice of her peach-blossom satin dress; looking not in ostentatious disapproval, but with a finely-marked, critical indifference. "I beg your pardon," he said; "I don't think I quite know what you mean."

The girl's question was not one to be repeated, with a tag of explanation attached. She blushed very red, and wriggled her pretty shoulders in a shrug which aimed at disdain, but indicated distress. "It doesn't matter at all," she retorted ; and gave herself up wholly to the green peas, which she eked out as a valuable screen for emotion, by eating one ata time. She had come last into the dining-room, but she was the first to leave it, sweeping from the room, with her head very high; and, when a waiter had closed the door behind her, contemptuously amused glances were exchanged. She was a vulgar little horror, that was clear. Pretty, oh, yes, in a meretricious way, but quite too terrible; covered with jewels like an idol; altogether distinctly a creature, and to be frowned relentlessly down. If one were even civil in a weak moment, she was evidently the kind to take advantage; and if she were not to remain a flamboyant weed in this pleasant garden, she must be firmly discouraged from the first. Indeed, it was monstrous that Dupont should have taken her in; he was well aware that this was not to be considered an ordinary hotel, and if he knew what was for his own good in the end he would not begin to fill up any chance vacancy with rank outsiders, who would simply ruin everything and make Métretat impossible to the very people who had annexed it.

Everybody wondered whether the Horror had been sufficiently crushed to slink off in a proper state of annihilation to her basely acquired quarters, or whether enough brazen impudence remained to carry her into the lig, square hall, where the coterie elected to drink coffee after dinner. But the American flag is not easily to be torn from its standard by a foe, even in overwhelming numbers. In domitably, defiantly, it waved over the particular sofa in the corner and the table adjacent which had come to be looked upon as Mrs. Llynn-Gryffyths property.

That corner— the pleasantest in the hall, and made beautiful by a tall lamp with a ruffly, red silk shade, given to the hotel by Mrs. Llynn-Gryffyth— was promptly tabooed.

As if a river had been turned from its normal course, the tide of evening frocks and dinner jackets flowed in one compact wave towards an opposite heated end of the hall, lampless, but uncontaminated. The pretty girl in pink satin sat remote, shimmering and scintillating like a jewel cast up by the sea on a desert island. She drank black coffee, and read (or seemed to read) a paper-covered novel with absorbed interest ; and she "stuck it out," as somebody expressed it, at least until after the crowd had drifted elsewhere, to ping-pong, to bridge, to billiards, or to dance in the large, bare music-room, according to taste and age. After that, no one knew or cared what became of her, since she had ceased to offend with her undesired and undesirable presence.

Dicky Wickham, or "Wicky Dickham," as he was more often called, a mild, elderly bachelor who was popular because he always did what he was asked, and had also some very pretty little tricks, was told off by a couple of half-amused, half-annoyed girls to "tackle Dupont" and ask him why in the name of goodness, etc., etc.

He was gone for twenty minutes, and then returned primed with information. Dupont appeared to be grieved, but not penitent. He had actually defended himself, alleging that, after all, the Angleterre was an hotel, subject to the laws which govern other houses of public entertainment. If he had rooms disengaged, he insisted that he could not tum customers away. He had even ventured to suggest that, if his patrons wished the whole hotel reserved for themselves and their friends.

they should club together and pay the price, with pension, for any rooms which happened to be vacant. The be nighted man had further --when heated by controversy— gone so far as to hint that, as most of his guests stipulated for reduced terms on account of long tenancy, his season was not really so profitable as if the hotel were filled with people who came and went. As for the young person in question (Dupont had referred to her as a lady), she had arrived that afternoon with her maid, and had demanded a suite with two bedrooms and a private sitting-room, for the remaining weeks of August. Such a suite Dupont had on his hands, owing to the detention in England of Sir Thomas and Lady Vance. In deference to the prejudice of his distinguished patrons against strangers and foreigners Dupont had named a very large price, which the young lady had agreed to pay without an instant's hesitation. She appeared to be comme il faut; when she had written her name, "Miss Jenny Calmour," in the visitors' book she had remarked, as if by way of furnishing a reference, that her father was John Calmour, the "canned-soup man, you know." Dupont had vaguely associated the name and canned-soupiness with millions, and had felt himself justified as a landlord. This was the story which explained the apparition of the Horror; and though all grumbled as with one voice, the more just-minded (these were men) reluctantly pronounced that Dupont was within his rights, and unless the invader could be routed she must be endured.

Thus the siege began.

Miss Jenny Calmour, very pink as to the cheeks, defiantly bright as to the eyes, appeared in public in the most elaborate costumes, which she changed invariably three times a day, and she never wore the same one twice. Her hats were large, picturesque, and abundantly covered with drooping feathers or flowers; her shoes were exceedingly small, pointed of toe and high of heel, and usually they matched her dress in colour. Yet nobody gave her a glance; she might have been a ghost, invisible to the human eye, to be looked through, never at. Nevertheless, the women knew what she had on, and knew that, if Métretat had been Biarritz or Ostend and she had been a young Princess, everything would have been in good taste. But it was Métretat ; therefore everything was execrable, and the "boycott of American canned goods," as Jack Avery dubbed it, continued unabated.

While all the world of the Hôtel d'Angleterre and the few villas owned by the right sort of people (there were no longer any others at Métretat) went bathing, golfing, walking, or boating, or played famous matches of croquet or tennis, Miss Jenny Calmour, exquisitely dressed and smelling of white heliotrope, picked her lonely way along the beach with a book in her hand, her haughtily erect little head shaded with a chiffon and lace parasol to match her frock, or took drives inland in the one landau which the modest watering-place possessed. At night, when the hotel rang with a merry confusion of laughter, ping-pong. the tinkle of music, and of feet that danced in time, Miss Jenny Calmour sat in the corner which had once been Mrs. Llynn-Gryffyth's and was now hers, proudly introspective, or plunged in the inevitable Tauchnitz.

In this manner passed seven golden August days, and if the American girl had opened her lips for any other purpose than eating or breathing, it had been only in intercourse with servants or trades-people. One morning, while Métretat bathed in a warm, blue sea under sparkling sunshine, she was seen (although nobody looked her way) to go to the village post-office, an expression of peculiar firmness graven on her dimpled chin. She wrote out a telegram in English and sent it. It was memorable at the post-office, because the message covered two forms and cost 18 frs. During the afternoon of the same day a petit bleu was handed to her while she was drinking tea on the otherwise deserted balcony. She brightened on reading it and put it in her pocket. That evening at dinner her appetite, which had failed somewhat of late, was observed by the waiter assigned to her table to have improved.

The following morning she drove in her landau to the distant railway station, and Lord Strathallin (who saw her on his way to the links) wondered if she were going away, vanquished— luggage and maid to follow.

But she had not turned her back on Métretat; she had merely met a train. From it stepped a big man, with crisply curling grey hair, a smooth-shaven red face, well-featured and shrewd, with the chin of Napoleon and the eye of a financier. He was tall beyond the common run of men. and the pronounced check of his travelling clothes made him loom even larger than he really was. He looked expectantly up and down the platform, and showed a set of teeth white and sound as hazel nuts when a pink muslin vision flashed into sight with a cry of "Poppa!"

The big man had with him for luggage only a bay, which he styled his "grip." He took his daughter cheerily by the arm, swinging the "grip" with his free hand: and so they marched side by side to the waiting landau.

"I suppose we couldn't send this thing up to the hotel and walk, could we? I guess, though, you ain't dressed fora tramp?" said John Calmour, of tinned-soup fame.

"Yes, but I am, poppa; I'd just love to," replied the girl. And the landau went off with the "grip" on the back seat, looking like a very big nutshell with a very small kernel.

There was a short cut from the railway-station which diverged from the main road, passed the golf-links, and then dipped down to a path along the rocks that overhung the sea. By the time that the father and daughter had talked about her telegram to him and his to her, his sudden journey from London (where he had been transacting important business), and the girl had thanked him at least a dozen times for making it, they had reached a rocky seat out of sight from everyone except fishermen and gulls.

"Lets sit down and look around," said the big man. "This is kind of refreshing. Seems a nice place, Métretat." (He pronounced the last syllable to rhyme with "cat.") "I bet you sent for me in sucha dickens of a hurry because I was tomfool enough to write that the London climate in August took it out of a fellow, and you wanted to get me here, eh ?"

"I did want to get you here," admitted Jenny, digging the ferrule of her smart parasol into a hole in the rock. "But it wasn't only that. I guess I was homesick. It seemed to me, yesterday, that I should just have a fit if I couldn't see you right away, poppa."

He threw a sudden, sharp glance at the downcast profile. Something in the tone of the girls voice had struck him as unusual.

"You're looking a bit peaked, Sissy," he said. "Ain't the air what it was cracked up to be?"

"Sissy " swallowed audibly, once, twice; and the third attempt to dispose of a certain obstruction in the throat ended in a sob. Her little nose turned -suddenly pink, and great round tears, like those shed by a child, came tumbling from between the long lashes.

John Calmour's face grew three shades redder than before. "Why, little gurl— why, little gurlie !" he repeated. "Crying? It must be something mighty bad to make you do that. I haven't seen you so much as pipe your eyes for a coon's age— not since you were ten, anyhow. What is it, my pretty? Tell the old man, and if there's anything. he can do you can just count on him every time. Why, that's what he's for, ain't it? I guess you're the only thing he's got on this blessed. earth, and he's bound to look after you."

Jenny's hands covered her face, which showed flushed and moist, like a. wet rose, between the slim fingers. A big, red-brown hand was patting her Leghorn hat, in con- venient interstices among the nodding gar- denias ; and a vein was throbbing hard in each of John Calmour's temples.

"Oh, poppa, I am a born idiot, but I— I —just can't help it," sobbed the girl who had held her head so high before the enemy. "I had to send for you. I couldn't stand it any longer, here all alone. It's been awful. I've been 'most ready to die; but I guess"— with a spasm of defiant pride— "nobody knows it."

"For the land's sake, honey, tell your old dad what's been the matter."

"It's— it's the people," Jenny wept, with her cheek on his shoulder, much to the detriment of the hat. "They're wicked, cruel Beasts."

John Calmour's jaw squared itself, inten- sifying a lurking suggestion that the bulldog phase had left a stronger impression than any of his other incarnations. 'Oh, that's it, is it?" he growled. "Its the people. So they've been beasts to you, have they? Women jealous?"

"Not they," cried Jenny. "They despise me. They think I'm the dirt under their feet."

"Do they?" said Calmour, in a quiet voice, which men knew when hundreds of thousands were hanging on a word of his. "Tell me all about it, pretty."

Then Jenny told him. She began at the beginning and worked slowly up, punctuating with stifled sobs or pathetic little sniffs.

"I thought it would be so lovely here," she said. "I read in a society paper, while I was with you at the Carlton in London, poppa, all about the Hôtel d'Angleterre at Métretat, how 'unique' it was (that's the paper's word), and the house full of people of the very tip-toppest set in England. When you had to stay on, and told me I must take Josephine and go off somewhere to the country to amuse myself, it seemed as if Métretat would be just the right place. I thought it would be fun to know a lot of English lords and ladies, -and I had whole heaps of pretty dresses and things to show off. I was. sure I should have a nice time. The first night at dinner, when nobody spoke to me, and made fishes' eyes if they happened to look my way by mistake, I supposed that was English manners, and they were only shy and stiff till they knew me. But I soon found out that was a mistake! Oh, poppa, I never was snubbed before, but I've had enough this one week to last me all my life."

"Why should they snub you?" queried Calmour, with a dangerous flickering of the nostrils, like a vicious horse.

'Because I'm an Amurrican, for one thing, and because they all know each other and call each other 'Mouse,' 'and 'Bat,' and every kind of queer nickname, even the quite old ones; and they're just wild at having a strange girl among them. They love the Angleterre and think it belongs to them. They've been trying to freeze me out, poppa, as hard as they could, but I wouldn't give in, though all the time inside I've felt as sick as sick, and sometimes it was all I could do not to burst out crying and jump up from the table and run away. Not that I care a red cent for any of them; it isn't that. Oh, I don't know exactly what it is; but it's the awfullest experience I ever had, feeling that they thought— because I was different from them, somehow, and here all alone without any momma, like the other girls— that I was a horrid creature. I wouldn't hurt a fiy, poppa, you know it ; and I don't want really to do them any harm; but— but I should like to make them sorry."

"Maybe you shall," said John Calmour. "You say they love this Angleterre hotel and think it belongs to 'em. I suppose it would be a blow to the lot if they were packed off?"

"They'd be out of their wits with rage," said Jenny.

"Well, we'll see," said her father.

"Poppa, whatever do you mean? I know by your face you've got a plan."

Calmour whistled, and looked introspective for a moment. Then he said: " They want to chase you away, dont they? What I mean is, that you're going to chase them instead."

It was luncheon time at the Hotel d'Angleterre when Miss Calmour returned with her father, and the two had that meal served in her private sitting-room. Soon after, John Calmour, large, calm, and smoking a cigar, strolled into the bureau where sat the landlord, M. Dupont, a shrewd, somewhat melancholy little Breton. The American had made no inquiries yet regarding accommodation for the night, but M. Dupont had one or two unoccupied bedrooms, and intended, if the millionaire wished to stay, to make him comfortable. The little man had a suitable respect for millionaires, and he rose as the large figure in checked flannel lounged through the doorway.

Both said good-day in English, upon which language M. Dupont prided himself, not without cause. Then the Breton waited deferentially for the expected request for a room; or perhaps he prepared to shed reproaches with a responsibility-disclaiming though regretful shrug, in case Mr. Calmour brought up the subject of the boycott.

Having puffed in silence at his cigar for a long moment, the big man's steel-grey eyes caught those of the landlord as if they pounced upon a prey. "How much will vou take for this hotel, cash down on the nail?" he abruptly demanded, in his pleasant, though slightly nasal, voice.

"I beg monsieur's pardon," returned the Breton, not sure whether he had understood, or whether the American were joking.

"I'm making you an offer for this hotel," went on John Calmour. "I want to buy it."

"But, monsieur, it is not for sale."

"My experience has been, as a business man, that most things are for sale if the price runs up high enough. Now, I want your hotel, and when I want a thing I'm willing to pay for it. I've calculated that for the place as it stands, with the goodwill, you might expect to get, say, about 125,000 dollars. You can have my cheque for that: sum, mounseer, as quick as I can write it, if you are on to make the deal."

Dupont fairly gasped, but he was sufficiently master of his faculties to do a rapid sum in mental arithmetic. A hundred and twenty-five thousand American dollars bounded up to a goodly amount, when converted into francs. But, then, he had never heard of business being done by lightning.

"I thank you, monsieur, " he said. "It is something to reflect upon."

"That's where you're wrong, sir," returned John Calmour. "It's to take or to leave. The hotel's no use to me unless I can have it two hours before dinner to-night, because there'd be some little arrangements to make."

The Breton started. "Mon Dieu, but it is impossible!"

"No, it aint, if you look at it calmly. There's lots of time. I'll give you twenty minutes to decide, if necessary; but I'd sooner have it fixed up at once. Thats my way of doing business, and it's panned out pretty well so far as I've gone. See here ; to pay for the extra inconvenience to you, mounseer, I don't mind throwing in another 10,000 dollars."

Poor Dupont clutched at his damp forehead with his damp fingers. "If you please, monsieur, I will take the twenty minutes," he implored.

"I thought you were going to say you'd take the money. But all right; I'll just sit here and finish my cigar while you make up your mind."

The Breton sank into his chair at the desk. Calmour also sat down, crossed his legs, and watched the smoke-rings, which he made very successfully— as he did most things.

Never had Dupont been obliged to think so quickly ; but he collected his forces like a general surprised in the night.

His season, he reminded himself, existed (on paper) from June till October. The place, however, scarcely paid expenses till July. Even then custom was but casual and uncertain until early August, when the English came. After that time the hotel was practically full through September; but, as he had assured Mr. Wickham the other night, the long-staying patrons paid the least. If he made 20,000 francs profit in a year he was lucky ; sometimes he made less; and the work was wearing. He was past middle age and it would be agreeable to retire. Here was the chance for which, in bad hours, he had ardently wished. It might never come again; and this: mad millionaire's offer was far more than he would have expected to get had he thought of selling out. But, then, the suddenness!

"My guests, monsieur!" he exclaimed, aloud. "How could I explain——"

"Don't worry about that. I'll explain. I don't mean to turn the folks out. All you've got to do is to say 'Done' and pocket my cheque. You can wire to my bankers in London, if you want, and make sure I'm the man I pretend to be. Then you can pack up your baggage at your own convenience, and go on a spree to Paris, if it suits you. You look kind of tired, as if a vacation would do you good."

When the twenty minutes were up Jobn Calmour had out his cheque-book.

That evening there was a more elaborate dinner than usual, and, for some reason, champagne was served to everybody. No One understood why this was, but when the waiters intimated that the wine was free nearly everybody drank it, to the extent of several glasses each.

Nothing else of an unusual nature had occurred, so far as was known in the hotel, except that there had been two new arrivals. One was the Horror's father, who, having brought no evening things in his "grip," disgusted the coterie by dining in his travelling clothes. The other was an exceedingly good-looking young man, for whom, by means of a little crowding at the table, room had been made next Mrs. Llynn-Gryffyth. Judging from the reception he met with, he must have known almost everybocy in the hotel and have been liked by all. Mrs. Llynn-Gryffyth and many others called him Bill; Dicky Wickham and a few others addressed him as Lord Everest; he looked a good deal at Jenny Calmour, pronounced the dinner excellent, the champagne a perfect marvel for an "hotel treat," and talked much with his intimates at the table of a cotillon which apparently he had come over from England to help make a success. The boycott of Jenny was extended to her father, and the two, in intervals between their own private murmurs, had plenty of time to listen to the conversation, which concerned favours for the coming cotillon ; the people who had been invited from the Métretat villas, and one or two other neighbouring watering-places where, it seemed, there really were a "few human beings who would do, at a pinch, for a cotillon."

When the fruit had come on (delicious little wild strawberries from somewhere in the north, at which novelty there was a general buzz of delight), John Calmour rose from his seat. Instead of leaving the table, as people who noticed his move supposed that he would do, he stood still in his place, coolly surveying the room, a hand on the back of his chair.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, in the loud voice of one about to call attention to the first words of a speech.

Everyone looked up, astonished and resentful at the audacious interruption. "Is the man intoxicated?" Mrs. Llynn-Gryffyth was heard to ask in a stage-whisper.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he repeated. "I am glad to have gathered, from certain expressions I could not help hearing, that the dinner and the champagne have met with your approval. This is a satisfaction to me, as I have to inform you that the Angleterre, as an hotel, ceased to exist at exactly a quarter past three this afternoon. It is now my private house, and you have been entertained at dinner as my guests. The meal will not be charged in your bills, which, by the way, up to the hour I mentioned, are payable to Mounseer Dupont, your late landlord. I dare say he won't forget to send them in. As regards the future, I must explain that an Amurrican is something like an Arab, Who eats his salt is sacred, no matter how badly they may have behaved before the salt went around. That being the case, I don't wish or intend to speak out my feelings about the way in which you English people, men and women, have treated a young girl placed by accident alone and unprotected in your midst. She wasn't good enough to associate with you when this was an hotel; but now that it's her father's country house it is by her request that I invite you all to remain under my roof as my guests as long as you please."

He paused. Two or three men sprang up ; and there were murmurs of "No, no," "Absurd," "Impossible," all over the room.

John Calmour gave them a moment, then, when he received no more definite response, he began again.

"I have invited you to stay as my guests," he repeated. "Those who choose to accept are welcome. Those who don't will no doubt think it delicate to move on somewhere else as soon as they can. While they remain in this house, I must remind them, they eat my bread, and I and my daughter are their host and hostess. Come, Jenny; I've said all I've got to say. Let you and me go into the hall and have coffee, which will be ready for the others if they like to follow."

He gave his daughter an arm, and they went away together without a backward glance.

"B—y Jove!" ejaculated somebody, it was never quite known who. But the ex- clamation gave relief. It broke the spell.

s What's the tall party driving at?" asked Lord Everest of the company in general; and everybody began to tell the story at once, each one with a slightly different version. Yet the conclusion reached by all was identical. The Horror was the horror ; her father was a fiend; and there was nothing to do save beat a retreat, immedi- ately and with such dignity as might be preserved in the scramble. But there was no disguising the fact that it was a blow—a heavy blow. It seemed almost too bad to be true, though it must be true, or that brute would not have dared his impudent harangue. To go—to be turned out, bag and baggage, at an hour's notice, from their own, very own private Eden, at the beginning of the season, with the weather perfect and their plans made—such charming plans, too !— and all because they had very properly shown this vulgar ruffan's daughter her place, and kept her init. It was enough to drive one to manslaughter—for it wouldn't be murder. i

Everest listened intently to the jumble of explanation and execration ; then, when a few of his friends had paused for breath, he shocked the company by bursting into ribald laughter.

"Good old boy! I'm hanged if I don't respect the chap!" he broke out. "If you want my opinion, he's served you all jolly well right; you deserve what you've got. And you've eaten his dinner! Jove! What a coup! It's Titanic. The man must have paid £20,000 at least for his revenge. But I'll bet he doesn't grudge the money. Oh, these Yankees! They're marvellous!"

Mrs. Llynn-Gryffyth rose. "I think," she remarked, with dignity, "we should be wiser to go and see that our servants begin packing, .

rather than sit squabbling here. As for you, Bill, you are as bad as— as bad as a pro-Boer."

"Wait a minute, everybody," said Everest. "Of course, I don't know what anybody else is going to do, but I've been invited to visit this amazing old Johnny, and I intend to accept his invitation. I expect to enjoy myself as well as I ever did in my life, and I shouldn't be surprised if the cotillon came off yet. Anyone else think of stopping on? Because, if so, when I go out into the hall for a chat with him, I may as well tell our host how many people there'll be in his house-party."

"I'd rather die than stay," announced Mrs. Llynn-Gryffyth.

Lady "Jack" Avery laughed hysterically. "Bill's right," she giggled. "It will be a glorious lark. I never did anything to the girl. I'll stop as chaperon. She'll need one."

"It's like losing an eye-tooth to give up the golf," sighed Dicky Wickham.

"And the bathing," "And the fishing," came in murmurs from other quarters.

"Lets take him at his word. It will be the joke of the century!" exclaimed Strathallin.

Everest turned and glanced at him, his brown, laughing face suddenly grave. "Look here, I'm responsible for the proposal," said he. "None of you would have thought of it if it hadn't been for me. I'm the only innocent one of the lot, therefore I'm the only man who can engineer the thing with decency. Those of you who are going in for this joke have got to give me their word to behave themselves afterwards as they would in a friend's house, or I'll be shot if I'll have anything to do with it."

In five minutes Everest had three times five candidates and as many promises. Armed with these he went forth, while the banished ones slipped away, and John Calmour's fifteen future guests remained in the salle à manger to await the return of the herald.

He went out into the big hall. In the corner, under the red-shaded lamp, sat the master of the house— and the situation— his daughter by his side. Everest crossed to them with a smart, soldierly step.

"Let me congratulate you, Mr. Calmour— on your house, you know," he said. "Awfully jolly house to stop in, and very good of you to ask us. I got here only to-night, just in time to dress for dinner. Will you introduce me to Miss Calmour? I'm Lord Everest.— Bill, my friends call me, because people are always sending me such a lot, I suppose."

Solemnly, but with a twinkle in his eyes, which he did not remove from the young man's face, the millionaire formally intro- duced Lord Everest to his daughter Jenny. The girl looked up. Her martyrdom had not entirely destroyed her sense of humour, and she broke into a laugh. Everest laughed, too— a nice, friendly, young-sounding laugh.

"I'm no end obliged to Mr. Calmour for asking me, you know," he said, drawing up a chair. "So are we all, though— er— some of us have engagements at Dinard to-morrow ; but with fifteen or sixteen stopping on the house won't seem empty, will it? Is it true you are going to give a cotillon next week, Miss Calmour? I do hope it is. I heard so, and brought some rather pretty favours with me from Paris in the hope that you'd accept them from me. You will, won't you? And— it's rather selfish, I'm afraid, to try and cut in before any other chap ; but you're sure to be asked by a dozen men at least, and I shall lose my change. May I lead the cotillon with you?"

"I should love it," said Jenny, laughing and dimpling. "Can I, poppa?"

"I guess it will be all right," said Calmour.

So the great boycott ended and the great joke began. Right royally it was carried out on both sides. The cotillon was a huge success, and Jenny reigned among her guests like a young queen. People said that Everest's game had been clear from the first. He would eventually propose to the girl because her father was a millionaire, and she would accept him because he was an earl. As to the facts, everybody was right; but as to tħe motives, they were wrong. When Lord Everest proposed to Jenny Calmour, after four weeks of the queerest visit ever made, it was because he was very much in love with her, and thought her the dearest as well as the prettiest little girl he had ever seen. She accepted him because, in her opinion, he was one of the two perfect men in the world; and poppa was the other.

________________

8: The Doctor and the Lunatic

Richard Connell

1893-1949

Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, May 1944

[Mystery, July 1935]

Author of the justly famous (and filmed) novelette "Most Dangerous Game".

EARLY THAT sunny, soundless June morning, old Matthew Kelton came out of his salt-box house to potter for a time in his rose garden while his cook was crisping the breakfast bacon. Below in the peaceful valley he could see the little white village of Mallow drowsing beside its silver-green strip of river, and he could see looming dimly in the distance the beginnings of the Berk- shires; but it was the immediate landscape that interested Matthew Kelton just then, his roses, and particularly one rose. For forty years raising roses had been his hobby, and he had won many blue ribbons; but he had never grown, nor, indeed, ever seen a more magnificent specimen than this perfect and beautiful flower which had come to grace his garden.

“Nature,” he told his wife, “has performed a miracle. I worked many years to produce a rose like this but the best I grew fell short of my dreams. Then this one happened— a new variety— happened as mysteriously as the birth of a genius. This is a— well, I should call it a Shakespeare among roses.”

He hurried across his garden toward this paragon which was isolated from the common blooms by a wire fence. Behind his glasses his blue eyes beamed with excited pride. Then he stopped abruptly and gave a short, shocked cry. His rose was gone.

It was not gone entirely, though. It had been ripped up by the roots, its stem had been broken into a dozen pieces, and the flower itself had been torn to shreds. The fragments lay inside and all around the crushed wire cage, and they had been trampled and ground into the dirt.

“Martha!” cried Kelton, and there was a sob in his voice. “Martha, come here.”

His wife hurried from the house. He could not say anything. He could only point with a trembling finger.

“Oh, Matthew, how awful!” exclaimed his wife. “I’m so sorry. How did it happen?”

“I don’t know,” said Kelton, and his normally mild face was grim, “but, by the Lord Harry, I’m going to find out.”

“Some animal—” she began.

“An animal, yes,” he cut in. “An animal, beyond a doubt. An animal that wore boots! Look!”

He waved his hand at the ground around the rose. She saw the imprints, blurred but unmistakable, of soles and heels.

“But who could do so wanton and savage a thing?” said Mrs. Kelton.

“Only a wanton savage,” Kelton said.

“An enemy?”

“I can think of no one who hates me,” said Matthew Kelton.

She put her arm around his slender shoulders.

“No one could hate you, Matt,” she said. “Perhaps this was done by some heedless small boys.”

“A man did this, a big man. Look at the size of those footprints,” said Kelton.

“Perhaps some passing motorist helped himself to some of our flowers,” said Mrs. Kelton. “There was a full moon last night, you know, and it wouldn’t have been difficult.”

“They could not see this flower from the road,” said Kelton, “and there are dozens of bushes much handier. To get to this one rose he had to pass a thousand others. Besides, cars almost never come up this dead-end road at night and when they do I always hear them. I’m a light sleeper; but I heard nothing. No, dear, this was done deliberately in cold fury, and it worries me, worries me terribly.”

“I know, Matt,” said Martha Kelton, gently. “You loved that rose. But wait! You’ll grow another just as perfect.”

“Perhaps,” said Kelton. “I hardly dare hope to. But it’s not the rose I’m bothered about; it’s the mind that directed the hands that shattered that rose. It frightens me, Martha—”

“Why?”

“It hardly bears thinking about,” said Kelton. “Let’s go into the house. I need my coffee this morning.”

He had finished his breakfast, and it his pipe and was distracting himself with the cryptogram in the morning newspaper, when a huge motor-car came panting up the hill and a huge and panting man in riding clothes got out of it and came lumbering up the path to Kelton’s vine-grown porch.

“Good-morning, Squire,” Kelton greeted the giant.

“Good morning nothing,” growled Squire Abernathy. “A bad morning for me. Kelton, I swear if I get my hands on him, I’ll show him what real strangling is.”

His two big, calloused hands closed on an imaginary throat.

“What’s happened?” demanded Kelton, with quick concern.

The Squire’s fat face was mottled and creased with rage.

“Tex is dead,” he said.

“Tex? I’m distressed to hear that,” said Kelton.

“Murdered!” said the Squire. “Hanged by the neck like a common felon.”

“Who did it?”

“I don’t know— yet.”

“Some rival collie breeder, perhaps?” suggested Kelton.

“No,” stated Abernathy, emphatically. “No dog-lover would harm so splendid an animal as Defender Tex. Poor Tex—” Abernathy’s deep voice broke— “He was the handsomest creature I ever saw, as intelligent as many men and better behaved than most, a real gentleman, and I found him this morning hanging high in that sycamore near his kennel, cold and stiff. A fiend’s work that, Kelton!”

“Any clues?”

“None; but I’m convinced the man was no stranger around here.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Knew my place well. Dodged the burglar alarms. Moreover, Tex must have known him, or he never could have come near Tex. It’s a local man, all right. Oh, yes, Kelton, I came here to ask you to help me find him.”

“I’ll help,” said Matthew Kelton. “Gladly. Now, Squire, you know this section well—”

“Born here. Lived here all my life,” said the Squire. “Know every man, woman and child. Oh, yes.”

“Can you think of anybody who might conceivably do such a foul deed?” queried Kelton.

“I’ve squeezed my brain till it’s black and blue,” said Abernathy, “and I can’t think of a soul. Of course, there’s that fellow—”

He paused, frowning blackly.

“Go on,” urged Kelton.

“Well, I don’t feel justified in accusing him of a dirty trick like this,” said the Squire, “but that rich crank, General Bannerman, whose place is next to mine, hates me. Claims my dogs killed his pheasants. He’s a liar, and so I told him. We threw some bitter words back and forth. He’s a queer one, Kelton— and a possibility.”

“The General is not overfond of me, either,” observed Kelton. “We crossed swords at a town meeting.”

“Y’know, Kelton,” said the Squire, “I think we may hear from this rascal again.”

“We already have,” said Kelton. “Come with me, please.”

He led Abernathy across the garden and showed him the wreck of the rose. Abernathy whistled; then he swore in no uncertain terms.

“His work!” he said. “I’ll bet on that. Cursed tough on you, Kelton. That rose was as wonderful, in its way, as my Tex was in his. Well, what’s next? They say things go in threes, you know.”

“I’m not superstitious,” said Matthew Kelton, with a half smile.

Toward them through the roses came his wife.

“Matt,” she said, “I just took a telephone message from General Bannerman. He’s coming to see you right away, Matt.”

“Did he say why, Martha?”

“Yes,” she told him. “It seems that last night somebody broke into his house. Nothing was stolen, but you know that lovely Raphael Madonna he has—”

Kelton nodded.

“Well,” she went on, “it was slashed to ribbons.”

The two men stared at each other.

SOON General Bannerman’s long English car shot up the hill. The General was an elderly man, very tall, very erect, very stiff. He walked straight up to Squire Abernathy.

“Heard about your dog, Abernathy,” he said, gruffly. “Noble animal. Rotten shame. Sorry.”

“Thanks, General,” returned the Squire. “And I’m sorry about your picture.”

They stood eyeing each other awkwardly.

“Same scoundrel did both jobs, I think,” said General Bannerman. “It could hardly be a coincidence.”

“That’s my idea,” said Abernathy. “And Kelton is in this, too. Last night his prize rose was ruined.”

“Really?” said the General. “That’s too bad, Kelton.”

He cleared his throat, and there was a tinge of embarrassment in his voice, as he said:

“Look here, gentlemen, we’ve had our tiffs; but I think we should call a truce in our little war and combine forces against the common enemy. What do you say?”

“My hand on that,” boomed the Squire.

“And mine,” said Kelton.

“I came to see you, Kelton,” said Bannerman, “because I thought you might be willing to help me solve this mystery.”

“It’s a case for the police, you know,” said Matthew Kelton.

“Police be blowed!” ejaculated the General. “Those two scarecrows we call constables couldn’t find a bull in a bathroom, and that lazy, drunken slob of a political sheriff couldn’t arrest himself. I have notified the police, but we can expect scant help from that quarter. Gentlemen, this is our show. Any suggestions?”

“The obvious one,” said Abernathy. “The man’s mad.”

“Must be,” agreed Bannerman. “I see no motive behind such insensate vandalism; and only a lunatic acts without motive.”

“On the contrary,” said Matthew Kelton, “no man has stronger reasons than the man who has lost his reason. He is driven to do strange and dreadful deeds by an imperious, pitiless logic. You see, he knows he is right though all the world may say he is wrong.”

“What reason had that scoundrel for destroying our property?” asked General Bannerman. “Spite?”

“Possibly,” said Kelton. “That is, if we three have, to use your phrase, a common enemy.”

“Looks like it,” said Abernathy.

Matthew Kelton shook his white head.

“I cannot believe in this common enemy,” he said. “Why should we have a common enemy when we have so little in common? Our paths have crossed but seldom in the present, and never, I think, in the past. You, General, have spent most of your life abroad, haven’t you?”

“Quite so.”

“And you. Squire, have always lived here in Mallow.”

“That’s right.”

“And I,” said Kelton, “have spent a rather quiet life in my laboratory in New York City and my rose garden at Oyster Bay, until I moved here three years ago. I must confess I can see no direct links between the soldier, the farmer and the chemist.”

“Can’t, myself,” said the General.

“Nor can I,” said the Squire.

“The common denominator, then,” averred Kelton, “must be in this man’s mind.”

“A warped and twisted mind, remember,” said Bannerman.

“Then we must look for a warped and twisted motive,” said Kelton. “And that takes us into the shadowy realms of morbid psychology. I therefore think we should ask Dr. Clement Canfield to help us.”

“Dr. Canfield?” said the General. “Oh, yes, that’s the fellow who bought the old Griggs place on Battle Hill. Retired from active practice, hasn’t he?”'

“Yes,” said Kelton, “but in his time he was the foremost alienist and brain surgeon on the Pacific Coast. His operations were medical classics.”

“Can we get him?” said Abernathy.

“I’m sure we can,” said Kelton. “I’ve always found him most obliging. He takes a great interest in everything affecting the community.”

“A dashed valuable ally for us,” said the General. “Expert advice. Heaven knows we need it. Will you phone him, Kelton, and ask him to come over?”

“Immediately,” said Matthew Kelton.

THE EMINENT surgeon and psychiatrist joined them in twenty minutes. He was a well built man in the forties, whose wise, professional face bore a full beard. Kelton tersely told him what had happened.

“You came to the right shop, gentlemen,” said Dr. Canfield. “My field, decidedly. Fact is, I had a case very like this one out West. Young banker, he was, a fine chap, liked and respected by everybody. He seemed as sane as any of us sitting here. He did his work efficiently, and cut quite a figure in society; but, periodically, his mind jumped the tracks, and then—”

The three listeners leaned toward him.

“And then,” pursued Dr. Can- field, “he became as dangerous as a cobra.”

“In what way?” asked Kelton.

“He destroyed things,” replied Dr. Canfield.

“What things?”

“It began,” said the doctor, “in a relatively trivial way. A statue of Venus in the sunken garden of an estate was found one morning thrown down and mutilated with a chisel. Hoodlums, we all thought. Then a rock was hurled through the stained glass window of a church, a window considered one of the finest in the country. Soon after that an attempt was made to burn down the private library of a wealthy man which contained many priceless old books and objets d'art. I sensed a connection between the crimes; but neither I, nor anybody, suspected that they were done by Gabriel Fenwick—”

“What happened next?” asked Kelton.

“Important for us to know,” put in Bannerman. “Marked similarity between the two cases. Same pattern. Our man may do the same thing.... What did Fenwick do?”

“He did not stop at destroying— things ,” said the doctor, gravely.

“Good Lord,” cried Abernathy, “do you mean he turned killer?”

“Yes,” said Dr. Canfield. “There was a girl, an unusually beautiful girl— and, well, the details aren’t nice. Gabriel Fenwick was caught red-handed, literally red-handed, beside her battered body.”

“What did they do to him?” asked Bannerman.

“On my testimony he was adjudged insane,” Dr. Canfield told them. “He was put away in a place where he can do no more harm.”

“He may have escaped,” said Abernathy.

“I’m positive he has not,” said Dr. Canfield.

“Positive?”

“Absolutely,” Dr. Canfield said, “I’ve kept in close touch with the case. I had more than a scientific interest in it. You see, poor Fenwick was my oldest and best friend.”

“A flower, a dog, a picture,” mused Matthew Kelton, “and next? Gentlemen, we must find that man.”

“And soon,” said Bannerman. “Doctor, how can we tell him when we see him?”

“You can’t,” said Dr. Canfield. “Unfortunately our man will bear no outward and visible signs of his sinister nature. Nor will his conduct or conversation betray him. I’m considered an expert in such matters, and I knew Gabriel Fenwick intimately, but I never suspected his condition, nor would I have believed he was guilty had he not been caught in the act. So, our quarry may be— anybody. He may be you— or you— or you—”

His finger stabbed at the three men in turn.

“We must warn everybody in the county to be on their guard,” Squire Abernathy declared.

“Against whom? Against what?” snapped Bannerman. “We don’t know the man. We don’t know how or where or when he’ll strike next. Why throw the whole countryside into a panic, and make the wretch wary?”

“I agree with Abernathy,” Kelton said. “We should issue a warning. It’s a forlorn hope, I grant you; but in this desperate emergency we must grasp at every straw.”

“Then,” said the Squire, “I’ll get Jennings of the Mallow Sentinel to plaster this affair all over his front page tomorrow.”

General Bannerman considered a moment.

“Very well,” he said, “We need all the weapons we can get. How about offering a reward?”

“Sound idea,” approved Kelton.

“Make it ten thousand dollars,” said the General. “I’ll underwrite that.”

“I’ll subscribe my share,” said the Squire.

“And so will I,” said Kelton.

“Let’s split it four ways,” said Dr. Canfield. “I want to be in this, too.”

“Done!” said Abernathy. “If anybody has a scrap of evidence or the shred of a clue, money will make them talk. We’ll cover the county with reward broadsides.”

“We did all that out West,” said Dr. Canfield, somberly. “It didn’t stop Fenwick.”

Kelton paced the porch.

“If we could only anticipate what he may do,” he said.

“How can we?” General Bannerman spoke testily. “We’re sane, presumably. We know right from wrong. Understand cause and effect. How can a man of sense predict what a man without sense will do?”

“But I tell you our man has a purpose, a motive,” asserted Kelton, doggedly. “A pattern, you yourself said, General. For look! He has not run amuck and broken blindly whatever came first to his hand. No, each time he sought out and destroyed one single, perfect, beautiful thing. He must have a reason, perverted if you will, but a reason nonetheless.”

Mrs. Kelton came out of the house.

“Lunch is ready,” she announced. “Perhaps you gentlemen will stay

“I’m sorry, but I’ve an engagement,” said the General.

“Thanks,” said the Squire, “but I must hustle right down to the village and see about getting out those reward posters.”

“Will you stay, Dr. Canfield?” asked Kelton.

“Delighted to lunch with you,” said the doctor.

General Bannerman and Squire Abernathy left, after arranging to have another conference at the General’s home that evening.

“WE CALL it lunch,” said Mrs. Kelton to the doctor, “but it’s really dinner, I guess. We’re still old-fashioned enough, Matt and I, to take our chief meal in the middle of the day.”

“Then I’m in luck,” laughed Dr. Canfield. “I’m blessed with an old- fashioned appetite.”

“We’re having a roast chicken,” said Mrs. Kelton, as they sat down at the dining-room table. “Raised on our own place.”

“Excellent,” said Dr. Canfield.

“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind carving, Doctor,” said Matthew Kelton. “I’ve a touch of neuritis, in my arms, and the art of carving (for it is an art) is a closed book to Mrs. Kelton.”

“I’ll do my best,” promised Dr. Canfield, picking up the carving knife. “Light or dark, Mrs. Kelton?”

“A little of each, if you please, Doctor.”

Dr. Canfield eyed the bird meditatively, and then began slowly to carve.

“Oh, I am sorry,” he exclaimed. “Must have struck a bone.”

The carving knife had slipped from his hand and fallen to the floor. He bent and retrieved it.

“That’s quite all right, Doctor,” said Mrs. Kelton. “You should see the hash I make of the carving job.”

Dr. Canfield attacked the chicken again, and managed to get off several thick pieces.

“I am making rather a botch of it,” he said cheerfully. He twisted loose a leg. “Well, this is one case where the end justified the means.”

They discussed roses for a time, and then Kelton said:

“Tell me, Doctor, in confidence, is it possible that either Bannerman or Abernathy could be the man we’re after?”

“Possible, oh, yes,” said Canfield.

“Those footprints were made by a big man,” remarked Kelton. “The Squire and the General are both big men. And both have a reputation for eccentricity. Still they seem so solid, so sensible—”

“They’re good fellows. I like them both,” said Dr. Canfield. “But, Kelton, my experience has taught me that the surface of a man means nothing.”

“Do you suspect either of them?” inquired Kelton.

“I suspect everybody,” said the doctor, soberly.

“Even me?” smiled Mrs. Kelton.

“I said ‘everybody’,” replied Dr. Canfield.

“But,” said Kelton, as he helped the doctor to home-made elderberry wine, “it’s hard for me to imagine Abernathy killing a valuable dog he was extremely fond of, or Bannerman damaging a favorite picture.”

“It was equally hard to imagine Gabriel Fenwick harming the girl to whom he was engaged,” said Dr. Canfield, drily.

They talked a while after lunch, about the mental condition of the man who had shattered the rose, and Kelton got lost in a maze of technicalities. Then Dr. Canfield departed, and Matthew Kelton sat on his porch and smoked many thoughtful pipes. It was late in the afternoon when a gangling figure in overalls approached the porch and broke in on Kelton’s speculations. He recognized his visitor as Charley Sessions, the local milkman.

“Well, Charley,” said Kelton, “what can I do for you?”

“I seen them notices,” said Charley. “About the ten thousand dollars, I mean—”

“Yes?” said Kelton. “You know something?”

“ ’Taint much, I guess,” said Charley.

“Tell me, anyhow,” directed Kelton.

“Well, Mr. Kelton,” said Charley in his high drawl, “I was out deliverin’ on my milk route, like as always, this mornin’ and as I was a-comin’ down Red Coat Lane from the old Griggs place I seen a man a-walkin’ up the lane. Thinks I, ‘You’re out mighty early. Now who can you be?’— but I never did find out because when he seen me he dove all of suddent into the bushes and scuttled away like a rabbit. Thinks I— ‘That’s a funny thing for a fella to do’ so I says to myself—”

“You did not recognize him then,” interrupted Kelton.

“No, sir. It was before sun-up and it’s sort of dark and spooky in that lane anyhow.”

“Can you describe him?”

Charley scratched his head.

“Well, he was a man— not big and yet not little— but bigger than he was little— I think— and I think he had on dark clothes like a undertaker wears, but I couldn’t swear to that— and I think his face was black— like a fella in a minstrel show—”

“Burnt cork,” muttered Kelton. “An old war-time trick. A white face shows in the moonlight —”

“Huh?” said Charley.

“Never mind.”

“Can I have the ten thousand dollars now?” asked Charley.

Kelton chuckled.

“Not yet awhile,” he said. “If your information leads to anything, you’ll get a fair share of the reward, I guarantee that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kelton,” said Charley, and turned to go. Near the gate he stopped, and said—

“Somethin’ else I just thought of.”

“What?” asked Kelton.

“ ’Taint none of my business, and mebbe it has nothin’ to do with nothin’, but I got an idee that Dr. Canfield ain’t the only one who lives up there in the old Griggs place.”

“Nonsense, Charley,” said Kelton. “Dr. Canfield lives all alone. I know. I’ve visited him often.”

“Well, mebbe,” said Charley. “But yesterday mornin’ I hear two voices in that house, a high one and a low one—”

“What were they saying?”

“I couldn’t make out,” said Charley. “But if there wasn’t two men there, I’m a Chinaman; and, Mr. Kelton, that ain’t the first time I’ve heard those two voices. No, sir.”

“Interesting,” commented Kelton. “Charley, don’t tell anybody else what you’ve just told me.”

Matthew Kelton jumped into his car and drove swiftly along the winding roads till he came to Red Coat Lane. He turned into it, and mounting Battle Hill, reached the old Griggs place with its sprawling mansion, relic of the days when American architecture reached its lowest ebb, congeries of cupolas, bulging bay-windows, unwarranted verandas hideous with jig-saw fretwork. This was the house Dr. Canfield had bought when he moved to Mallow some fifteen months before. It was a sagging, unkempt shell of a house when he took it, but a corps of workmen, brought from Albany to the disgust of the local contractors, had made it ship-shape and habitable, without, however, adding anything to the charm of its exterior.

Kelton rang the bell and Dr. Can- field came to the door.

“Glad to see you, Kelton,” he said, cordially. “You have news. I can tell that. Well, sit down and tell me.”

“I’ll come straight to the point,” said Matthew Kelton. “Doctor Can- field, have you another person living in this house?”

Dr. Canfield looked back steadily at Kelton.

“You’ve guessed my secret,” he said, quietly. “I supposed that sooner or later it was bound to come out. I might as well tell you the story
now.”

“I think you don’t have to tell me who your prisoner is,” said Kelton.

“No, I don’t,” said Dr. Canfield. “And let me tell you, Kelton, I’m not ashamed of what I’ve done. I could not bear to see poor Fenwick shut away in some horrible institution, when I could take care of him. I’ve broken no law. The courts committed him to my care. I’m responsible for him, legally, and morally,

“Morally? What do you mean?” Kelton asked.

“I was driving the car when Fenwick was cracked up,” said the doctor. “I’d had a few drinks. If I’d been stone sober, I might have averted the accident. I’m only trying to make what poor amends I can—”

“Let me ask you another blunt question, Doctor,” said Kelton.

“Go ahead. I’ve nothing to conceal.”

“Was Gabriel Fenwick out last night?”

“I give you my word, Kelton, he did not leave this house last night — or at any time since he came here,” said Dr. Canfield.

“He might have slipped out without your knowledge,” said Kelton.

“Not possible,” said Dr. Canfield.

“I must be sure of that,” said Kelton.

“Very well,” said the doctor. “Let your own eyes convince you. Wait here, please. I’ll go up and tell Fenwick you want to see him. An unexpected visitor might bring on one of his attacks.”

Kelton waited in the living-room among the stolid and unshapely furniture. He heard the doctor’s tread on the stairs, and the clang of a steel door. Presently Dr. Canfield called down.

“You can come up now, Kelton.”

Dr. Canfield met him at the head of the stairs.

“The poor chap lives in here,” he said indicating a door. “I had a large room made escape-proof. Steel walls, barred windows, and look at that door—”

Kelton examined the door.

“Why, it’s like the door of a bank vault,” he said.

“That is precisely what it is,” said Dr. Canfield. “It can only be opened from the outside by an intricate combination; and I am the only man t alive who knows that combination.”

“But the window—” began Kelton.

“You’ll see,” said Dr. Canfield, and started to manipulate the dials on the massive, metal door. In two minutes it swung open. Kelton stepped into a spacious room, plainly but comfortably furnished with leather easy chairs, a refectory table, and a four-poster bed. On the bed he saw a man, asleep. The face of the sleeping man was an unusually handsome and sensitive face in spite of its pallor and emaciation.

“May I wake him?” whispered Kelton.

“No use trying,” said Dr. Canfield. “I found him like this— in one of his stupors. They’re characteristic of his malady, you know. He’ll sleep like this for seven or eight hours, and nothing can rouse him. So examine the room if you want to. Satisfy yourself that Fenwick could not have committed last night’s crimes.”

Carefully and without haste, Matthew Kelton made a thorough examination of the room. He tapped walls, floors, ceiling and felt the steel beneath his knuckles. He tested every heavy bar at every window. They were firm and showed no marks as they must have had they been tampered with.

“Well, Doctor,” he said, finally, “I don’t see how a man could get out of this room.”

“Then,” said Dr. Canfield, as he closed the steel door after them and reset the combination, “we must look elsewhere for our criminal.”

“Yes,” conceded Kelton, “we must look elsewhere.”

Dr. Canfield escorted him to his car.

“Be sure to phone me if anything breaks,” said the doctor. “If I’m needed, ring me up no matter what the hour is.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Kelton, absently. “Good-bye.”

Thrice, though he drove home at a snail’s pace, Kelton nearly went off the road; for his mind’s eye was focused on a whirling kaleidoscope of conflicting facts, and he was as bewildered by what he saw as if he were mentally color-blind. Fenwick could not get out. But he must have done so. And if he got out once, he could get out again.

At his evening meal he was preoccupied.

“Now, Matt dear, eat your ham,” his wife adjured him. “It’s already sliced. No carving to do. I’m afraid I wasn’t very poiite to Dr. Canfield, laughing at the way he carved that chicken.”

“Eh? What?” said Kelton. “Oh, yes. He did rather bungle it, didn’t he?”

He rose suddenly from the table.

“Where are you going, Matt?” asked his wife.

“I must see Bannerman and Abernathy,” said Kelton. “At once.”

AN HOUR later, just as the moon was rising, three men stood in a small copse by the side of the turnpike.

“Wild goose chase,” growled Bannerman.

“Take it easy, General,” said Abernathy, in a low voice.

“I told you,” said Kelton in barely audible tones, “that we must keep our mouths tight shut and our eyes wide open.”

They waited there in silence, their eyes trained on the spot where the lane joined the main road. Long hours passed, and the moon rose higher. Then Abernathy’s hand gripped Kelton’s arm, and he said, close to Kelton’s ear—

“Ssssh! Someone is coming down Red Coat Lane.”

A man came down the lane, walking fast, and started down the turnpike. He was a black blot on the moon-lit road. They had seen his cap, his clothes, his face; all were black. Cautiously, at a distance, the three watchers followed him.

For more than a mile they were able to keep the man in black in sight; then, rounding a sharp bend, they lost him.

"He’s left the road,” said Banner- man.

“Quick, Squire, tell me,” said Kelton, tensely. “Who lives around here?”

“Colonial house on right, Judge Harkness. Next place, two brothers named Leslie. Beyond that is my farm,” said Abernathy. “And back there in the woods is a bungalow—”

“Whose?”

“Actress from New York has it for the Summer— named Lily Price—”

“Come,” commanded Kelton. They followed him along the ragged woodroad that led to the bungalow. As they came toward it they heard a scream that was pinched off short. Kelton bounded into the bungalow, with the other men at his heels. By the brightness of the moon they saw the man in black bending over a figure in white. His hands gripped the woman’s throat. Seeing them he sprang up, snarling, and hurled himself at them. Abernathy’s big fist shot out, landed flush on the man’s chin, and he crumpled to the floor. Kelton switched on the lights.

“Take the lady into the bedroom, General,” he said. “She’s fainted, but, thank heaven, she’s not seriously hurt.”

“Right,” said Bannerman, and then, as he picked up the girl, “Jove, she’s a beauty!”

“You brought rope, Squire,” said Kelton.

“Yes.”

“Then tie up that man before he comes to.”

Abernathy bound the man in black hand and foot.

“It’s Fenwick, of course,” he said.

“Yes,” said Kelton, “It’s Gabriel Fenwick.”

“How did he get out?” asked Abernathy.

“He didn’t,” said Kelton. “He was never in. Look closer, Squire.”

Abernathy bent over the unconscious man.

“But— Kelton,” he cried, “this is Dr. Canfield!”

“No,” said Matthew Kelton, “the real Dr. Canfield is locked up in that old house on Battle Hill, as sane as he ever was. We’ll crash through those steel walls and set him free as soon as he comes out of his drugged sleep.”

“YOU SEE,” explained Kelton, while they were waiting for the police, “the story we know about Fenwick and Canfield was accurate  up to a certain point. Canfield did bring Fenwick to this out-of-the-way place to take care of him; but Fenwick with the craftiness of his kind, managed, somehow, to reverse the roles, and the patient became the physician, the captor became the captive...”

“But what first gave you the idea that the man we knew as Canfield was not the doctor?” asked General Bannerman.

“Just a little mistake he made at lunch,” said Matthew Kelton. “Did you ever see a surgeon who couldn’t carve?”

_______________

9: Condemned

Francis Beeding

Hilary St. George Saunders & John Palmer

1898-1951 & 1885-1944

Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine,  July 1949

[Mystery Magazine, June 1935]

BERT Higgins pulled on his trousers and looked round for his collar and tie. It was quite comfortable in the condemned cell, but dark. There was a fire in the grate and that, in itself, was a luxury to which Bert Higgins was not accustomed.

These were his own clothes— the double-breasted blue serge suit in which he had been tried. They had taken it away from him after sentence and given him prison clothes. But today they had given it back to him.

This meant, of course, that the reprieve had come at last. It must have arrived during the night. But he could not go out into the street, reprieve or no reprieve, without a collar and tie.

"Collar," he said, "where's my collar, Joe?"

Joe was a nice fellow— nicer than the other warder, Mike.

Joe turned away, a little awkwardly, and stared at the window which, since it was of frosted glass, was not of much use as a peep-show.

"You won't be needin' them," he said.

"Not needin' them?" Bert began to protest.

Then he stopped and smiled.

Joe, of course, was under a false impression. Joe believed that he, Bert Higgins, was going to be hanged. That, however, was absurd. It simply wasn't done. Only criminals were hanged. He was not a criminal. He was innocent. He hadn't done it and a man was never hanged if he hadn't done it.

"Anything you fancy for breakfast, Bert?"

It was Joe speaking. He had a face as long as a yard measure. Bert, in his superior knowledge of English justice, smiled at him reassuringly.

"Breakfast," he said. "I don't mind ownin' I feel a bit peckish. Could they run to a steak and chips, d'ye think?"

Joe looked at him a moment.

"I'll see what we can do, mate," he answered and went to the little trap in the door which he slid back, saying a word to someone outside.

"It will be along in ten minutes," he announced, turning away from the door.

"That's prime," said Bert. "Got a fag about you, Joe?"

Warder Joe silently produced a packet of Gold Flakes. Bert lit up, and bent to lace his boots.

Why didn't they hurry up with that reprieve? It was cruel to keep a fellow waiting. Suppose, for example, he had been one of those nervous chaps. He would be carrying on something dreadful now, imagining things. It was past eight o'clock already— not quite another hour to run.

Bert smiled again. He hadn't done it. They couldn't hang him because he hadn't done it. The reprieve was bound to come.

Mechanically he put on his vest. What would he do first, on leaving the prison? It was no use going home. Amy was dead. That was the only thing that had really troubled him at all through the business of the trial— a much worse thing than anything that had happened since his arrest, much worse than when the old geezer in the wig and red robes had put that silly bit of black cloth on his napper and told him he was going to be hanged by the neck.

There was no getting over it. He loved Amy. Always had. And he would miss her cruel. It wasn't her fault if she was a bit flighty. She could not help being flighty any more than he could help having his pint and then some more at the Goat and Compasses. Besides, there had never been anything wrong, really. Not what you would call wrong. And naturally, with her that pretty, she had her temptations.

Pretty, indeed. Amy was lovely, like a rose from Covent Garden, a whole bunch of roses. That parson chap who had married them had said he had never seen a 'andsomer couple, and as this thought passed through his mind, Bert stopped in front of the mirror and began, with great care and a comb wetted in the basin, to arrange his hair.

He had won Amy, won her fair and square, from the lot of them— including George, who would soon be standing where he, Bert Higgins, stood that day. For George had done it and there would be no reprieve for George.

George had begun by taking them out, both of them, to the pictures and to a little fish and chips afterwards.

So it had gone on till one day he had come back from looking for a job of work to find George and Amy in the parlor together. Sitting on the sofa, they were, and there had been words with Amy about it that evening and Amy had been saucy and he had smacked her face and she had thrown the saucepan at him, and the biggest black eye you ever saw had begun to sprout where the saucepan had hit him. But when Amy had seen it next day she had cried and kissed him and gone out and got a bit of meat to put on his eye. And he had said they ought to eat it and they had laughed together. Quick-tempered Amy was... had been.

A sob rose in his throat, but he gulped it down and at that moment the door of the cell opened.

It was Mike with the breakfast.

Bert sat down and began to peg away. But his mind was not on the food though the steak tasted good. He had started to think again of his final quarrel with Amy, not about George, this time, but something quite silly— the sort of thing people quarrel about in music halls. He couldn't even remember what it was. Yet he would never forget that Sat- urday evening as long as he lived— not as long as he lived.

Well, he was only twenty-four. No reason why he should not live till seventy— after the reprieve.

Amy had been violent again and he had raised his hand, but he hadn't meant to strike her. This time she had thrown the coffee-pot. But it had missed him and hit the wall and made a hell of a clatter. And he turned on his heel and walked straight out into the fog.

That was the first misfortune. No one had seen him leaving the house.

He had made his way to the Goat and Compasses. But it had taken him some time, for the fog had been so thick. There he had taken a drink and what with one thing and another... well, he had taken several drinks and his pal, Harry, being sympathetic, had poured gin in his beer and suggested he should go home and give Amy a good walloping.

"Bert," he had said, "what she wants is a firm 'and."

So he had started back home meaning to give Amy what she wanted. But it had taken him half an hour to get home.

Half an hour to go from the Goat and Compasses to Westbury Terrace when it was only five minutes' walk.

Nobody, of course, believed it— least of all that nasty little man with the twitching nose who had conducted the prosecution.

Yet what could have been more natural? He had just wandered round the street for half an hour making up his mind to go in and wallop Amy. And then, when at last he had gone in....

Bert pushed away his unfinished cup of tea. He suddenly felt he did not want any more breakfast. He still saw Amy lying there, in the bedroom upstairs, with her head all cut open and a broken beer bottle lying on the floor. He would remember that to his dying day... his dying day.

He had picked up the bottle and at that moment the coppers had come. Old Green from next door brought them. Old Green heard the row earlier in the evening and he hadn't seen the prisoner— that was him— Bert Higgins— leave the house or come back. Old Green had sworn to having heard several such rows before. He had testified in court that Amy and Bert Higgins were on bad terms with each other, which was a lie. He had always been on the best of terms with Amy. Bad terms, indeed!

Nobody had seen George enter or leave the house. But that was only because of the fog. George, of course, must have come along while he was at the Goat and Compasses. It was George who had sloshed Amy with the beer bottle. Wasn't he employed by a brewery? But that prosecutin' fellow had pointed out that you could get a bottle of Bishop's ale anywhere and that there were several bottles of it in Bert's own kitchen.

George must have had a row with Amy, the same as he had. But while he had only hit her with his hand, George had sloshed her with a bottle.

That was what had happened, but he couldn't prove it and George had dug up an old sweetheart who had sworn he had been with her at the time and that was what they called an alibi.

There came a knock at the door and Warder Joe crossed the cell.

"Chaplain to see you, mate," he announced.

"Not for me," said Bert. "'E'll only talk to me about a future life and this one's good enough for me."

Bert spent the next quarter of an hour walking up and down his cell. They were cutting things rather fine with the reprieve. But those government chaps were always like that.

Look at the clerks at the Labor Exchange. It took you hours to draw the dole. Lack of organization, that's what it was.

But here, at last, was the governor. Chap in gray with a white mustache. Behind him were three men in dark clothes. Two of them had their hands behind their backs as though they were hiding something. Behind thetn again was the chaplain. There was no getting away from these parsons.

"Put your hands behind your back, please."

It was one of the men in dark clothes speaking. Warder foe stood at his elbow. Somebody seized his arms firmly above the elbows. Some- thing tight was pressing against them and he found suddenly that they had been strapped behind him. An- other of the men in dark clothes was slipping something over his head, something woolly, a woolen bag.

" 'Ere," protested Bert Higgins.

But they had pulled it right down to his neck and he could not see and his protest was stifled. But he could hear all right. The chaplain was at him now.

"I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord. He that believeth in me, though he be dead, yet shall he live."

" 'Ere," Bert protested again.

But no one answered him. He felt himself being pushed firmly forward. His feet touched stone as he walked, then wood. The wood quivered a little beneath his feet and he was
brought to a halt. At the same moment something was slipped over his head.

It rasped his neck as it settled on his shoulders and a hard lump sat uncomfortably to the left underneath his chin.

" 'Ere," protested Bert Higgins for the third time.

The hands which had touched him, moved away. He was suddenly alone....

Footsteps sounded somewhere. A door creaked. A voice cried out sharply in the darkness.

"Here you are, Governor. Straight from the Home Secretary."

There was a crackle of paper. The Governor was saying something.

Bert Higgins breathed a sigh of relief. They had cut it pretty fine but this was just what he had expected.

Yes, that was right. They were untying his arms. The woolen bag was pulled from his face and there stood the Governor smiling at him.

"A narrow squeak," the Governor was saying. "But the reprieve has come at last. George Butterworth was arrested early this morning."

"And may God have mercy on his soul," said Bert Higgins, as he followed the Governor from the cell.

Could they be at the prison gates already?

"Here they are, mate," said Joe and Bert Higgins perceived that the warder was offering him a collar and tie.

But first he must shake hands with the Governor.

"Goodbye, Higgins," said the Governor.

"So long, Guvner."

It was raining as usual and the streets were sombre and gray. That was a tram. It was fading with a noise of bells, into the fog. Bert Higgins ran after it. His legs were heavy and reluctant, but by a supreme effort he jumped on board and found a place.

He sat in the train. Time passed. He was being carried quite a long way and suddenly he perceived that the tram was empty. The conductor, wearing a mackintosh cape, loomed in from the fog.

"Terminus, mate," he said. "Tram don't go no further."

Bert Higgins left the tram. The streets were very dark and the fog was thickening. But Bert could see quite clearly where he was. That was Westbury Terrace. Why had he come to Westbury Terrace? Force of habit, he supposed. Was the house still empty or had it a new tenant? He did not want to walk down that familiar street but his feet dragged him forward.

There stood the door, same as ever, a dirty green. It hadn't had a spot of paint on it for years.

But the steps were nice and white. Who could have cleaned them, now Amy was gone. He pushed open the door and entered the hall. A light shone from the kitchen and someone was standing at the wooden table. It was a woman and her back was turned to him. She stood at the table with a rolling pin in her hand, rolling... rolling.

The woman turned and looked at him. She was all in white... in her wedding dress, and there was flour on her forearms.

"Hello, Bert," said Amy, "thought you was never comin'."

"YES, Mr. Coroner," said the prison doctor, "death was practically instantaneous. The pulse had already ceased to beat when I reached the body. The man was dead before he knew it."

____________________

10: Floor, Please

Stephen Vincent Benét

1898-1943

Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine,  July 1949

[Detective Story Magazine, 8 March 1924]

"FLOOR, please!" said Sally Bunch mechanically. Then she smiled. "Why, it's Mr. Cavendish! Hot, isn't it, Mr. Cavendish?"

The young man smiled in reply, displaying teeth so white and even that, as his personal stenographer had remarked, "it just wasn't right they were in a man."

"Yes, it is hot," he remarked in his pleasant voice.

Sally glowed.

"Those Palm Beach suits now," she proffered timidly. "I hope you don't think I'm fresh, Mr. Cavendish, but— well, I got a kid brother— he thought— are they really as cool now as the advertisements make out they are?"

Mr. Cavendish glanced over his quiet, expensive raiment appreciatively.

"Oh, yes, they're as cool as anything we poor devils of men can wear on a day like this. My. floor? Good morning!"

He stepped out of the elevator, smiling. Sally dreamily revolved the wheel that closed the doors and started the elevator up again. As a matter of fact, she had no brother, but chances of a couple of minutes uninterrupted talk with a real gentleman like Mr. Cavendish were few. Even as it was, she had risked something— the proprietors of the Metal Products Building did not encourage talkativeness on the part of its elevator girls. "Complete refinement in deportment," said the little booklet on Service, "is a more than necessary adjunct for each and every one of our employees."

Sally sighed. She knew her deportment was not all that it should be, in spite of the correspondence course in The Etiquette of Fashionable Society she had just completed. But how were you ever going to get to know real swell people if you just stood on your feet all day long, like a dummy, and never opened your face?

Sally had been an elevator girl in the Metal Products Building for a little over a year. It was the "refinedness" of the thing— the opportunities for acquiring culture and social polish as well as, possibly, in the future, a real, "Ritzy" husband— that had appealed to her in taking the job in the first place. She not only had the normal American yearnings to rise above the station in which birth had placed her— she had original ideas on how it might be done and was strongly determined to do it.

There were plenty of millionaires who married their private secretaries, their nurses, even their cooks. She read about them in the papers— enviously. But Sally could not spell, sick people made her nervous, and she always got hot when she cooked. Very well, then, why not start a precedent herself? "Wealthy Clubman Weds Elevator Girl. Her Politeness Impressed Me From the First, Says New-made Benedict."

She could see it all now, with many pictures, on the front pages of all of the papers.

At first, the Metal Products Building had seemed to offer a happy hunting ground. The uniform she had to wear was becoming, the pay acceptable, and clients of wealth and refinement were in evidence throughout. The Metal Products Building was one of the very latest downtown sky-scrapers. Hand-wrought bronze register gratings, vast marble columns in the entrance hall, indirect lighting from alabaster bowls; even Sally's elevator had the air of a Roman boudoir.

"Gee, this is the place for me!" thought Sally, when she first envisaged the ensemble.

But now that a year had passed, she began to wonder. It was easy enough to get acquainted, but most of the acquaintances were the wrong kind— fat, perspiring men who called her "sister" and leered when they were alone with her in the car— scrubby, uninteresting bookkeepers and filing clerks who, if she gave them half a chance, would doubtless display intentions as honorable as they were dull. Really, Sally thought, it was only Mr. Cavendish who kept her on the job.

She sighed again. He was certainly a darb. The perfection of his teeth when he smiled was what had first attracted her, she admitted. Girls were so silly. Or, maybe, it was his looks in general— handsome but manly— he wasn't one of those pretty-pretty boys. And his clothes! And his heavy, expensive English shoes! And his grand manners! And here he was— couldn't be more than thirty, and yet he was manager or something of the Continental Perfume Company on the eighth floor. That seemed a funny business, somehow, for a real man like him to be in, but then he had his artistic side, too. They'd talked about things, and he was always so nice and democratic with everybody.

Sally dreamed. To all appearances she opened and shut doors, sped up and down, said "Floor, please!" Really, however, she was rescuing a wounded, but uncomplaining, Mr. Cavendish from a burning building just as they do in the movies. Her reverie was rudely interrupted.

"Well, how's Nellie, the beautiful cloak model, today?" said a jarring voice.

Sally hardly bothered to turn her head. "Oh, hello, Mr. Considine," she said wearily. "The nineteenth?"

"Yea, my fair damsel, an' it please thee," said the sandy-haired young man with the Irish nose. "Old King Brady is on the trail again, and trouble may be expected to pop almost any time this morning. Say, Sally, when are you off?"

"Five thirty," said Sally mechanically. "Here's your floor."

The young man lingered. "Meet me at the trysting oak!" he murmured with an absurd gesture. "The Merrivale Street entrance, kid. I would have words with thee— words of import and gravity."

"Fat chance!" said Sally. She slammed the doors and shot upward. Billy Considine, she considered, was just the kind of bird that didn't get you anywhere! A little, fresh ham detective— an irritatingly unsquelchable hanger-on! No matter if she had had to tell him five times that she'd be a sister to him, tonight she positively wouldn't— she positively—She turned freezingly. "Now, Billy Considine—"

"Aw, Sally, be reasonable!"

"Billy, I told you "

"Aw, yes, but this is important."

She groaned exasperatedly. "Well?"

"Well, the chief just kicked through with a bonus on that bum check business. So how about Ugugli's and a couple of cups of red ink?"

"I beg your pardon. I am engaged for the evening."

"Aw, Sally, you're not! And then we could go to Harmonyland and shake a little toe or two."

Sally began to weaken. She loved to dance. "Well, Billy— only, you understand, it's the last time."

"Till the next time," said Billy, and grinned. "Right you are, my queen of the elevator shafts! How's the beautiful Mr. Cavendish today?"

It took him four subway stops to pacify her, but he managed it. There was something horribly persistent about Billy Considine. Later, discussing the dubious antipasto with which Ugugli's celebrated dollar dinner began, Sally found it necessary to be polite.

"How's the work going, Billy?"

"Like a breeze, my fair flower," said Billy gallantly, "like a Coney Island breeze." Then he grew more veracious. "And saps out in Hicksville Center think it must be the berries to be a private detective!" he groaned. "Oh, just so exciting and everything. Exciting— blah! This morning I get up in the night to go out and work on a fat Dutchman the chief thinks is up to some funny business or other. I trail him around all day, till Sullivan takes over the job, and the worst thing he does is to take a golf lesson at Mimbel's, with the thermometer up so high it fairly makes me drip every time I think of him. Then I write my report and quit— and, oh yes— strike the chief for my bonus, and he gives it to me all right, but says I've been dead on my feet all month, except for that one piece of luck, and to get busy from now forward, or I'll be sleeping out in the park. If they'd only give me a real case, once in a while."

He stabbed viciously at a flaccid slab of pimento. "How about you, Sal? Everything sittin' pretty?"

"Well, if you think you have a stupid time, Billy Considine! Seems to me every day I live's just like every other day, except for the date. Sometimes I think if they put me on the other shift— the expresses to the twentieth— things'd be different. But—"

"Oh, there wouldn't be any difference," said Billy gloomily. "What's the use? If I could grab off a big bunch of kale— or get hold of a classy crime— I want to start my own agency, Sal— I know I could get away with it. I'm sick of these routine jobs. But you've got to have a rep to—"

Thick, steamy soup replaced the antipasto. They talked on, hardly heeding each other.

"You know what the trouble is with you and me, Sally," Billy was saying; "the trouble with both of us,

Five thirty found her sweeping haughtily out of the Merrivale Street entrance. But a block away she found herself taken affectionately by the arm.

we haven't got enough incen— incentive— that's the big trouble. Now, Sally— aw, listen, Sally— if you'd "

"Oh, yes, if we got married and had an apartment in the Bronx— and a baby— and a phonograph on the pay- every-month-till- you're-dead system," said Sally, with tired scorn. "No, Billy, there's nothing in it."

"Aw, Sally, you're a lot too good for me— don't I know that? But if we got married we could sort of help each other— two of us. I'd just have to be a success if you married me, Sally. And there's a lot of jack in this agency business, once you get started right. Won't yon, Sally?"

"You know I'll help you every way I can, Bill," said Sally, a trifle moved; "but—"

"Aw, I know," said Billy acridly; "you needn't tell me. It's that Cavendish bimbo— that ya-ya, stuffed shirt, tooth-paste ad of a Cavendish. You used to listen to me before his fairy footsteps came into your life! He's a—"

"Mr. Cavendish is a gentleman— a real gentleman— a man anyone should be proud to know!"

"Then what's he doing in a perfume works— playing he's a geranium? Sounds pretty funny to me."

"Mr. Cavendish intended to be a painter," said Sally stiffly. "He has very fine artistic tastes. He—"

"A painter? Yeah, a sign-painter — that's about "

"If you persist in insulting my personal friends, Billy—"

"Oh, all right," grumbled Billy unwillingly. "All right, I'll lay off. But I got a hunch about this man, Cavendish— I just don't like him at all."

They talked forcedly of other things through the rest of dinner, but, by the time they got to Harmonyland, Sally's ruffled feelings were somewhat soothed. In fact, when she went to bed that night, she admitted that Billy at times could be quite sweet. If he wasn't so crude he might—

JULY CAME— August— and another proposal from Billy, an even more persistent one than usual, this time.

"Listen— I've got my chance! Are you listening to me, Sally? It's jewels," he gloated, "stolen jewels. Just like in a book." They were alone on a bench on Riverside Drive.

"Yes?" said Sally unintcresledly. She was thinking of Mr. Cavendish.

"The chief is wild. The whole department's up in the air. I can't tell you much about it— only a job as big as a whale's been put across. Our client's one of the biggest bugs in town— he's had the regular police on it, but they can't show a thing. There's a knockout of a reward. They know the crooks must be trying to get the stuff out of the country, but that's all they know." He whispered a name.

"Good Lord!" said Sally, impressed.

"Keep your face frozen tight about it, kid— don't breathe a word ! Every- body in the office is after that reward; but it's my chance, my big chance, and I'm going to collect on it or end up smelling a lily!" He proceeded to more personal topics.

The next evening, as Sally was hurrying toward the subway, she suddenly found Mr. Cavendish at her elbow.

"Oh, Miss Bunch!" He was obviously surprised. "Hotter than ever, isn't it?"

She nodded; she felt too wilted to speak.

"You're on your way home?"

"Why, yes, Mr. Cavendish."

"The subway must be terrible these days."

"It's— it's very hot," said Sally briefly. She felt a little sick at the thought of the crowded train.

He hesitated. "Miss Bunch"— Sally winced; she hated her name— "I suppose you'd think it rather impertinent of me," he smiled, "but my car, as it happens— I always drive home from the office— do you live very far uptown?"

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Cavendish, but I couldn't— I really couldn't."

He smiled again. "Why not? It isn't much to do. I assure you, it makes me feel like a brute, riding back in the open, while you— Come, why not?"

"I couldn't," said Sally in a very feeble voice. "Besides, it's way up on One Hundred and Thirty-fifth Street."

He looked at her sharply. "Non- sense! You're tired. Don't be silly. A breath of air will do you all the good in the world. And, besides — I'll confess— it isn't all altruism, Miss Bunch. I wanted to ask you something— a favor."

"Oh, then I'll accept," said Sally gratefully.

The smooth motion of the car— the cool air on her cheeks. She sighed with content, relaxing. They said very little until they were near Central Park, but even in what little he said Mr. Cavendish displayed a graceful formality that thrilled her.

"And now, Miss Bunch," he said, "If I might ask you "

"Another letter?" said Sally hap- pily. "Oh, I'd be so charmed."

"Yes, another letter." Cavendish glanced about him. His voice sank. "About the same deal, to the same address. No answer. I'll pick you up in ten minutes at the subway station. Of course, you'll say nothing?"

"I'd die first," said Sally.

He laughed. "Oh, it won't require that. But you know how these busi- ness things are— everyone out to cut the next fellow's throat. Miss Bunch, I hate to impose on your good nature this way, but I know that I can trust you. If I were mistaken—" For a moment his eyes were as blank and chilly as little hailstones. "And then we'll go for a spin in the Park," he ended.

"That would be Just lovely, Mr. Cavendish," said Sally with fervor, as she took the letter. It had no address upon it, but she knew where to go.

THE MAN at the desk regarded Mr. Cavendish distrustfully. The officers of the Continental Perfume Company were in conference behind locked doors.

The Continental Perfume Company was a blind; they were the fences of a criminal organization. The letters were written instructions to arrange for the selling of gems to foreign buyers.

"I don't like this business with the girl, Jim," said the man at the desk, "Miss Lunch, or whatever her name is. I don't like it at all."

"My dear man," said Mr. Cavendish in his elegant drawl, "trust me— trust me."

"We've darn well got to trust you— all of us," growled the man at the desk. "You know that, but I don't like it all the same."

"Well," said Mr. Cavendish wearily, "I can't go. You won't trust a regular messenger. You say they're watching all the rest of us. I know the girl, and she's the safest route we can try. Oh, don't be a fool, Red! Don't you see— it's my idea that—"

"Oh, I see all right," said the other man with displeasure. "It's a good enough idea— you always have ideas, I'll hand that to you, Jim— but how about guarantees?"

"The best," said Mr. Cavendish. He smiled and picked an imaginary thread from his coat sleeve. "You know about men, my dear man. Leave the women to me."

TALKS with Mr. Cavendish— little errands to do for Mr. Cavendish— once— incredible— dinner with Mr. Cavendish in a small French restaurant off Broadway. This episode Mr. Cavendish considered "venturesome."

And then the Saturday afternoon in the last week of August. It was hotter than ever, and nearly everyone in the Metal Products Building went off at noon. The big main doors were shut; the only open entrance was the Merrivale Street one, where a sleepy attendant dozed over a register in- tended to keep track of those who went in and out after hours. Few of the elevators were running; the girls took turns at staying in on Saturday afternoons. This afternoon it was Sally's turn to stay.

She was startled out of what had begun to be a waking doze by the sudden appearance of Billy Considine hurrying toward her, accompanied by two strangers in big, flat shoes.

"Take us up to your little friend Cavendish's outfit, Sally," he said with a magnificent air. "We've got the goods on him at last!"

"The goods?" said Sally, stupefied.

"The goods— all wool and a dozen yards crooked. Make it fast, kid— this is a pinch. All set down here, Mike?"

"All set," said one of the strangers.

"All right— let's go, Sally!"

The car shot upward. In the seconds of its flight to the eighth floor, Sally thought desperately fast. Billy and the stranger were talking together in absorbed, low voices. There must be some mistake. She must warn Cavendish.

"Here you are!" she said, half sobbing. The car stopped, and she slammed open the doors. Hilly and the stranger dashed out. Instantly she shut the doors behind them, and whirled her wheel. She had left them on the fourteenth floor— six floors above the Continental Perfume Company's offices. Even if they slid down the banisters, she would be able to warn Mr. Cavendish before they reached him.

At the eighth floor she clanged the doors open again. A cry of terror dried in her throat. Mr. Cavendish stood before her, and his right hand gripped a stubby blue automatic whose little black eye looked directly at her solar plexus.

"Oh, Mr. Cavendish!" she began reproachfully, but Mr. Cavendish seemed far too hurried to chat.

"Down!" Mr. Cavendish mouthed at her. "Down! Make it fast!" His mouth looked light and cruel. "Not the ground floor, you little fool! The basement— the basement!"

The elevator fell like a stone and stopped. Sally shot the doors back with incapable fingers. Emptiness— gray gloom.

"Thank Heaven!" said Mr. Cavendish, his revolver weaving in front of him. "Where's the door?"

"There's a way out around that pile of boxes," said Sally weakly. "To the right; but— oh, Mr. Cavendish—"

"Keep your mouth shut, you poor little half wit, or I'll plug you," said Mr. Cavendish impolitely.

A footfall— a heavy, solid, official footfall— sounded beyond the pile of boxes. Mr. Cavendish, rattled, was galvanized into furious activity. He leaped back into the elevator and slammed the doors. They shot upward.

A furious buzzing began in the elevator.

"That's the alarm," said Sally dully. "They're going to shut off the juice."

"Oh, Lord!" said Mr. Cavendish, sourly realizing his recent errors in judgment. "That breaks it. Well—" He seemed suddenly in the grip of a brilliant idea. He dropped the revolver— fumbled horribly in his mouth for an instant, mumbling disjointed phrases. "Try it— nothing else to do— girl worships me— might have enough luck to get—"

Suddenly, violently he was thrusting some object into Sally's hand — a moist, rough object, full of sharp projections.

"Hi' 'em!" he gurgled sharply at her. "Hi' 'em. Goo' girl! Doe nell. Never 'ell. Ee oo a-er."

The elevator shot down again toward the ground floor.

" 'Op!" said Mr. Cavendish imperatively, and Sally stopped.

Half fainting, Sally opened the doors. Mr. Cavendish stepped out with dignity— into the arms of Billy Considine.

"Put 'em up!" said Billy.

Mr. Cavendish's arms rose slowly to the perpendicular. The stranger named Mike at once began an expert survey of Mr. Cavendish's pockets.

"Uh ih uh caning uh is ex-or-ary er-or-ance?" began Mr. Cavendish. Billy laughed.

"Say, 'Ritzy Jim,' what's the matter with your talk machine?" he queried. "Run out of gas?"

"Errr," whirred Mr. Cavendish angrily and fell silent.

"No dope," said Mike disgruntledly.

Cavendish smiled. The infinitesimal pause that followed was broken by a scream from Sally. She had just looked down at the object that Mr. Caven- dish had recently forced into her hand.

"His teeth!" she screamed hysterically. "He gave me his teeth."

She slumped toward the floor of the car. Mr. Cavendish saw his chance for freedom and took it— to be tackled by the second stranger before he had gone three steps.

"Now will you be good?" said the stranger, sitting on his chest.

Sally, reviving in Billy's arms, opened her eyes and shut them at once.

"His teeth!" she moaned. "His horrible teeth! They're there! Oh, Billy, take them away!"

"All right, kid," said Billy, soothing her. "All right, darling. Say, Mike, did you— oh, hot cat!" For Mike, holding Mr. Cavendish's former teeth in one large hand, was slowly unscrewing a prominent molar from its plate. "Some filling!" he said and grinned.

A thin shell of enamel-like substance lay in his hand— a shell with a curious brilliant core that winked and glittered— a diamond.

"The sparklers," said Mike. "Now I'd say this fella had the most expensive false teeth in the world, wouldn't you, Bill?"

"Amy—" said Mr. Cavendish violently from the floor.

Then they took him away.

SOME weeks later, as Victoria's romancers used to remark, a young man and a young woman might have been observed entering a large, official-looking building in downtown New York. The young woman wore a brand-new ring, and every time the young man looked at it he smiled

"It's a grand day, today, eh, Sally?" said Billy Considine.

"Billy, dear."

"And next month there'll be yet a grander," proceeded Billy.

"Now, Billy, we may not be married for months and months. You mustn't hurry "

"I'm not hurrying you— I'm just telling you," said Billy comfortably. "You're not going Cavendishing again, if I can help it, my dear, and you were nearly an accessory, if it hadn't—"

"Oh, Billy, it was sweet of you to tell them that I'd helped you."

"You'll make a grand Mrs. Sherlock yet, Sally, my dearl"

"Floor, please?" said a weary elevator attendant. Sally started.

"Going up!" she began automatically, but Billy interrupted.

"Wherever they keep the marriage licenses, buddy!" he said, with a grin. "And make it snappy!"

____________

11: Yeggs Florentine

Guy Gilpatric

1896-1950

Ellery Queens Mystery Magazine Feb 1948

[Collier’s  8 Feb 1930]

MR. AND MRS. WELLS came out of the Grand Hotel and paused on the sidewalk looking around.

"Nope, no taxi," said Mr. Wells to the doorman. "Just going for a stroll to look the town over. Which way's the Ponte Vecchio?"

They crossed the square and walked along the Lungarno Torrigiani, which runs beside the Arno.

"Gosh, that's a muddy river," observed Mr. Wells. "I wonder what kind of fish those soldiers are trying to catch? Sunfish, I bet. Oh, yes, look, Mama, there's the Ponte Vecchio there. Looks just like the pictures, doesn't it?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Wells, who hadn't been listening. "I wish we'd had the car come 'round. I know we'll get lost."

"Yes? Well, I notice every time we roll up to any place in that Isotta, zip go the prices. The chauffeur gives the storekeepers a high-sign and gets maybe a twenty per cent rake-off on everything we buy."

"Well," said Mrs. Wells, doubt- fully, "I've got an idea my feet are going to hurt. Oh, look here, Tom— here's a jeweler here."

"Sure," said Mr. Wells. "But Faustino says they're all yeggs on this side of the river, and he ought to know!  We'll go down to the bridge, cross over, and..."

"Wait a minute, Tom; do wait a minute. Now, look, Tom, there's a nice one there— the one with the red stones, sort of."

"Sure, he's probably got a gross of them, all junk. Oh, look, Bella, see the way they've got shops built right on the bridge. Say, now, that's interesting, isn't it? I mean, it's quaint, now, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Wells. "My, these cobbles are terrible! Oh, why, look, Tom, those shops look like jewelry shops. Look, Tom, they are jewelry shops, every one of them!"

"Unh-huh," agreed Mr. Wells. "All gyp jewelry shops. Lot of junk made up for the tourists, like Atlantic City— Wonder what that statue is.... Oh, why, it's Benvenuto Cellini! Sure, don't you remember in the guidebook, Bella? He had his shop out here on the bridge."

When they had crossed the bridge, they came to a large shop the window of which was filled with jewelry.

"There!" exclaimed Mrs. Wells, hailing resolutely and pointing at the fifth necklace from the left. "There's what I want, Tom, yes, just exactly! See, it's the sardonyx one. It's exactly..."

"S-h-h! Wait a minute, wait a minute!" muttered Mr. Wells out of the corner of his mouth. "Don't go getting all excited! Don't you see that man in there piping us off and getting set to gyp us? Keep on walking past and—"

"Oh, you make me sick!" declared Mrs. Wells. "I'm going in anyway."

THE ITALIAN took the necklace out of the window and laid it on the counter. "Oh, yess!" he said. "Ees beootifoola teeng, I guarantee ees ver' old. I guarantee ees make five-a honedred years ago, een da quattrocento."

"Hunh!" grunted Mr. Wells, picking it up as Mrs. Wells reached for it. "It looks pretty new to me. What are you asking for it?"

"'Seex-a tosanda lira— all handa carve. Ver' chip, sir!"

"Six thousand's what you're asking, but what will you take?" snorted Mr. Wells.

"Seex-a tosanda lira ees da price, sir. Ees ver' chip! See, ees beootifoola stone, beooti..."

"Oh, shucks, talk like a business man!" urged Mr. Wells. "I s'pose you're used to a lot of Americans who..."

The Italian bowed stiffly. "I am sorry," he said. "Our price-a ees feex, we are estableesha house of feexa price."

"Horse feathers!" declared Mr. Wells. "Come on, Mama, I told you this bird was a yegg. Now, down here in the little side streets..."

"Now, you shut up, Tom Wells!" said Mrs. Wells, blushing with embarrassment. "Six thousand wasn't much for that and you know it."

"Now, Bella, Bella, please!" begged Mr. Wells. "Just you leave this to me. I tell you all these birds on the main streets are gyps. Why, if that thing had been a genuine antique we couldn't have bought it for ten thousand lira."

"Well, it was exactly what I wanted. I'm going to remember that address— Via Benfratelli, Number 61."

"Look!" exclaimed Mr. Wells. "Here's a quaint little street. This is the kind of a place to find bargains. Let's go down here."

"Why, Tom, it's only an alley. Phew, smell it? And those cobbles...."

"Oh, now, Ma, say, for goodness' sake, what do you expect, Michigan Boulevard?"

They walked along an alley which twisted, turned, and finally came to a blind end. As they were about to go back, Mr. Wells peered into a doorway and saw an old man bending over a workbench on which were several pieces of jewelry.

"See there, Bella, look inside there!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "Come on!"

As they entered, the old man arose, bowed, and offered Mrs. Wells his chair.

"Good morning, lady and gentleman," he beamed. "I speak-a good English."

"Fine!" said Mr. Wells, glancing around the dark little shop and nodding at Mrs. Wells. "We were looking for a necklace, something kind of heavy gold— real antique of course— with sort of square sardonyx stones in it."

"All, yes?" said the old man, wrinkling his forehead. "Ah, I do not know eef I have still such piece... pardon, please, I go see." He hobbled into the gloom in the rear of the shop and disappeared behind a curtain.

'"Now!" whispered Mr. Wells. "This is the kind of a place to snag off bargains! There's no flash fronts or frock coats about this place. I told you we'd find something if..."

"Pardon," said the Italian. "Here ees someteeng...."

"Ah-ha! There!" exclaimed Mr. Wells. "Look that one over, Bella!"

"Oh, why, it's just like the other one!"

"Hunh— it's just like the other one, but, boy, what a difference! You can tell that this one wasn't made day before yesterday!"

"Yes," said Mrs. Wells, trying it around her neck.

"Fine-a antique!" declared the old man, proudly. "I sell-a only da fine-a antique."

"Yes," repeated Mrs. Wells. "How much is..."

"What are you asking for it, brother?" broke in Mr. Wells. "I mean, what'll you take, no fooling?"

Once more the Italian wrinkled his forehead. "For thees lady, I maka special price," he said. "Ten tosanda lira — ver' chip!"

Mr. Wells winked at him and poked him in the ribs. "Yes, yes, go on— I'm listening!" he chuckled.

The old man shrugged his shoulders. "Ah-ha!" he laughed. "I see-a thees gentleman ees smart-a man. Nine-a tosanda five honedred?"

"I heard you the first time. Nine thousand!" said Mr. Wells, slapping him on the back and reaching for his wallet. "How about it?"

"Ah," sighed the old man, shaking his head but smiling at Mrs. Wells. "Your gentleman ees ver' smart-a man! But for you, lady, I say yes. I sell eet for nine- tosanda lira."

"At-a-boy!" approved Mr. Wells. "Here's your money, and now we're all happy. Put it on and wear it home, Bella. Guess it was worth the walk and the sore feet, hey?"

"You walk-a far?" inquired the Italian sympathetically. "You like-a taxi for hotel, lady?"

"Oh, could you get one?" asked Mrs. Wells, looking out at the dismal alley.

"Yes. Please come-a thees way." He led them to the rear of the room, drew aside the curtain, and ushered them into a bright and spacious and familiar jewelry store.

"Here ees da fronta my shop," he explained proudly, "Via Benfratelli, Number 61."

________________

12: The Chance Clue

Scott Campbell

Frederick W. Davis, 1858-1933

Detective Story Magazine, 5 March 1916

The 8th of nine "Red Raven" stories which ran in the Detective Story Magazine commencing Nov 20, 1915, and concluding March 20, 1916. A second series of 10 stories commenced in December 1916. They do not seem to have been published in book form.

THE girl halted, as if suddenly turned to stone. Her color faded as quickly as if all the blood in her veins nad surged to her heart. Through the meshes of her gray veil, her dilating eyes were fixed with startled, staring scrutiny upon the man's motionless hand— and its one adornment.

She lingered only for a moment, unheard, unnoticed, and then she went to sit at a desk in one corner, still furtively watching the man, but with her fair face partly averted. She had just entered the Stability Trust Company, a New York banking institution, and approached one of the wall desks to write a deposit slip. Incidentally, when nearly behind a fashionably clad man, who was writing a check, she noticed his left hand, on the check book.

At the receiving teller's window, a little later, while passing in her deposit, she inquired carelessly:

"Did you see the tall gentleman, Mr. Raymond, who cashed a check and went out a few moments ago?"

Mr. Raymond smiled at jer through the lattice, and bowed.

"I did," he replied. "He is a personal friend of mine. His name is Hamilton Fisk."

"Thank you. He reminded me of a friend who lives in Denver."

"Mr. Fisk lives at the Waldron. He is one of our depositors."

"I was merely impressed with the resemblance mentioned— nothing more." The last was added with noticeable indifference..;

Nevertheless, upon entering a handsome Fifth Avenue residence, half an hour later, this same young lady hastened to call up the police headquarters and ask for Detective Glidden.

"I am Violet van Hook." she informed him. "You remember me, no doubt, in connection with the robbery in our Riverdale home two years ago."

"Yes, indeed!" Glidden pricked up his ears. "Very well, Miss van Hook, I assure you. Not been robbed again, have you?"

"No. I am thankful to say! But I have information for you, very valuable information. Will you call at my Fifth Avenue home as soon as possible?"

"Within half an hour."

"Thank you. By the way—"

"Well?"

"I think you had better wear a disguise,''

"Very good. I will do so."

MISS van Hook received him in the library, half an hour later.

She then looked more pale and serius, and, after a conventional greeting, she said gravely:

"My parents are in Washington, Mr. Glidden, or I would have conferred with them before sending for yon. I have not forgotten that the robber who imposed upon us so outrageously as Lord Arkright, presenting forged letters bearing the names of my father's London bankers, returned to me a very valuable and dearly cherished necklace of sapphires and diamonds. In spite of my gratitude for that magnanimity and consideration, my conscience will not let me hide what I have learned."

"I see." Glidden gazed at her inquiringly. "What have you learned, may I ask?"

"I saw that man this morning."

"The robber?"

"Yes."

"How long ago, and where?"

"About an hour ago. I was making a deposit with the Stability Trust Company."

"Are you sure of his identity?"

"No, not positively sure," Violet admitted. "I would not have recognized him at all. Mr. Glidden, but for one fact: Lord Arkright, so called, wore a bloodstone ring, to one curious feature of which he once called my attention. The blood-red spots in the stone formed the outline of a bird. He told me be called it his— Red Raven."

"Red Raven— I guess that's right." Gliddcn's eyes were aglow with sub- dued elation. "That man. Miss van Hook, is the chief of the worst gang of crooks in this country. The Order of Red Ravens— that's what it's called. Did the man you saw this morning wear a ring like Lord Arkright's?"

"Exactly like it," said Violet. "I saw it plainly while he was writing a check. I instantly recalled it, and then I studied the man himself. In a general way, I mean his figure, and such features as cannot be disguised, he was precisely like Lord Arkright."

"Did he see you?"

"No, sir."

"Or know that you saw him?"

"He did not. He cashed his check, and then left the bank."

"He must be one of the depositors, then."

"I know that he is," said Violet. "I questioned the receiving teller, Mr, Raymond, who said that the man is a personal friend of his."

"Questioned him, eh? His personal friend, eh?" GKdden's grizzled brows fell perceptibly. "It may have been better if yon had not questioned him. What did you ask the teller?"

"Only who the man was."

"Nothing more?"

"That was all. Mr. Raymond said that his name is Hamilton Fisk, and that he lives in the Hotel Waldron. That is all that was said about him. I decided that I had better not ask too many questions before stating the facts to you."

"I see." Glidden chuckled approvingly— a chuckle from Glidden was most extraordinary. "You did right, Miss van Hook, perfectly right. You are wiser than most women. Really, I am quite proud of you. Not another word about this, however, until after I have looked into it. Not one word, mind you!"

Miss van Hook assured him to that effect, and Detective Glidden thanked her. and departed. He looked more grim and threatening while he hastened down Fifth Avenue. His elation gave way to an ugly aggressiveness that few would have wished to arouse, much less to oppose.

"Is she right? Is there anything in it?" he asked himself. "Have I finally got him, this thieving Red Raven chieftain, this slick and slippery rascal, who repeatedly has slipped through my fingers— and given me the laugh? Have I finally got him?  Mahilton Fisk, eh? It would be like him, by thunder, to be dwelling with the select, and posing as a blueblood. Til soon find out. Ill mighty soon find out."

Glidden did not, however, let his eagerness pitch him over the traces. He hastened in disguise to the" Hotel Waldron, where he cornered the manager, with whom he was very well acquainted, in his private office.

"I want a little information, Sheldon," he said, after revealing his iden- tity. "But mum's the word ! Don't you by hint, look, or sign reveal what passes between us. You know what that means. You know what it means, Sheldon, coming from me."

Sheldon smiled and bowed.

"You have said enough, Glidden, along that line," he replied. "I'll forget that you have been here. What do you want to know?"

"All you can tell me about Hamilton Fisk."

"That will be all to the good," said Sheldon. "He has been one of my guests for three years. He is a thoroughbred gentleman, a bachelor, a man of means, and a mighty fine fellow."

"Any business?"

"None, beyond an occasional venture in stocks. Fisk don't need a business. He has money enough. He employs a valet, and lives like a gentleman. And that's what he is, too, Glidden, you can bank on that."

"Do you know where he came from, or any more about him?"

"Only along the same lines."

"Are his habits good?"

"Exemplary. For a man residing in New York, he really leads the simple life. I don't know why you ask these questions, nor care. Take it from me. however, you'll not get anything on Hamilton Fisk. He could have my bank roll for the asking."

"That's all, then." Glidden arose abruptly. "Forget it!"

"I have pledged myself to that effect."

It was not quite all, however, for Glidden lingered in the hotel office until he got a look at the suspected man. But he could detect no convincing resemblance to the crook he repeatedly had encountered, yet who had not looked twice alike; and he then left the Hotel Waldron, with his ardor some- what chilled— while Mr. Richard Ravenswood, entirely unconscious of this ominous interest in him, was sauntering into the dining room to lunch.

Detective Glidden did not drop the matter. Not for a moment did he con- template doing so. He returned to headquarters, where he cornered and confided in Jack Armstrong, his invariable choice as an assistant in serious cases.

"By Jove, the girl may be right!" said Armstrong hopefully. "She saw more of that rascal than we ever saw, all put together. Nevertheless, Joe, it seems too good to be true. How can We cinch it? Would a grilling—"

"Grilling be hanged!" Glidden blurted. "That gink, if he's the mau, would end with grilling us. He's much too slick to have left himself open. What have we ever found that would serve to identify him? Never a finger print; never so much as a hair that we could prove came from his own head."

"There's no denying that, Joe."

"He's the limit, Armstrong." Glidden continued, snarling. "He can't be downed with a bluff. He has put it all over people at the Waldron, if this Fisk is the man, and he stands ace-high in all quarters. No crimes have been committed in the Waldron. He's too slick to have brought us buzzing so near his ears. He knows enough to have got in his work outside. No, no, Jack, there wouldn't be anything in a grilling. There's only one way to corner that rat and beat out his devilish brains."

"What way is that?"

The Red Raven Stories

S3

"Watch him!" snapped Glidden. "Keep him in the dark, and watch him. Watch that infernal valet, too, who may be more a pal than a servant."

"As like as not, Joe."

"Here's another point," Glidden added. "It's several months since these red rascals got in their work. They have been fattening on birds and bottles, no doubt, from the fruits of that Newport job. But that must be nearly blown in by this time."

"Surely."

"It's money to marbles, then, that they have another job shaped up by this time. An espionage will not be of long duration Now is the time to get them red-handed, Armstrong, if Violet van Hook is right. We then will have got them, by thunder, only with the help of a woman, a veritable fluke, as far as we are concerned."

Armstrong langhed, but Glidden was in no laughing mood. Repeated failures in his relentless pursuit of Ravenswood had nettled him to his depths.

'" This is what we'll do," he said bluntly. "Well begin a systematic espionage. You watch the valet. Ill look after the master, this Fisk, or whatever his name really is. I'll find out. You can bet that I'll find out, Armstrong, sooner or later! We'll begin our work at once."

All this occurred on a Thursday.

ii

STILL oblivious to the threatening interest he had aroused, Mr. Richard Ravenswood entered the quarters of the Stability Trust Company at precisely noon the following Saturday, the hour for closing business for the week. He carried a strong leather satchel of medium size in one hand, and ap- proached the window of the receiving teller.

A bearded man followed him in from the street, and from the corridor cautiously watched him through the oval glass in one of the swinging doors— Detective Glidden.

"Ah, Fisk, how are you?" Raymond gazed out and greeted him cordially. "Glad to see you. You are some stranger."

"Ditto." Ravenswood laughed. It was their first meeting since Thursday. "You know where I hang out. Why haven't you called?"

"Very busy. I may drop round this evening."

"Do so. Well knock out. a few games of billiards. I enjoy playing with you, Raymond. I would be a greater stranger, however, bar calling to ask a favor of you."

"Consider it granted," Raymond said quickly. "What can I do for you?"

"I have just converted some securities into Pacific bonds." Ravenswood held up the satchel. "There was a delay in delivering them, arid I have not time to go to the deposit vault to put them m my drawer before closing. Short day this, you know. I wish you would set the satchel in your vault over Sunday. It will be safer than at the Waldron."

"Why, certainly," Raymond exclaimed, opening his lattice window to receive it. "Very glad to do so for you. It is locked, of course?"

"Yes. If you wish to inspect its contents, however, I will—"

"Nonsense! Don't reach for the key. I will place it in our bond drawer. By the way, though, you cannot get it before ten o'clock Monday morning. Onr vault will be closed in a few minutes, and the time lock is set for ten on Monday. The devil himself could not open it hefore then."

"That will suit me admirably." Ravenswood smiled and nodded. "I intend turning part of them into Steel, if the market opens weak on Monday. I will be here at ten o'clock.'"

"Good enough! That settles it."

Raymond hastened to place the satchel in the vault.

Glidden did not see the transaction. He was sauntering to and fro in the corridor. It was indiscreet to peer constantly through the swinging door.

Ravenswood lingered, saw the clerks and tellers hurriedly place their books and funds in the vault, saw the massive doors closed and locked, impregnably closed until Monday, and then he added to the conversation he had been carrying on with Raymond:

"How soon will you be at liberty? Will you go with me to lunch ?"

"Delighted!" Raymond nodded. "I'll be through here in about five minutes."

"Capital! I'll wait for you."

"Oh, by the way!" Raymond, suddenly remembering, gazed out, laughing. "I think you might win out, Fisk, if so inclined; a very wealthy, attractive, and desirable young lady. A fine chance for matrimony, Fisk, on the level."

"Excuse me!" Ravenswood laughed, and shook his head. "One half of that word is enough for me. Money, not matrimony."

"You ought to be taxed, and may be, if the present administration is con- tinued."

"Let it come. Bachelorhood is worth it."

"She's a beautiful girl, nevertheless. You must have made an impression on her, too, for she had enough interest in you to inquire about you."

"When, and of whom?"

"When you were here Thursday morning. She saw you write and cash a check. When handing me her deposit, after you went out, she asked me about you."

"Very nice of her, I'm sure." Ra- venswood smiled. "I feel highly flat- tered. Who is the young lady?"

"Her name is Violet van Hook."

Ravenswood heard it, without a change of countenance. An involuntary chill ran down his spine, however, and his nerves began to tingle.

"Van Hook— I do not place her," he said calmly. "Nor can I conceive why she felt an interest in me."

"She said you reminded her of a friend who lives in Denver."

"H'm, is that so?" Ravenswood knew it to have been an equivocation, and that he must have been recognized. "Thursday morning, eh? Two days ago. You told Miss van Hook all about me, of course?"

"No, indeed!" Raymond shook his head. "She ended her inquiries very abruptly."

"Ah! Very abruptly, eh?" The significance of it was doubly convincing.

"I told her only your name and where you resided."

"That was quite enough to tell her." Ravenswood laughed lightly, but his voice was tinged with subtle irony. "All ready, Raymond, are you?"

"Yes. I'll be with you in half a minute."

Ravenswood sauntered toward the corridor door. He appeared as calm and complacent as when he entered. There was no sign of perturbation, no indication of threatening misgivings. He passed out with Raymond, and went with him to lunch in a popular restaurant, more genial and jovial than usual, if anything; and they parted after the meal.

Ravenswood sauntered up the street until he came to a drug store in which he saw a pay-station telephone booth, the door of which faced the street. He entered it and removed the receiver— but held down the bracket with his finger.

He then pretended to drop a coin in the slot and to communicate with some one— but all the while, with his back toward the street door and the store windows, he was gazing intently at the polished nickel ring around the mouthpiece.

Presently, replacing the receiver, he tore a leaf from his notebook and wrote on it with a lead pencil. He then folded the leaf and placed it, with ob- vious care, in the middle of the telephone book, leaving it there.

GHdden saw him do it, furtively watching him through one of the windows, but he quickly moved away when his quarry turned to leave the booth.

"He's up to something, the rat!" he snarled, under his breath. "Why did he telephone, and to whom? Has Raymond told him about the girl? That's not likely, or be would have betrayed it. What did he write and leave in that book? I have it, by thunder! He has planned with some one, probably one of his rascally red-bird confederates, to go there for written instructions, or a communication of some kind. I can nail it, by Jove! and pick him up again before he turns the corner."

Ravenswood then was sauntering slowly up the street.

Glidden entered the drug store, and hurried into the telephone booth. Seizing the exchange book, he rapidly turned the leaves, and found the folded scrap of paper. He opened it, and read a single mocking, staggering line:

Glidden, you're a chump!

The significance of it was unmistakable and irresistible. Glidden vented a fierce oath, then turned like an angry bull and rushed out to the street.

Ravenswood had disappeared.

IT WAS eight o'clock that evening when Glidden and Armstrong met at headquarters and sat down to compare notes, the former immediately stating what had occurred.

"A ruse; one of his rat tricks to give me the slip and the laugh— that's what it was!" he snarled bitterly. "The teller told him about the girl. I didn't believe he would even remember it. But it put the rascal wise. He reasoned that the girl would inform me, that she must already have done so, and the tact that I have not approached him and openly called him down led him to suspect that he was being shadowed. He clinched it in the telephone booth.

"I know, now, curse him! The nickel ring around the mouthpiece reflected the store door and windows. Though his back was turned that way, it enabled him to see me looking in, and my disguise did not fool him. He left that scurvy scrap of paper, knowing I would rush in to get it, enabling mm to bolt and vanish. Vanish be hanged! I'll not sleep nights till I get him!"

"Have you been to the Waldron?"

"Waldron— why go there?" Glidden ground his teeth disgustedly. "He'll never set foot in the Waldron again. Let him alone to be too wise for that. But I'll find him, Armstrong, if he stays aboveground. I'll get him, and bury him, blast him! I'll can him for keeps! What about the valet, Nolan? We might nail him."

Armstrong shrugged his shoulders expressively.

"Too late!" he said tersely.

"What do you mean?" snapped Glidden.

"I'll tell you, Joe, when your jaw slows down. That's your only safety valve. You'd explode, bang! burst all to smithereens, if you didn't cut loose with your tongue and let off steam. Nolan left the Waldron at precisely noon. He appeared for the first time to have a definite mission. I shadowed him to Z—Street, and there I lost him."

"Losing seems to be our long suit. How the devil did you lose him?'

"That's the strange part of it." Armstrong said more seriously. "He entered one of the low brick buildings in that section. It is rented by the agent of a New Orleans sugar and molasses firm, a man named Hawley. I'll swear that Nolan went in there, and I entered scarce ten seconds after him, thinking I might overhear something, and would make a few inquiries to cover my intrusion."

"I see."

"There is a front office, a space partly filled with barrels and casks, and a back room, the door of which was open. But there is no rear door, nor any stairway to the second floor. That is reached by a door outside, and Hawley lives up there. He's the only tenant in the building."

"I get you," Glidden growled. "But what about Nolan?"

"Nolan wasn't there."

"Not there?"

"Not hide nor hair of him."

"Humph !" Glidden's furrowed brows contracted until they mingled, '^f- wandered around and looked everywhere, while talking about the price of molasses with Hawley — but there was no Nolan."

"He may have gone down cellar."

"I could see no door leading to a cellar."

"He could not have evaporated!" snapped Glidden. "He must have been somewhere in the place. Where is this building? What part of Z— Street?"

"That section in which old buildings are rapidly being torn down for larger ones. This one, now that I think of it, is directly back of the Stability Trust Build ing. What now?

Glidden's grim face had changed like a flash, while his fist banged a table as if to splinter it.

"By Heaven, I have it!" he cried, eyes blazing. "There's a job on that bank. That's why he's a depositor. That's why he's friendly with Raymond. That's what became of the satchel. I wondered— but I don't wonder, now! It's in the bank vault, Armstrong, loaded with dynamite, or the devil knows what."

"You mean—"

"I mean that we've got them." Glid den rose up with a terrible laugh. "We have them nipped, Jack, every damned thieving Red Raven. I'll clip their wings this time, by thunder! Get a bunch of the boys together. Make it a score, with a gun in every pocket. We've got them. By Heaven, I'll not leave a live red bird among them!"

iii

THEY HAD gathered like blackbirds, singly and from divers directions, until the flock was complete. They had come at intervals during the day, from various quarters and with unostentatious stealth, seeking cover through different avenues, an alley and an outer bulkhead door, a trap in the back room, witness Nolan, and some like moles in the earth, through tunnels secretly constructed during months of labor, while the refuse of dirt and stones was removed in casks and barrels marked— molasses and sugar.

Ravenswood looked strangely serious while he viewed them at close upon nine o'clock that evening, his brood of Red Ravens, gathered in an underground room between the low brick building mentioned by Armstrong and the rear foundation wall of the Stability Trust.

Through a broad opening from this room, one of three leading in different directions, it could be seen that part of the wall was gone, that a circular chamber had been formed, that timbers and cement and steel had been broken from the ceiling, leaving only a comparatively thin and feeble partition between this circular chamber and— the interior of the bank vault.

Ravenswood gazed from one to another in the bright electric light— stolen by means of a concealed wire from the service in the trust building. He had entered only a few minutes before, and had found them all there, awaiting him, The Red Raven Stories
intent upon the near culmination of the most elaborate and laborious crime they had ever undertaken.

Ravens wood checked their conversa- tion, and addressed them more seri- ously than usual, and not without a tinge of affection in his low, sonorous voice.

"Attention, Red Ravens I" he began. ''I have important disclosures to make, and little time in which to make them. It is twenty minutes to nine, when we shall learn with what success we have labored. We have met here many times in the past six months, and this is to be the last time here — and perhaps our last meeting as an organized band of underworld workers."

"Last meeting?" Nolan stared at him amazed, while the jaws of others fell. "Our last meeting, Dickie?"

Ravenswood bowed.

"It's a long lane, lads, that has no turning," said he. "Sooner or later, despite the utmost precautions that can be taken, the pitcher that goes to the well may be broken. After to-night, Red Ravens, we shall disband temporarily, at least, and whether a subsequent reorganization will be feasible will depend upon many contingencies."

"Great guns!" This from Galen. "What's the trouble, Dickie?"

"Glidden is in a way to make good."

"Make good!" Nolan gasped. "What do you mean, Dickie?"

"He has identified me as Fisk, for three years a respected resident in the fashionable Waldron. But the Waldron, Paddy, will see no more of us."

"Thunderation!" Nolan scarce could believe his ears. "How did the infernal dick get wiser?"

"Through my identification by a former victim— the Van Hook girl. Naturally, of course, she hastened to inform Glidden, who investigated the Van Hook robbery."

"But when did that come off?" Lacy demanded apprehensively. "How long has Glidden known this?"

"Since Thursday morning."

"The devil you say!"

"Oh, don't be alarmed." Ravenswood said assuringly. "He has been looking me up and making inquiries, no doubt, but he has not approached me openly."

"You may have been shadowed."

"I know that I have been watched. Fortunately, however, this is my first visit here since Wednesday. I discovered this afternoon that Glidden was trailing me, but I shook him off by— well, I'll take time to tell you all about it."

"Thundering guns! This is awful, Dickie," Nolan said, with a groan, after  Ravenswood had concluded. "If we could only silence the infernal—"

Ravenswood checked him with a gesture.

"It is too late for anything of that kind," he said more brusquely. "The milk is spilled and the pitcher broken. Our only wise course is to disband temporarily, as I have said, with a possibility of subsequent reorganization. I must have time in which to consider it, in which to plan to meet the new conditions, if it seems judicious,"

"You may be right, Dickie," Nolan soberly admitted.

"I know I am right." Ravenswood spoke decidedly. "After to-night, therefore, it will be each man for himself, each still loyal to the ties that have joined us, to the pledges that so long have held us together. That is all I have to say. Brother Ravens, along those lines."

His ten confederates, including, with those mentioned, Finley and Blake, Drogan, Hawley, Midget Maloney, and two others, looked grave and regretful upon hearing these announcements; but none ventured to advise or oppose this man, who long had been their successful chief, guide, and director. Low growls and threats against Glidden came from several, however, which Ravenswood immediately checked.

"There is nothing in that," he said curtly. "We have held the pole for a long time, and later may regain it. Let's take things as they come. Fortunately, these discoveries were not made until nearly the very moment when our biggest job was done. That now must engage us. That moment is close at hand. We have only six minutes to wait. Screen that opening under the vault, some of you, lest the debris is scattered by the explosion."

Three of the men sprang up and placed a broad wooden screen across the opening, bracing it in place with a strip of joist. All were alert, then, and eager for the end of their knavish undertaking.

"You got the satchel into the vault, all right, Dickie?" Nolan questioned.

"Easily," Ravenswood nodded. "Raymond complied without an objection."

"Good for Raymond !"

"It strikes me that we are lame in one way," Lacy ventured.

"In what way, Lacy?"

"In setting the machine that ignites the explosive so early as nine o'clock. Wouldn't midnight have been better?"

"Far from itl" Ravenswood quickly shook his head. "There is consider- able noise in the streets at nine o'clock, while they are comparatively quiet at midnight. The explosion then would be more likely to be heard."

"There is no great danger of that at either time," put in Nolan. "It will be confined to the vault, bar what sound comes down here. We'll get that, all right, good and strong. Dynamite works downward, you know."

"I know that, of course," Lacy growled.

"It won't leave enough of the vault floor to swear by." Nolan added. "We know that the time-lock doors cannot be opened, and even if the watchman in the building were to hear the muffled sound, before he can locate it and make an investigation, we'll have looted the vault and be making a get-away."

"That's how we've figured it, sure," Galen nodded.

"By the way, Dickie."

"Well, Paddy?"

"Is there any possibility that Glidden picked you up again and shadowed you here?"

"Not the slightest, Paddy," Ravenswood said confidently— but he overlooked that a spy might have been watching the movements of his supposed valet.

"There would be the devil to pay, Dickie, in that case," Nolan vouchsafed grimly.

"Very true— in that case," Ravenswood allowed, glancing at his watch.

He appeared perfectly calm and cool, but others were nervous and apprehensive, some crouching in the entrance to the tunnels and others against the rough walls, all awaiting the expected explosion.

It then lacked only two minutes to nine.

It was true, indeed, much more true than any Red Raven even remotely suspected. For Joe Glidden, not in the harness thirty years for nothing, had a happy faculty for putting two and two together, and he no sooner had heard Armstrong's story, combining his discoveries with his own, than this experienced, keen-sighted, persistent, and relentless Glidden hit upon— the truth.

One minute to nine.

Dark figures then had stolen into Z—  Street, more than a score of them, all trained detectives from head- quarters, each with guns, and ready to kill, if necessary— they were stealing in and around the low brick building, covering every discoverable avenue of escape within half a block, while others were watching the bank in front and invading the building with a trusty janitor.

Nine o'clock.

Ravenswood had not stirred.

Ten seconds passed.

"Suppose the machine fails, Dickie?" Nolan's eyes were bright and dilated, but he was very pale.

Ravenswood gazed at him a bit fondly.

"It will not fail, Paddy," he said calmly. "It will—"

No, it did not fail. The expected explosion drowned the words on the lips of the Red Raven chief.

The muffled thunder of it shook the earth and walls around them. The wooden screen was blown half across the underground room. Great slabs of stone and cement fell to the floor of the circular chamber. A vast volume of smoke poured downward, filling every opening and corner. Through the blackness of it, the lights glowed wan and yellow, and the moving figures of the excited men were like apparitions seen in a mist.

Mingled with the terrific noise, unheard because of it, came the crash of breaking doors, the smash of a bulk-head, the fall of a trap, the furious rush of heavy feet down stairway and steps.

Nolan was the first to see them, the inpouriug intruders, white-faced and fierce-eyed, and with ready weapons, he uttered a yell that rose above every other sound, seizing Ravenswood by the arm and dragging him into the nearest tunnel.

"The dicks! They're on us!" Nolan shrieked. "Every man for himself!" Glidden's roar was mingled with it: "Hands up! We'll shoot to kill!" It brought a defiant shot from Lacy, sending a bullet through Glidden's arm, and then came the volley.

Lacy, Galen, and Midget Mahoney went down, all badly wounded. Haw ley, Drogan, and Finley were beaten off their feet before they could draw a weapon. Overwhelming numbers were overcoming the Red Ravens.

The feet of two, however, were moving like those of frightened hares. They sped through the tunnel, emerged from the back door of a lodging house within thirty seconds, saw that the way around a stable was open— and then they were off and away through the misty night.

"Cripes?" gasped Nolan. "Our first slip-up, Dickie."

"Never mind the slip-up, Paddy." Ravenswood's voice was calm, but through the black smoke that seared his face his features were painfully drawn and ghastly white. "It's the boys— the boys, Paddy! Heaven help them! Some are down and out— down and out forever !"

"True, Dickie, too true! Glidden, curse the dick, has made good this time. What— "

"Come on, and don't question," Ravenswood interrupted. "We are down to doubles and cases, Paddy. We'll run double. Paddy, you and I, for the present— but Heaven knows where!"

"We'll get there, Dickie." Nolan's voice took on a more cheerful ring. "We'll get there, all right, dear old Dickie."

Ravenswood grasped his arm with a viselike grip.

"You bet we'll get there!" he cried, through his set teeth. "The end is not not yet, Paddy, not yet— not yet!"

________________

13: The Cult of the Skull

Henry S Whitehead

1882-1932

Weird Tales Dec 1928

DR. GLAZEBROOK came back into the room where I had been waiting for his analysis of the small bottle's contents. His comment, while it did not altogether surprize me, was revealing:

"Who is your enemy, Mr. Carey?" There was a grave background to the slight smile which accompanied this question.

"It was poisonous then?"

"Rather! Why, there's enough vegetable alkaloid in these four ounces of yellowish fluid to ruin a pair of mastodons."

I had, it appeared, acquired an enemy. It seemed extraordinary, for I had only seen the little bearded man twice and our conversation had been merely businesslike. The first time had been when I picked up his brass key; the second when I had asked him about my winter cold; Perhaps I had better begin at the beginning.

That beginning had been commonplace enough. My cousin, Peter Ellis, had gone to California for the winter. Peter is a bond broker and can manage trips to California. He had loaned me his New York City apartment on Waverly Place, and I had been getting in some hard licks at a story about ships for The Daystar. The story took me frequently among the wharves and shipping, and that was why I happened to be walking along West Street the time I first saw the little bearded man. He came rnshing around a corner, his ridiculous little bandy legs fairly flying. He just avoided a collision with me, ducked past, and skipped across a side street like a lamplighter.

Just as he dodged a heavy motor truck he dropped something that sparkled. I picked it up as the track's swearing driver rattled past, and hurried after the little man to give it back. It was a small brass key, such as might be used to lock a valise. He was taking five steps to my longer-legged two, and I had to ran to catch him. In the middle of the block, I tapped his shoulder and he shrank away from my hand, presenting a face pallid with apprehension. I held out the key to him, and he snatehed it and dodged ahead before my words: "Is this yours, sir?" were out of my mouth, giving me such an ugly look that I regretted the trouble I had taken with his key.

It was raining, a February drizzle, and I charitably attributed his bad temper to the weather. It had a worse effect on me, for that night I was coughing and sneezing, and after a restless night I decided to see a physician and get myself vaccinated for colds. There was, I remembered, a doctor's sign, "Bernard Brnso, M. D.," in the window of a small, old- fashioned house which I passed daily on my way to West Street and its shipping. Next morning I rang the bell of this house.

A colorless, old-fashioned house-maid admitted me and showed me into a dingy, first-floor waiting-room where I had barely time to take in my surroundings before the double doors leading to the room in the rear were pushed apart and yesterday's little bearded man stood in the opening.

We stared at each other in the dim ight of a dull day coming through dirty window-panes, and I was sure I could detect some shadow of that apprehension which had answered my shoulder-tapping of the day before.

The doctor shook his head at my suggestion that I be vaccinated. He dissuaded me in a slightly foreign voice.

"That," said he, "may be undertaken a little later. It requires a day to procure the coryza serum. Meanwhile I will make you up a mixture which will relieve your cold; oh, yes, it will relieve it."

He looked at me so maliciously as he said this that I immediately thought of poison! The double meaning of his words pressed home upon my mind. I put the idea away from me. It was an absurdity, of course; an outrageous thought.

When the little doctor disappeared into his surgery through the double doors I could just see him through their crack. In the surgery on a center table stood a case about the size of a typewriter cover. With what looked like the same little brass key I had returned to him he unlocked this, removed the top, and there stood an old brownish skull. A skull is not, of course, unusual in the office of a physician, but it struck me as unusual that he should uncover such a trophy at this moment. Then a spasm of coughing seized me and when I looked back again through the aperture between the folding- doors, I was seriously surprized.

For the little man of the brass key with the queer beard and the bandy legs was actually kneeling on the floor of that surgery in front of the brown skull and making obeisance to it with his high-domed forehead knocking against the edge of the table as a savage might salute his totem.

What strange rite had I stumbled upon, I wondered! I applied my eye to the crack where I could get a closer view of what was going on in there. It came over me that, I had blundered into something devilish, something uncanny. I could feel one of those uncomfortable chills of con- tact with the unexpected run up my spine arid down again. A moment later he rose and busied himself filling a four-ounce bottle from several larger ones which stood in great numbers along shelves in the farther end of the surgery. When he returned to the front room I was idly looking out of the window at a wet and dismal street.

I turned at his arrival and he handed me the bottle. He gave directions:

"Take the half of this, tonight, in an equal quantity of water, upon retiring, preferably after you are in bed and well covered. You will then— sleep. Should not your cold be cured in the morning, you repeat with the remaining half. You understand?"

I nodded and handed him a five- dollar bill. He returned me three ones. *IIis charging me the usual office fee somewhat modified the sec- ond double meaning of those direc- tions. "You will then — sleep!" Somehow, it had a sinister sound which stuck in my mind. He showed me out without another word and slammed the front door behind me.

I walked over and took the Elevated uptown to Eighth Street. I like the Elevated. It is one of the few remaining features of New York City which is old-fashioned and still in use. Back in the apartment between coughing spells I cogitated. This was a mighty curious business, putting it all together, it seemed to me. The little doctor was plainly an eccentric. But, absurd as it seemed, I could not rid my mind of the idea of poison.

At last, telephone-book in hand, I looked up an analytical chemist. There was one, Hugh Glazebrook, D. Phar., on Bleecker Street. Telling myself meanwhile that I would do much better to stay where I was in the steam heat, I struggled into my hat and ulster once more and took a taxi to Bleecker Street. I handed over the little bottle and asked for an immediate analysis.

I went out of the laboratory with that phrase of Dr. Glazebrook 's ring- ing in my ears. I 'had an enemy. Why, I wondered ! What had I done to incur the enmity of the little bandy-legged doctor? Nothing, so far as I could see.

I returned to my cousin Peter's apartment, and my cough was so annoying that I gave up the idea of any work for the day and made myself comfortable in the largest arm-chair near a sizzling radiator with a glass of Peter's pre-war cold medicine. While I absorbed my hot toddy I turned my mind to finding some solution for this eery mystery into which, unwittingly, I had managed to step. One thing was plain. Since I could not guess at any solution, investigation was clearly indicated, tomorrow. My story for The Daystar would have to wait; I was going to run this thing down to its roots.

The next morning my cold was broken. Besides, the sun, though rather a watery sun, was shining once more. As I was dressing an idea occurred to me. I carried the bottle, with "enough vegetable alkaloid to ruin a pair of mastodons," into the bathroom, and poured out half its contents. I had determined to go straight to the doctor's office. If he had meant to poison me, I would mystify him by pretending I had taken half the bottle as directed. I grinned to myself over this stratagem.

I arrived about 10 o'clock and was again shown into the waiting- room. After a brief wait the folding doors opened the same as yesterday, and Dr. Bruso looked through. When he saw me his face went a dead white and he clutched the edges of the old walnut doors for support. Apparently he had not expected to see me  again! I took the half-empty bottle out of my pocket and held it out to- ward him.

"Good morning, Doctor," said I, cheerfully, "you see I didn't need the second half of the medicine. But I thought I might as well come in and let you look me over again."

The color began to come back into his drained face. He swallowed sev- eral times, making a great effort to compose himself. When he spoke at last his harsh voice was trembling, guttural: "Give me the bottle!"

I handed it to him and he looked at it curiously, then again at me.

"You seem— better," he added.

"I am. Much better, thank you, Doctor."

He looked at me cannily.

"You will, however, be needing a tonic, no?"

"I am in your hands, Doctor. Make it a tonic, by all means."

He peered at me, as though he found it hard to realize that it could really be I, his heavy brows puckered into a puzzled frown. It was evident that he did not know what to make of me.

"I think a tonic would be a good idea," said I, encouragingly.

He turned back into his surgery without another word, slamming the doors so hard that they rebounded, making a wide aperture for me to look through. He went straight to the bottle-shelves, ignoring the skull this time, and uncorked and sniffed gingerly at my bottle, shaking his head. He poured out what was left into a slate sink, rinsed the bottle from a faucet, and dried it, after shaking out the drops. Then he selected a new bottle from his shelves and filled the bottle once more.

Just as he was sitting down at the center table to write something on the label the house-bell rang, and the dilapidated maid showed in a young girl of about eighteen accompanied by an older woman, apparently her mother. Apparently Dr. Bruso had other patients besides my casual self. The two women sat down near the window and conversed in low tones.

I gathered from snatches of the conversation that the girl had been here before, and from the mother's tone that she was reassuring her concerning some kind of an ordeal which was before her today. I determined to make their presence the occasion of a little preliminary investigation, and half formulated a plan which I was later able to put into execution, as it happened.

When Bruso returned, as he did shortly, and gruffly refused any further payment, being plainly anxious to get rid of me, I said that I would let myself out, and went straight out of the room and through the hallway populated with ghosts of generations of corned beef and cabbage. I slipped the catch of the front door, slammed it behind me, and then, to make my departure unmistakable, turned to the left instead of to the right, and walked slowly past the waiting-room window. I even thought I could see Bruso glancing out at me, out of the corner of my eyes, but could not be sure as I did not want to look up. As soon as I was safely around the comer I paused, fumbled through several pockets as though I had forgotten something, turned, and retraced my steps.

I opened the front door, replaced the catch, closed it noiselessly behind me, and stepped carefully along the hallway to the waiting-room door. There I paused, listening. I could just catch the gruff voice of Bruso, slightly lowered. "There is no need for you to remain," he was saying.

Not an instant too soon I slipped around the rear corner of the hallway and stood on the landing of the steps leading below to the basement, nearly choking with the odors of ancient cooking in that stuffy place.

I was hardly in my hiding-place before the door to the waiting-room opened and the doctor showed the older woman to the front door, which he shut, after her and almost ran, with those absurd little rapid steps of his, back into the waiting-room. I stepped warily out of my refuge and resumed my former position by its door. I determined, in case anyone came along, to be just leaving tho doctor's, and so felt safe enough. No one did come in the door or along the hallway, however. I listened closely and was rewarded by hearing Bruso tell the girl to follow him, and, a moment later, the bang of the double doors.

The door opened silently under my pressure. I stood in the waiting-room. Only my instinct justified this intrusion. But I was morally certain he meant some kind of harm to this young girl. He had tried, deliberately, to poison me. I could, perhaps, say I had come back to ask directions about the "tonic," if I were discovered now. I felt, reassuringly, the small, flat, automatic pistol in my pocket; a w'eapon which I had been licensed to carry ever since my reportorial days. With it, and my acquaintance at police headquarters, and what I already had to go on in Bruso 's case, I should not hesitate to deal adequately with Bruso if the occasion should arise.

Once more my good fortune held. Those folding doors stood, once more, slightly ajar. I approached them silently, and peered through.

The little doctor was standing with his back to the center table, and close against it. Both hands were behind his back, and with the left, which was nearer to me, he was twisting the small brass key in the lock of the skull case. He turned it at last, and withdrew the key, which he dropped into the pocket of his coat. It was only then, when he shifted his body slightly to speak to the girl, standing between him and the shelves of bottles, that I noticed his right hand. This clutched a long, cruel-looking knife which lay on the table behind him, and as he called the girl to him I swear I saw his height increase before my eyes, although this was probably nothing more than his act of rising on his toes to get a greater physical purchase for some act about to be performed.

As the girl approached him, he flung off the cover of the case, and stepping aside and so exposing the skull to her gaze, cried out:

"Behold!"

The girl looked at the ghastly thing, her eyes widening; and then at once, brandishing his knife, the little fiend was upon her. Using only his free left hand, he seized and somehow twisted her in that malignant grip until she was on her knees before the grinning brown thing. He had the knife raised in an unmistakable gesture before I had flung one of the heavy sliding doors wide, stepped into the surgery, and held him covered with my pistol.

"Drop that, you damned rat!" I shouted, and the knife rattled on the old brown hardwood floor.

He crouched, and leered at me, his bearded lips drawn back in a kind of animal snarl.

Seeing him thus disarmed, I dropped the automatic pistol back into my coat pocket, and reached for him with my gloved hands. He bit at my wrist and I struck him heavily across the lower jaw with the back of my fairly heavy hand. Then I took him by the neck in both hands and, lifting him bodily, shook him according to the name which had leaped to my lips— like a rat.

Suddenly he went limp in my hands, and I dropped him in a heap and turned to the girl, who was still on her knees, my attack having occupied no more than a few seconds. I raised her to her feet and seated her in the nearest chair. Then I turned back to Bruso, now dragging himself to his feet, and a new idea occurred to me. I would try, now, in the thick of this sordid adventure, to get at the heart of the mystery back of these insane performances. I reached out and picked tip the skull, holding it, a thumb in the eye-socket, as one holds a bowling ball.

It was surprisingly heavy, far heavier than I had imagined. Evidently there was something inside it. Well, it would answer my purpose the better for a little extra weight! I poised it. aloft.

As I did so I had a glimpse of a horrified, distorted face twisted into an agony of protest, and then Dr. Bruso literally fell prone upon the floor and groveled at my feet abjectly. A thin sigh came from the young girl, and her head drooped forward upon her breast. She had fainted.

I stood there in that position for an instant, so surprized that I did not know what to do. The girl was out of the proceedings now, for the time being; that horrible little beast was brushing the dusty floor with his scraggly beard ; and I was holding an old brown skull aloft ready to hurl it. I pulled my ideas together. My ruse had worked more rapidly than I had expected.

"Get up!" I thundered, "and sit in that chair beside you and answer what I ask you!"

Bruso scrambled to his feet without a word, his face dead-white, and sat on the edge of the chair.

"Attend to her first," said I, "and then send her away."

He nodded comprehendingly, rose, bent over the young girl. I stood, watching them, the skull still ready to hurl. The girl's eyelids fluttered imder Bruso's ministrations; in a few moments she was awake and looking about her with a terrified expression. Bruso led her into the waiting- room, I watching them narrowly. He helped her on with her cloak and took her to the door into the hall-way. She went out and he came back obediently. It was evident to me that holding the skull I held a very effectual whip-hand over him.

"She is gone," he muttered. "There was a cab in front of the house and I told her to take it."

I motioned to the chair and he sat down.

"Now," said I, "you have considerable to explain. Do you expect any more patients?"

He shook his head. I closed the double doors and faced him.

"Now tell me exactly wliat you are up to, and tell it straight. Otherwise"— I drew the "tonic" bottle out of my pocket with my free hand and set it on the table— "otherwise this will go down your threat and not mine, and we'll see what effect it will have !"

"I will tell you all— all!" he protested earnestly. "I tried, of course, to kill you. There is too much at stake to risk allowing you to live. I knew your picking up the key was not mere chance. That disturbed me, much. When you came here with your cold the next morning— then I was certain!"

"Certain of what?" I interrupted.

"That I was discovered," he replied simply.

The purely unconscious touch of melodrama about this word "discovered" gave me a hint how to carry on my inquisition. I laughed— a dry, hard, Successful Villain's laugh.

"You were," said I. He nodded, dismally.

"Yes, it was plain to me from the first; your appearance here this morning proved it. I saw that I must work very quickly to accomplish " He paused and looked at me haggardly.

"Yes?" I encouraged his recital.

"You will observe," he resumed, leaning forward in his chair very earnestly, and moistening his lips, "that the— skull— has no teeth— yes?"

I had not. observed it, but I nodded nevertheless. His earnestness ap- peared to increase.

"The teeth— are inside! He had all his own teeth because he died young. He was twenty-five. Wilkes Booth's teeth, also, are there, and those of the poet Keats. Those of the young king Edward Sixth of England— they, too, are there. They were drawn the night before the burial by his uncle Seymour who was of the Cult and handed on secretly from hand to hand until they came to Myles Warrington of Devonshire who was then the Keeper of The Skull. The teeth of Edgar Allan Poe are there— it was he who wrote the strange tale of the thirty-two teeth which is the Clue, and which all save those of the Cult have supposed to be the work of a clever madman! No, they could not penetrate the Clue!"

To say that I was astonished would be to put it very mildly. I was simply taken off my feet with this extraordinary rigmarole. Teeth ! The teeth of Poe; of that young son of Henry the Eighth who "died of a consumption" at fifteen; Wilkes Booth, murderer of the martyr Lin- coln! But if it put my brains in a whirl, I kept a good control of my- self, for this, as it happened, was not the first strange tale of mortal queer- ness that had come to my ears. So I merely nodded at this apparent mad- man as though such matters as these were everyday affairs to me.

Bruso resumed: "At Weimar the Skull rested for many years in the studio of the Abbe Liszt, that great master of the pianoforte. I had it myself from Rasputin. It was he who placed within it the teeth of the young Rabbi Elias of Minsk, known as 'The Worker of Wonders.' The Skull is nearly full now. The Time is almost at hand!"

He paused, almost dreamily, carried away with his narrative, his eyes on the ground, his body relaxed.

"The time for what?" I enquired. He roused himself.

"For the world-revolution, " said he and fell silent again, broodingly.

"But— but," said I, "what, in the name of common sense, have these teeth to do with your 'world-revolution'?"

"They have everything to do with it. They are its symbol. The world- revolution ean not come to pass before the Skull is filled."

I was by now convinced that I had to deal with a plain madman. He seemed at this moment to be in a quiescent mood. Insanity is like that, periodical, as I understand the matter.

"And what, please," I asked quietly, "has that young woman to do with it all? Just how is she connected with the ' world-revolution'?"

"I was about to initiate her into the Cult of the Skull," replied Bruso simply. "Her sympathies were with us. She has been here often. She was in no danger. I would only have offered her blood to the Skull— a mere ceremony. I underwent it myself, many years ago. It is our requirement for all initiates."

"But yet I do not understand how this skull— these teeth which you say are inside it— has 'everything to do' with this world-revolution. Can you not explain that?"

"It is," replied Bruso, "the skull of Perkin Warbeck, the patron of world-revolution, of him whose spirit animates us who are of the Cult. Our master, Warbeck, was hanged in November, in the last year of the Fifteenth Century, and his skull was procured by the founder of the Cult, who was an officer of King James the Fourth of Scotland. Warbeck our master prophesied that so soon as his skull should be filled with the teeth of those who hated governments, then would the world be ripe for a revolution such as no man had before con- ceived."

"Then," said I, "this world-revolution you speak of can not take place until this skull is full of teeth. Do I understand you correctly?"

"You understand it aright," answered Bruso, nodding his high-domed head in my direction.

"Well, then," I fairly shouted, "there will be no world-revolution, my queer friend!" I raised high above my head the ugly thing to which all this time I had been hanging on, and hurled it down with all my strength on the hardwood floor of the surgery. It smashed into fragments at that impact, and about the room in every direction flew — teeth? Not so. Jewels! Jewels of every size, kind, and description. They must have been packed into the ancient skull with extraordinary care. There had been no rattling within the skull, and I had held it in my hand for perhaps ten long minutes while I listened to Bruso 's queer rigmarole.

When he saw what I had done, the doctor uttered a dismal shriek. I saw his face distorted, like a Greek mask, with despairing rage and horror. He leaped toward me and I covered him with my pistol. I was taking no chances with this extraordinary madman. But, although for an instant I hesitated over the ques- tion of dropping him in his tracks, it was not at me that he had launched himself in that desperate plunge. No— his objective was my "tonic" bottle! Even as I stepped aside, my instinct telling me to hold steady and wait, he had seized the little bottle, uncorked it with the speed of thought, and emptied its contents into his mouth.

At once he collapsed to the floor; writhed once beside the table while I looked down on him, horrified; bent himself spasmodically backward, and then lay quite still.

This was all so sudden, so grotesquely strange, that I found myself, seconds later, holding my weapon so tightly that my knuckles were white and aching when I realized what had actually happened. I dropped the pistol back into my pocket, leaned over, and felt his face. He was, unmistakably, dead.

There was not the suggestion of a sound in the house. The surgery was as silent as a tomb. There, scattered all about the floor, were the many fragments of the old and brittle skull. And everywhere were jewels, a king's— an emperor's— ransom! I wondered, momentarily, if the wild tale of the skull were not, impossible as it seemed, substantially true! Or, was it a very clever ruse intended to disguise the late doctor's activities as a "fence"? I mean, of course, true in its main details; the jewels, which he had called "teeth," the sinews of war for some actually planned world-revolution. The young girl? Possibly the emissary of some local "Red" society, bearing another jewel to be added to that grim collection. Well, I should never know!

I was down on my hands and knees in that silent room, gathering and depositing in the surgeon's black leather bag which had stood all this time on the table's edge, handfuls of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires. ...

I am reasonably certain that I got them all. I spent a feverish quarter of an hour over this work of salvage. These stones would never finance any Red revolution if Edward Carey could help it!

I finished, so far as I could see. I stood up again and hefted the black bag. Only fragments of the skull, and Bruso's distorted body, remained on the floor. There was nothing further for me to do, it seemed.

I stepped out through the folding doors, shutting them quietly behind me. I left the house, without seeing  a soul, closed the street door, turned to the right and walked to the Elevated station.

The Cult of The Skull was ended, finished. There would he, certainly, no world-revolution. This, it seemed to me, carrying that innocent-looking black leather handbag, was the best of all possible worlds, just as it was!

I sat, a little later, in my cousin Peter's apartment, trying to esti- mate how much I was worth. It was hard to say. I was no jewel expert. The only fly in my ointment was— well, olfactory! It takes a long time for the ghost of the black leather handbag, I learned, to dissipate itself after the bag itself has been burned in a grate fire. I had raked out the metal fittings, the lock and hasps, and the steel forms which had braced the edges. Those I designed for permanent residence in the Hudson River, the next morning, off the deck of a ferryboat, and that is where they went, in due time.

The next day's papers carried a brief notice of what had happened in the surgery. A Dr. Bruso, it appeared, had poisoned himself. The post-mortem was conclusive upon that point. The dingy servant had discovered the body about 6 p. m.

There was no mention of any ancient, broken fragments of bone on the floor. Probably the housemaid had swept up that litter as a matter of course. She seemed an unimaginative person, that housemaid.

_________________

14: Death Cometh Soon or Late

Robert Barr

[as by "Luke Sharp"]

The Ludgate Monthly, Oct 1891

IT WAS Alick Robbins who named him the Living Skeleton, and probably remorse for having thus given him a title so descriptively accurate caused Robbins to make friends with the Living Skeleton, a man who seemed to have no friends.

Robbins never forgot their first conversation. It happened in this way. It was the habit of the Living Skeleton to leave his hotel promptly every morning at ten o'clock, if the sun was shining, and to shuffle rather than to walk down the gravel street to the avenue of palms. There, picking out a seat on which the sun shone, the Living Skeleton would sit down and seem to wait patiently for some one who never came. He wore a shawl around his neck and a soft cloth cap on his skull. Every bone in his face stood out against the skin, for there seemed to be no flesh, and his clothes hung as loosely on him as they would have upon a skeleton. It required no second glance at the Living Skeleton to know that the remainder of his life was numbered by days or hours, and not by weeks or months. He didn't seem to have energy enough even to read, and so it was that Robbins sat down one day on the bench beside him and said sympathetically, " I hope you are feeling better to-day."

The Skeleton turned toward him and laughed a low, noise- less, and mirthless laugh for a moment, and then said, in a hollow, far-away voice that had no lungs behind it, " I am through with feeling either better or worse."

"Oh, I hope it is not as bad as that," said Robbins; "the climate is doing you good down here, is it not ? "

Again the Skeleton laughed silently, and Robbins began to feel uneasy. The Skeleton's eyes were large and bright, and they fastened themselves upon Robbins in a way that increased that gentleman's uneasiness, and made him think that perhaps the Skeleton knew he had so named him.

"I have no more interest in climate," said the Skeleton, "I merely seem to live because I have been in the habit of living for some years; I presume that is it, because my lungs are entirely gone. Why I can talk or why I can breathe is a mystery to me. You are perfectly certain you hear me?"

"Oh, I hear you quite distinctly," said Robbins.

"Well, if it wasn't that people tell me that they can hear me, I wouldn't believe that I am really speaking, because, you see, I have nothing to speak with. Isn't it Shakespeare who says something about— when the brains are out the man is dead? Well, I have seen some men who make me think Shakespeare was wrong in his diagnosis, but it is generally supposed that when the lungs are gone a man is dead. To tell the truth, I am dead, practically. You know the old American story about the man. who walked around to save funeral expenses; well, it isn't quite that way with me, but I can appreciate how the man felt. Still, I take a keen interest in life, although you might not think so. You see, I haven't much time left; I am going to die at eight o'clock on the thirtieth of April— eight o'clock at night, not in the morning, just after table d'hôte is done with."

"You're going to what?" cried Robbins, in astonishment.

"I'm going to die that day. You see, I have got things to such a point that I can die any time I want to. I could die right here now if I wished. If you have any mortal interest in the matter I'll do it, and show you that what I say is true. I don't mind much, you know, although I had fixed on April the thirtieth as the limit. It wouldn't matter a bit for me to go off now if it would be of any interest to you."

"I beg you," said Robbins, very much alarmed, "not to try any experiments on my account. I am quite willing to believe anything you say about the matter— of course you ought to know."

"Yes, I do know," answered the Living Skeleton, sadly. "Of course, I have had my struggle with hope and fear, but that is all past now, as you may well understand. The reason that I have fixed the date for the thirtieth of April is this: You see I have only a certain amount of money— I do not know why I should make any secret of it— I have exactly two hundred and forty francs to-day, over and above the one hundred francs which I have set aside for another purpose. I am paying eight francs a day at the Golden Dragon; that you see will keep me just thirty days, and then I intend to die."

The Skeleton laughed again, without sound, and Robbins moved uneasily on the seat.

"I don't see," he said, finally, " what there is to laugh about in that condition of affairs."

"Don't you?" said the Skeleton. "Well, I don't suppose there is very much ; but there is something else that I consider very laughable, and that I will tell you if you will keep it a secret. You see, the old Golden Dragon himself— I always call our innkeeper the Golden Dragon, just as you call me the Living Skeleton."

"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Robbins, stammering.

"Oh, it doesn't matter at all. You are perfectly right, and I think it a very apt term. Well, the Golden Dragon makes a great deal of his money by robbing the dead. Y'ou didn't know that, did you ? You thought it was the liv- ing who supported him, and goodness knows he robs them when he has a chance. Well, you are very much mistaken. When a man diies in the Golden Dragon, he, or his friends rather, have to pay very sweetly for it. The Dragon charges them for refurnishing the room. Every stick of furniture is charged for, all the wall paper and so on. I suppose it is right to charge something, but the Dragon is not content with what is right. He knows he has lost a customer, and so he makes all he can out of him. The furniture, so paid for, is not replaced, and the walls are not papered again, but the Dragon doesn't abate a penny of his bill on that ac- count.

"Now, I have inquired of the furnishing man on the street back of the hotel, and he has written on his card just the cost of mattress, sheets, pillows, and all that sort of thing, and the amount comes up to about fifty francs. I have put in an envelope a fifty-franc note, and with it the card of the furniture man. I have written also in the letter, telling the old Dragon just what the things will cost that he needs, and have referred him to the card of the furniture man who has given me the figures. This envelope I have addressed to the Dragon, and he will find it when I am dead. This is the joke that old man Death and myself have put up on the Dragon, and my only regret is that I shall not be able to enjoy a look at the Dragon's countenance as he reads my last letter to him.

"Another sum of money I have put away, in good hands where he won't have a chance to get it, for my funeral expenses, and then you see I am through with the world. I have nobody to leave that I need worry about, or who would either take care of me or feel sorry for me if I needed care or sympathy, which I do not. So that is why I laugh, and that is why I come down and sit- on this bench, in the sunshine, and enjoy the posthumous joke."

Robbins did not appear to be able to see the humor of the situation quite so strongly as the Living Skeleton did. At different times, after that, when they met, he had offered the Skeleton more money if he wanted it, so that he might pro- long his life a little, but the Skeleton always refused.

A sort of friendship sprang up between Robbins and the Living Skeleton— at least, as much of a friendship as can exist between the living and the dead, for Robbins was a muscular young fellow who did not need to live at the Riviera on account of his health, but merely because he detested an English winter. Besides this, it may be added, although it is really nobody's business, that a nice girl and her parents lived in this particular part of the south of France.

One day Robbins took a little excursion in a carriage to Toulon. He had invited the nice girl to go with him, but on that particular day she could not go. There was some big charity function on hand, and one necessary part of the affair was the wheedling of money out of the people's pockets, and the nice girl had undertaken to do part of the wheedling. She was very good at it, and she rather prided herself upon it, but then she was a very nice girl, pretty as well, and so people found it very difficult to refuse her. On the evening of the day there was to be a ball at the principal hotel in the place, also in connection with this very desirable charity. Robbins had reluctantly gone to Toulon alone, but you may depend upon it he was back in time for the ball.

"Well," he said to the nice girl when he met her, "what luck collecting to-day ? "

"Oh, the greatest luck," she replied enthusiastically, "and who do you think I got the most money from ? "

"I am sure I haven't the slightest idea— that old English duke, he certainly has money enough."

"No, not from him at all; the very last person you would expect it from— your friend the Living Skeleton."

"What!" cried Robbins, in alarm.

"Oh, I found him on the bench where he usually sits, in the avenue of palms. I told him all about the charity, and how useful it was, and how necessary, and how we all ought to give as much as we could toward it, and he smiled and smiled at me in that curious way of his. 'Yes,' he said, in a whisper, 'I believe the charity should be supported by every one; I will give you eighty francs.' Now, wasn't that very generous of him? Eighty francs, that was ten times what the duke gave, and as he handed me the money he looked up at me and said in that awful whisper of his— "Count that over carefully when you get home and see if you can find out what else I have given you. There is more than eighty francs there.' Then, after I got home, I—"

But here the nice girl paused, when she looked at the face of Robbins, to whom she was talking. That face was ghastly pale, and his eyes were staring at her but not seeing her. " Eighty francs," he was whispering to himself, and he seemed to be making a mental calculation in subtraction. Then noticing the nice girl's amazed look at him, he said,

"Did you take the money ? "

"Of course I took it," she said. " Why shouldn't I?"

"Great Heavens!" gasped Robbins, and then he turned and fled, leaving the nice girl transfixed with astonishment and staring after him with a frown on her pretty brow.

"What does he mean by such conduct?" she asked herself. But Robbins disappeared from the gathering throng in the large room of the hotel, dashed down the steps, and hurried along the narrow pavement toward the Golden Dragon. The proprietor was standing in the hallway with his hands behind him, a usual attitude with the Dragon.

"Where," gasped Robbins, "is Mr.— Mr.— " and then he remembered he didn't know the name. "Where is the Living Skeleton?"

"He has gone to his room," answered the Dragon, "he went early to-night— he wasn't feeling well, I think."

"What is the number of his room?"

"No. 40," and the proprietor rang a loud, jangling bell, whereupon one of the chambermaids appeared. "Show this gentleman to No. 40."

The girl preceded Robbins up the stairs. Once she looked over her shoulder, and said in a whisper, "Is he worse? "

"I don't know," answered Robbins; "that's what I have come to see. "

At No. 40 the girl paused and rapped lightly on the door panel. There was no response. She rapped again, this time louder. There was still no response.

"Try the door," said Robbins.

"I am afraid to," said the girl.

"Why?"

"Because he said if he were asleep the door would be locked, and if he were dead the door would be open."

"When did he say that?"

"He said it several times, sir, and about a week ago the last time."

Robbins turned the handle of the door; it was not locked. A dim light was in the room, but a screen before the door hid it from sight. When he passed around the screen, he saw, upon the square marble-topped arrangement at the head of the bed, a candle burning, and its light shone on the dead face of the Skeleton, which had a grim smile on its thin lips, while in its clinched hand was a letter addressed to the proprietor of the hotel.

The Living Skeleton had given more than the eighty francs to that deserving charity.

__________________

15: "Jadis"

Barry Pain

1864-1928

Short Stories, May 1892

OVER THE flat fen-country there were white mists rising. It was already growing dusk, but it was not going to be very dark, this summer night. The weeds had been cut, and drifted down-stream in thick masses. A thin, middle-aged man stood by the lock gates, watching an approaching boat. He was dressed in country clothes, but he had not the air of a countryman; he was pale, and had a look of experience. Save for the regular sound of the sculls, everything was quite still. Save for the man at the lock gates and the solitary occupant of the boat, there was no one in sight. It was a wide, flat, desolate scene.

The boat was rather a heavy tub, and the man who was sculling was tired and out of temper. As a rule, he was thought to be a distinctly brilliant and genial young man; but he wanted to get on to Nunnisham, which was five miles beyond the lock, that night, and he had been delayed by the weeds. The gods had given him extraordinarily good looks and many other good things, enough to keep him genial, unless, as on the present occasion, circumstances tried him severely. At the lock he drew into the bank, and hailed the middle-aged man who still stood watching him.

"Hi! what are the weeds like above the lock?"

"Very bad, sir." The answer was given in a serious, respectful voice.

The young man swore gently to himself. "Is there any place near here where I could put up for the night?"

"There is only a public-house, sir. I am the landlord of it— my name is Hill. I could give you a bedroom, a little rough perhaps, but—"

"Good— a bed and some supper— capital! That is the only bit of luck I've had to-day." As he was speaking, the young man picked up a small knapsack which was lying in the stern of the boat and jumped out. He made the boat fast, and joined the landlord on the towing-path.

"It is this way. You will let me carry that for you, sir."

As they walked along, the brilliant young man— his name was Philip Vince— chatted freely. He was taking a holiday up the river, and was to have joined a friend at Nunnisham that night and then gone on with him the day after. He told the landlord all this, and also surmised that Hill was not a native of the fen-country.

"No, sir," was the answer, "I was valet to Sir Charles Sulmont. You have perhaps heard of him."

Philip had never heard of him, but said that he had.

"When Sir Charles died, he left me a little money, and I married a maid who was then in Lady Sulmont's service. I bought this house, with a little assistance from her ladyship, and settled here. I was very young then, and I have been here eighteen years."

Philip gathered from further talk as they went along that Mrs. Hill was dead, and that she had left one child, Jeanne, a girl of seventeen, who lived with her father. When they reached the inn. Hill showed Philip a bedroom— a large, comfortable room, and began to make some apology about supper. They very rarely had any one staying in the house, and there was nothing left but— here Philip interrupted,

"You would be doing me a kindness if you would let me have supper with you and your daughter. I hate solitude. I mean, if your— if Miss Hill wouldn't object."

"If you really wish it, sir, I should be very pleased; so also, I am sure, would Jeanne." Hill was a born valet; he had the manner: if he had lived out of service for a hundred years, he would have been a valet still. When Hill left him, Philip looked round the room, and congratulated himself. Everything was very neat and clean. The landlord was a capital fellow— a little solemn, perhaps, but still a capital fellow. This was far above the accommodation which he had expected.

Just then a light footfall came up the stairs, and Philip caught a snatch of a French song. The song stopped short just before the footfall passed his door. Philip conjectured that this must be the daughter, and that it had been a French maid that Hill had married— hence the name Jeanne and that snatch of song; also that the daughter had been warned of his arrival, and had gone to put on her prettiest dress. All of these conjectures were quite correct. And yet when Jeanne entered the sitting-room, a few minutes afterward, and saw Philip for the first time, she was so startled that she showed it slightly. Philip was also a little surprised, for a different reason, and did not show it at all. He had thought of the possibility that Jeanne might be pretty; and she was a beauty— a brunette, childlike in many ways, but with a woman's eyes. Her voice was good, and her first few words showed that she had had some education.

It took her about ten minutes to get from decided shyness to complete confidence. Philip was feeling far too good- tempered to let any one be shy with him; he made Hill and his daughter talk, and he talked freely himself. He liked the simplicity of everything about him; he had grown tired of formalities in London. He liked cold beef and salad, for he was very hungry, and— yes, above all, he liked Jeanne. What on earth were that face and that manner doing in a riverside inn? She was perfect; she did not apologize too much, did not get flurried, did not have red hands, spoke correctly, laughed charmingly— in a word, was bewitching. Really, he was glad that he had been prevented from going on to Nunnisham. Toward the end of supper, he discovered that she was wearing a white dress with forget-me-nots in it.

The table was cleared by a native servant, who seemed all red cheeks and new boots. Hill went off to superintend the business of the inn. Philip was left alone with Jeanne. She told him to smoke, and he was obedient; he also made her tell him other things.

Yes, she had been to school at Nunnisham— rather too good a school for her, she was afraid; but her mother had wished it. Her mother had taught her French and a little music. Music and drawing were the best things, she thought; but she liked some books. She owned that it was lonely, at the inn.

"I am glad you came," she confessed frankly.

"Jeanne," said Philip, "I heard you humming a line or two of 'Jadis' before supper, didn't I? I wish you would sing it to me." She agreed at once, crossing the room to a little cottage piano— rather a worn-out instrument, but still a piano. The melody— plaintive, gentle, childish— of Jeanne's sweet voice, and the sadness of the words, with their quaint, pensive refrain, did not miss their effect.

Je n'attends plus rien ici-bas;

Bonheur perdu ne revient pas,

Et mon coeur ne demande au del

Qu'un repos éternel.

He thanked her; he had liked that very much. "Why," he added, "were you startled when you saw me?"

"Because you are a dream come true. I saw your face in a dream last night— as clearly as I see you now. All this time I have been feeling as if I had known you before."

"Really?" he said. He had not quite believed it. " How many things come true! One says things about the shortness of time or the certainty of death so often that they lose all meaning; then when one grows old or lies dying, the platitudes get to have terrible force— they come true."

She was struck by that; she kept her eyes fixed on his, and he went on talking to her. He did not, as the time wore on, always mean quite so much as he said; and she meant much more than she said. That is a common difference between a man and a woman on such occasions. It seemed to her that now for the first time she really lived.

After Jeanne had said good night, Philip had some chat with her father about her.

"I expect that she will be engaged very soon, sir," he said; "a young man called Banks— William Banks— is anxious, and has spoken to me; and she likes him."

"Now, I wonder," thought Philip as he went up-stairs, "why she never even hinted that to me. M'yes, I see."

Next morning after breakfast he went away, taking with him a few forget-me-nots, a pleasant memory, and just the faintest possible feeling of remorse.  They all faded.

Jeanne had seemed so quiet and depressed of late that her father, in order to cheer her up, had invited Mr. William Banks to spend the evening.

Mr. Banks was a small shopkeeper in Nunnisham, and considered to be no mean wag by those who knew him. Yet he felt unable to cheer her up. "Supposing we had a bit of a toon, Jenny," he suggested at last.

She was quite docile. She played one thing after another. Suddenly she began "Jadis."

"I don't understand French myself," Mr. Banks remarked, "but the words of a song don't matter." She had never thought much about the words herself before. But now?

Depuis qu'il a trahi sa foi

Rien n'a plus de charme pour moi.  '

Her voice faltered a little, but she sang on to the end of the verse;

"Et mon coeur ne demande au ciel

Qu'un repos éternal."

Yes, the song had "come true". Just there she gave way, and began to cry a little.

A week afterward Mr. Banks announced that his attentions to Miss Hill were at an end.

_________________

16: Freedom

Marjorie Pickthall

Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall, 1883-1922

The Red Book Magazine April 1923

The "Cossack" referred to was a port town on the north coast of Western Australia, abandoned after it silted up and a better harbour found at Roebourne. It is now a ghost town. A number of the handsome old stone-built buildings, and the wharf, are still standing. Since I visited in 1982, these buildings have been re-roofed and restored and the ghost town is tourist attraction—Ed.

THE ledge was a narrow one, adrift with albatross feathers and cushioned a foot thick with ferns. Under it the mist fell away three hundred feet, full of the sound of the waves and of the bull seals bellowing on the heels of the storm. There was another sound too. Lewen had been lying on the ledge a long while, listening to that faint, hoarse crying. Every time he heard it, he trembled, and the ferns shook on him a rain of moisture fine as dew.

He crushed his chin against the rock in the effort to keep his mouth shut. But he couldn't. One word idiotically repeated ran through his teeth in an irresistible flood.

"A man," he babbled, "—a man, man, man, man, man—"

His stringy body writhed on the rock; he bit his own fingers. There seemed left to him no more of a man's attributes than passions and bones. Finally, in a gust of terror, he rose and fled inland, crouching.

He jerked and twitched as he ran. But his naked feet bore him steadily over rock and peat-swamp and tussock-meadow till the top of the windswept rata-forest rose before him, dark and solid as a roof, a harbor of safety to his fear.

It was almost dark in the rata-forest. The roof of leaves was everywhere within reach; for so heavy was the wind's hand on them that the trees grew along the ground, lifting vertical branches. It was sodden everywhere with wet, from which mosses and liverworts sucked life. He ran on. His passage left no trace in the spongy soil.

The forest, slanting again to the sea, told him when he had crossed the island. He followed the reeking tunnel of a seal-path till he came to the seaward edge again. Here, in an open space, green-gray and very still, grown with tall purple flowers, he had his lair— a hut of driftwood cunningly built under the last low edge of the rata so that it was invisible alike from shore and sea.

He was whimpering and swaying on his gaunt legs, but he did not stop at the hut. He staggered to the beach beneath it, dropped on all fours above a pool, and stared at what that gray mirror returned to him. He questioned avidly every feature: the broad face weatherworn out of the very likeness of flesh, the shock of rust-red hair, the noticeable dark eyes, the scar on the cheek. Henderson's scar! He sobbed once. His lips moved. "God help me!" he whispered. "I daren't. I daren't! Even now, there aint a soul from Wyndham to Melbourne wouldn't know me!"

Trembling ceaselessly, he crawled into the hut and lay down, his hands over his ears. "If only he wouldn't call," he muttered, "—if only he wouldn't call!" Presently he slept, but woke screaming from the usual dream. "Not that!" he cried, clawing at his throat. "Not that! They aint goin' to serve me like they served the chap at Broome! First an' last, I'll keep my freedom, if nothin' more! Freedom! Keep away, curse you!" He slept again, moaning, on his heap of dried tnoss.

But with the moon-dawn he was awake and running over the island. He ran blindly. Sea-birds struck at him with their fierce beaks as he passed their nests in the tussock; bogs sucked at his feet; knived grasses cut them. He stopped for nothing in his fury of haste. His face, if one could have seen it, was a battleground of longing and fear. But he had made, and wore, a mask of dried birdskins. Through the delicate stuff his features showed pale and blurred.

That hoarse and feeble crying had fallen silent long before he came to the other beach; but the man's body still lay on the edge of the tussock where he had crawled from the sea. Shaking, Lewen bent over him. He handled him reluctantly; but there was hunger in his hands. At last he lifted his masked face to the masked sky.

"Why did he come here?" he whispered. "Why did he come ashore here, curse him? I tell you— they sha'n't take it away. Not my— freedom! And— he's alive yet, thank God."

He gathered the body into his great bony arms; adjusting his burden, he crept away with it into the gray and silver night.

WHEN Pelliot opened his eyes, he was lying in the hut under the edge of the rata; he was feeble, in pain and helpless. He saw that his leg was bound between splints of wood padded with moss and down. The hut's opening framed a dawn yellow as wattle-flower in a rift of the eternal cloud, a vast empty sea, and a spiral of sea-birds that fought and clamored above the beach.

The desolation took Pelliot suddenly. He cried out hysterically. His call was heard. Out of the heart of the bird-cloud, a figure broke, and came running to the hut.

Lewen stooped and entered, and sound died on Pelliot's lips as he faced that gray body, worn as if by the wash of tides, and the blank glimmer of the birdskin mask.

"God!" was jerked from him at last. "Where am I, and— what are you?"

"You're on the Lode, mate."

"But— there's no man on the Lode— if you're a man!"

"I'm a man, matey; and I'm on the Lode."

Pelliot's gaze wandered; he was very weak. "You saved my life, then," he murmured. "You heard me call."

"Aye, I heard you."

Silence, filled only by the ceaseless going of the wind in the rata-forest. Pelliot snuggled into the moss. "Oh, the sea," he said, "the damn tremenjous sea!" He fell asleep.

He slept all day. Rain pierced the ill-built hut, and all day Lewen sat sheltering him from the wet with his own great body. He sat very still, drugged with content to be once more within sight and touch of another man.

Pelliot woke again toward night. Lewen fed him with eggs. He did not seem to know he had slept. He said: "My leg's broke."

"Aye."

"When I called,— there in the mist and the sea,— I never thought there was a livin' soul to hear."

"I heard.Your ship gone?"

"Don't know. A yacht, she was, the Clair-de-Lune. Steward, I was. It— seems a long while ago. I was washed off. The lifeline broke when I was carryin' grog to Batcheller. He'd had enough already. He was tryin' to push her past the Lode in the teeth of a sou'easter."

"Not many tries."

"I believe you." His eyes, bright as a bird's, rested on Lewen with a certain dread. He was a small man, with a weak, cheery face. He said nervously: "You been here a long time?"

"Pretty long."

"You swim ashore like me?"

After a silence, Lewen said heavily: "I come in a boat."

The little steward wriggied out of the moss. Lewen had taken his wet clothes, and he shone in the dusk with all a red-haired man's whiteness of skin, covered all over with a sandy fluff that made him look more birdlike than ever. Hope blazed in him readily. "Boat? You come in a boat? Why in thunder didn't you go away in it, then? Where is it?"

"That hut's built of it."

Pelliot shrank back into the moss; bewildered, the hope died out of him in a moment. He was once more weak, small, ill. He tried to speak, and failed. Then he said fretfully, "Take that thing off your face," and once more slid into unconsciousness.

Lewen looked down at him. "I got nothin' to fear from him," he said, with the air of a man trying passionately to reassure himself. "I got nothin' to fear."

The next time Pelliot woke, he was stronger. He had recovered memory; his identity burned with a clearer flame. Easily, as a weak man will, he had accepted the situation. He was grateful to Lewen, full of plans for their escape from the Lode. An innocent, garrulous little man—Lewen indeed had nothing to fear from him, and his desperate heart warmed to him.

"What do you find to eat here?" he questioned, picking birdlike at his breakfast of fish.

''Eggs, fish, young birds; there's a sort o' bulb in the meadows, and a seaweed good to eat, and a seal now and then."

"You got no gun?"

"No."

"But you got fire?"

"Aye."

The little steward was silent. He glanced at Lewen with a timid look. He said, with some trouble: "You been mighty good to me."

Behind the birdskin mask, Lewen's lips just shaped the word: "Lonely."

"We may be here— a long time. We better be— friends, eh?"

"Aye, we'll be friends." Lewen was wondering if the honest little man would like to take food from his hands—if he knew.

"Then why not let me see that face o' yours, chum?"

Next moment Pelliot shut his eyes. For he thought his death had come, and he did not want to see it.

After a time, a space of frozen minutes, he heard Lewen's savage voice.

"Look at me!"

Pelliot's eyes sought the mask so near his face. He saw Lewen's face like the face of a drowned man through water, and sickened.

"Look at me, you! This is the third time you spoke o' my face!"

"No offense, chum. I—"

"I keep it hid because I choose to. I stay on the Lode because I choose to. I broke up the boat for fear sometime I'd— be called to go away— to go away— from the only place where I can live."

Telliot shut his eyes again— opened them with a jerk to Lewen's next words.

"You believe in God A'mighty?"

The little steward searched within his mind, found some unknown strength there, and answered: "Yes, I do."

"Then you'll swear to me, here and now."

"What'll. I swear?"

"That never, so help you, when you come to be took off the Lode— as took you will be, for the whalers call here three or four times a year— that never will you let a livin' soul know there was another man here with you!"

He gave him the oath, a dreadful one enough, framed by wild men for wild deeds. Pelliot took it; at the end, he looked up with his odd birdlike boldness. "I'd 'a' done what you asked me without swears," he said mildly. But Lewen was gone.

Gone, drifting about the island that was his world, blown like a wisp of weed between the gray sea and the dripping rata-forest. He had no count of time. He stayed on the hills till his passion was worn out. When he returned to the hut, he found that the steward, thinking himself deserted, had crawled as far as the beach and there fallen in a faint. Lewen carried him back. Recovering, the little man clung to him like a child.

"I thought you'd gone for good an' left me, chum!"

"No. It's you that'll be took, and me that'll be left."

"What'll take me?"

"A ship. I— hide when they come."

Pelliot looked at him curiously. "How'd you know I'd keep my oath?"

Lewen began to tremble. "I'd kill you if I thought you wouldn't. I a'most left you to die as it was. Hours I left you on the beach there after I heard you call."

"If you're so afraid o' me, why did you save me?"

"Lonely," said Lewen vaguely, "lonely." He was spent. Unconsciously his hand sought Pelliot's. They crouched together for hours, in a deep dream of the wind and the rain and the sea.

PELLIOT began to mend, from that time. He began to share Lewen's extraordinary life, if life that savage existence could be called. Soon he filled it. With his cheap and friendly chatter, his adaptability, his shallow optimism, he fed that starved spirit as any common food would have fed the gaunt body. Lewen began dimly to feel himself not utterly cast out, since he was allowed both freedom and a friend. But the friend would go.

All day long from the shelter of the hut Pelliot strained eyes and soul to the sea-line, where at any hour might show the saving stain of smoke. Lewen watched as ceaselessly. Sometimes distrust tormented him. Pelliot would tell; he would have to tell; he would be sure to tell. At such times he saw no safety for himself while Pelliot lived. And his fear would seize him and drive him forth, like the demoniac of old, into waste places. He endured agonies, crouched in the dark rata-forest above the foul seal-paths, planning the little man's death. He would go away to the other side of the island and leave Pelliot alone. He would creep up on him in the dark.... Then he would be safe again. Safe, but— lonely. Yes, he would keep his freedom. Freedom was his religion: of its bitter wine his soul made its one sacrament. For it he had given absolutely everything, and if necessary, would give Pelliot. Then he would drag himself back to the hut and listen greedily while that cheery soul chattered hopefully of the world, the world beyond those desolate seas that made and kept him free. Lewen tried to picture the hut without Pelliot. His mind fell away from that blank as the birds fell away from the cliffs in a gale. He could not foresee or imagine what would happen when a ship came.

Once and once only the wind blew away the pall of cloud that is drawn over the subantarctic skies, revealing a night divinely clear, lighted with the southern stars.

And that night Lewen saw the first ship.

He was standing on the hilltop— so stamped with the desolation of the place around him that he seemed curiously invisible. And he saw the ship in a moment, complete and near; by some trick of mist and shadow, it was as if she had risen on a sudden from the sea. An old sailing ship, beautiful under the stars!

She had stood in too close in the dark. She was working out from the very shadow of the cliffs, drawing slowly against the tide. He could have flung a stone on her deck, he thought.

Any sound she made was lost in the sound of the swell on the beaches. But once a dog barked on board her. Lewen flung himself face-down in the tussock at the homely sound, as if it had been a shot.

She was gone when he lifted his head. Next morning the tide brought ashore a half-peeled potato. He buried it in a ridge of shingle for fear he would have to show it to Pelliot. But the tide washed it out and flung it ashore again; he buried the trivial thing four times before it rotted away.

The next ship came by day.

Lewen was sitting at the doorway of the hut, plaiting a net from dry grass, a net to gather eggs in. The little steward was drowsing behind him. She came, that nameless grimy tramp of the far South, wallowing out of a rain-squall; she had the same effect on Lewen, in the midst of that solitude, as a great blaze of color and light, a burst of sound. His senses reeled before that squat steamer doggedly furrowing the vast gray swells. He dropped his hands on his knees. His mouth opened. All his life ran into one channel—sight!

Then she whistled— once. She too was close in; and there had been castaways on the Lode before Lewen.

The sound cut through his very heart. He had no breath for a moment when Pelliot woke, crying suddenly out of sleep: "What's that?"

"A mollymawk."

Lewen was some time realizing that he had spoken. Pelliot sank back in the moss with a little querulous sound. "I must 'a' been dreaming," he said. "I thought I was goin' to Kew on a penny steamer with my girl. I got a girl in Shepherd's Bush," he confided wistfully to Lewen's back.

Lewen remained motionless. He was watching— watching— watching the tramp grow dim in the far rain, her wake die out, even the grimy trail of smoke lose itself in the mist. He thought a faint smell of the smoke was brought to him on the wind. She too had been close— close enough to signal. And Pelliot knew nothing.

He pulled himself erect by the side of the crazy doorway. He wondered dully to find himself shaking like grass in the wind, and clammy with sweat. He went away softly, and sat on the beach, trying to order his clumsy thoughts. Vague phrases came to him in the turmoil, and he caught at them desperately.

"If he's to go," was his slow conclusion, "he'll see the ship, not me. If he sees the ship, I'll take it for a sign— a sign he's to go. I can't do fairer nor that, can I?" he demanded of the free wind. "If he sees the ship, he can go. So help me, I wont hinder him." Then suddenly he bent his savage masked face to his bony knees and wept.

Pelliot saw the third ship.

It was Lewen who slept, twitching like a dog, on the moss- heap— Pelliot who crawled to him, trailing his bound leg, and shook him in a breathless silence. Lewen woke and said: "What is it?"

The steward mouthed at him. It was horrible. No sound came from his twisting lips. Lewen could see the thud of his heart jerking under his shirt.

"What is it, matey?" But he knew.

Still dumb, Pelliot dragged at him, doglike. Lewen rose, went to the doorway, and looked. He stayed there, very still.

A whaler was anchored under the lee of the penguin-rocks. On the beach beneath the cliffs and the rata-forest, a cutter was just grounding; as he watched, a man sprang out of her into the surf, and the oars flashed silver-bright against the pallid dawn.

His only thought was, that now it had come.

Behind him, Pelliot found speech with a shriek. He screamed like a girl. He dragged himself along the ground to Lewen, caught him about the knees, pounded him with his fists. "Oh, my Lord," he cried, "don't you see? It's a ship! It's men!" He sobbed. "It's life, life! Come on, come on! They may go, they may put off again! Oh, chum, for the sake o' pity, help me down quick!"

Lewen stood like a tree, silent. And that silence was a hand laid on the little steward to make him still. His struggling fists dropped. His jaw dropped. He glared up at Lewen with blank eyes. A fleck of froth showed at his lips. "You," he choked, "you— aint cornin'?"

LEWEN flung up his arms and stood so for a minute, as a man stands who has been killed on his feet by a bullet. Then he turned, slowly as if it hurt him, and drew off the birdskin mask. For the first time Pelliot saw the face of the man who had saved him.

But was it the first time? It held a strange familiarity.

"Look at me, mate." Lewen spoke very gently. "Maybe you've seen my picture in the papers. Aye, there's not a man from Wyndham to Melbourne wouldn't know me. I'm Mark Lewen. I'm the man that killed Henderson at Cossack."

After some minutes Pelliot moved, sighed weakly. "That—"

"That brute? Aye, that's me. And I can't leave the Lode. I aint safe if a human bein' sees me. I aint safe if I leave the Lode. For then they'll take me and hang me. I'm only free— here."

The little steward looked vaguely at the sea. "How did you get here?"

"I'd shipped on board a whaler— just such another. Two days out, a man looked at me, and drew away as if I was a leper. 'Take your hands out o' my dish,  Judas!' That's what he said. I struck him, and they ironed me. They was for takin' me back. I broke away.

On a wild night I took the dinghy and come here. They thought I was drowned. Only because o' that I'm safe. They'd hunt me down if they knew I was here. They'd know me. There was the irons—"

Pelliot turned his eyes slowly on the other. He seemed abstracted, like a man half awake. "That was how you got your fire, then," he said musingly.

He leaned forward, turned back Lewen's ragged sleeve, and exposed the ring of a handcuff thrust far up the arm. "There's flints on the beach," he said absently. Then: "So you— ain't cornin'?"

"As God's my judge," said Lewen in a strange wail, "it's death if any man sees me and knows me."

Pelliot began to tremble. "And me?"

"I wont hinder your goin'. So help me, I wont hinder you. I'll trust you!"

Without a word, Pelliot began to crawl down the slope toward the beach.

FLAT UNDER the edge of the rata, Lewen watched him.

Once he looked back. Lewen said aloud clearly: "It can't be done. I'd be known." His great hands twitched as he suppressed the instinct to run and help the little man. Now and then his haggard eyes blurred. He muttered advice that Pelliot could not possibly hear. "Keep to the left, mate. Easy does it. Mind the place where the stones slide. Easy, now. Take it sideways and let yourself go."

Pelliot crawled on, dragging his broken leg. He moved inch by inch, it seemed to Lewen. He was a weakly little man, after all. He was grunting with agony, sick with faintness. Perhaps he was not fitted for a diet of sea-birds' eggs and fish. He could see the men below on the beach, gathered about the cutter. They had not scattered. He wondered what they had come for. He shouted to them, but his voice was a hoarse whisper. He crawled on feverishly.

He fixed his eyes on a stone, dragged himself up to it; rested a moment, fixed his eyes on a tussock, dragged himself to that; rested once more, gained a tuft of leaves, and sank face-down in them. With a great effort he crawled on again, on and on— on toward life and safety and everything that made the world.

_________________

17: The Clean-Up

Albert Payson Terhune

1872-1942

The Red Book Magazine Nov 1922

LIKE many another celebrity, Wolfe Calder had begun his climb by pounding pavements in an ill-fitting blue uniform. He had used brain as well as brawn, in his police job, with the result that he had been shifted at twenty-five from patrol duty to the detective squad.

There, he exhibited no Sherlock Holmes genius. But he showed a bull-terrier alertness and a nose for prey, and an iron tenacity in hanging grimly to a trail till he reached its end. Wherefore, he was much in use, at Police Headquarters.

And, from his tireless gift for getting what he went after, a newspaper man named him "Clean-up Calder."

The name stuck— not like a burr, but like a medal.

Calder had no political pull. He was ridiculously honest. He was a glutton for work; and he did not have the faculty for making capital out of his exploits.

Thus, he saw no future for himself in the Police Department, other than a long life of toil and of peril, with a pittance pension at its end. At twenty-seven, he left the force, to take a better-salaried job as house-detective for the huge jewelry establishment of Ziegerich and Company.

Here, he learned the art of dressing so well that nobody gave a second glance to him, of talking in a modulated voice and with something of the diction of better bred men, and of regarding each and every article of jewelry in the place as a fragment of his own reputation, to be guarded as zealously as his soul's welfare.

His three years at Ziegerich's did not contain as many adventures as had an average three months in his police days. During the long lulls between activities, his soul would have taken on flesh and his wiry brain would have clogged itself with sloth, if he had been the normal hard worker in a soft berth. But there was always something to look forward to.

For example, it was Calder who walked lazily up to the pistol- mouth wherewith an escaping swell yeggman was clearing for himself a path from a rifled jewel-case to the establishment's front door. Deftly, and with no emotion at all, Calder disarmed and collared the desperado.

Calder it was who created momentary panic, one day, by strolling over  to an exquisitely dressed woman who was bending above a tray of rings, and by yanking off her hat and veil and hair, in one comprehensive tug, revealed "her" as a super-shoplifter named Mack Began, whom he remembered from the old days.

Then, after the much-advertised Magnessen necklace was spirited from the supposedly impregnable Ziegerich safe, where it had been deposited for storage and for cleaning, during its fair owner's absence from town, Calder had taken an indefinite leave of absence and had returned six days later with the necklace and with the employee who had stolen it.

Such petty breaks as these, in the routine of wandering with seeming aimlessness from one end of the store to the other, had been Calder's sole diversions, for three long years.

Hating boredom and indolence, he had put in his spare time in making himself a really creditable expert in jewelry and in the technique of the business. This meritorious task he had lightened, during the final three months of the time, by making shy but ardent love to Lenore Aken, newest of the Ziegerich stenographers.

For a while, his love story remained to him a mystery more unfathomable than any he had tackled in all his professional work. All his powers of deduction could not tell him whether Lenore's pretty smile of morning greeting spelled encouragement or mere civility.

Being ''Clean-up Calder," by nature as well as by nickname, he set himself to the labor of solving this puzzle. And into the work he flung more of himself than had gone into all his professional cases put together.

True to his life-training, Calder, in his study of the case, proceeded to w r eed out the nonessentials—the men from whom, patently, nothing was to be feared. And this process of elimination thinned down the ranks of his rivals to one, whom he felt to be a really dangerous opponent in the love campaign.

This solitary survival was Moreton, chief of the repair- and- resetting department of Ziegerich's; and, incidentally, Lenore's immediate superior— the department head in whose office she worked. Moreton was a tall and stooping man in the late forties. He had a turtle droop of bead and neck, and a perpetual little dry cough. Apart from those trifling oddities, he was much like the other well-clad and well-mannered upper employees of the place.

At first, he had seemed to pay scant heed to his lovely stenographer. But presently he had begun to note her existence. Calder, quietly watching, saw the fellow's new interest in her; and he saw it grow, from day to day, until it obsessed its victim.

From his criminal experiences, Calder was able to diagnose the symptoms as those of a man who, falling in love, past the midday of life, is too old for sanity to temper infatuation.

Now, up to thirty, a lover's strongest card is Youth. For the ten years or so, following that milestone, the absence of Youth may be supplied by technique, by magnetism, by such wiles as experience has taught. But, Satan help the Lothario who reaches the late forties or the fifties and who has not money to back his cause! For money, at those ages, is usually the only remaining card in the mature wooer's wabbly hand.

Now, Moreton had no overplus of wealth— as wealth goes. But he had something almost as good. He had free access to the most soul-wrecking jewels in all the Ziegerich hoard. And, while there was no shadow of doubt as to his honesty, yet, through his position's advantages, he could and did display these jewels, in all their profusion and gorgeousness, to Lenore Aken.

Calder, happening into his office, not once but several times, in dull moments, caught Moreton heaping on a desk a heterogeneous pile of precious stones, for Lenore's benefit.

The girl— her soft eyes aglow, her breath fast, her lips trembling— stared in a sort of hypnotized ecstasy at the treasures. Timidly, at Moreton's permission, she gathered them adoringly in her white little hands, caressing them and letting them seep through her slender fingers.

Now, by a word to old Ziegerich, the detective could, of course, have put an instant and drastic end to these gem-seances. Ziegerich was paying for Moreton's time, and was paying well for it. He was not paying him to philander, nor to let a comparative outsider dally with jewels whose value was infinitely greater than her salary for a lifetime was likely to be.

But, perhaps through innate squareness, perhaps by reason of his long dealings with underworld ethics, Wolfe Calder preferred to settle his own affairs, rather than to squeal. So he kept his thin-lipped mouth shut—until he surprised Moreton, one day, fastening about the dazedly charmed girl's neck the famed Magnessen necklace, which happened to be undergoing one of its periodical sojourns at Ziegerich's.

At sight of Calder, Moreton hurriedly laid down the little mirror he was preparing to lift before Lenore's wide-gazing eyes, and released the clasp from her creamy throat.

"I was just trying the effect of this new combination of the diamond-and-aquamarine group on the pendant," stammered Moreton, forcing his glance to meet Calder's. "I've been experimenting on that grouping, all week. This time I think I've got it. But it's so much easier to get the effect when it's being worn—especially by a girl as pretty as—"

"I see," interrupted Calder gruffly— adding as he turned to the confused Lenore: "How about a walk, uptown? It's a dandy afternoon. And you were due to leave, fifteen minutes ago. Put on your things, wont you, and come along?"

Now, there was nothing in Wolfe Calder's intonation that suggested the "Come along!" mandate he might have delivered to a prisoner. But perhaps, behind his pleasant voice, there was something of the same compelling authority. For, still confused and avoiding the eye of either man, Lenore nodded and made her way toward the corner where hung her hat and coat.

Moreton, his nervous eyebrows working, picked up the glittering necklace and carried it across to the safe. As he went, his emotion showed itself only in several barked renditions of the hacking little cough that was always with him. Calder did not favor him with so much as a look. Nor did the detective speak again until he and Lenore were side by side in the street, and a block or more on their way uptown. Even then, it was the girl who broke the strained silence.

"You're awfully glum today!" she complained nervously. "I'm not enjoying this walk, one bit. I—"

"Just the same," he cut in, "it's good for you— the exercise and this sharp air and all. A sight better for you than going into a trance over the Magnessen necklace."

"I—" she began, stiffly; but he bored on:

"The first thing a man or woman has got to learn, in the jewelry business, is that jewels aren't jewels. They're only counters in the business game we're playing. It's just as it is in a bank. Until a bank-clerk can get it into his head that money isn't money, but, just the counters in the game he's paid to play— until he can get that through his head, he's worthless in his job— and dangerous too. Now, that isn't the first time Moreton's let you fool with the Magnessen necklace. Arid. he's let you handle a lot of other big-value stones, too. And you're dippy about them. That's all wrong. From being dippy about a thing, to wishing it belonged to you, is just one step. From wanting it, to grabbing it, is only one step more. Keep on saying that to yourself, every time you see any of those stones. Keep on, till you've taught yourself what I said about their being counters."

"Thank you, so much!" was the icy reply. "It's so nice of you to warn me! Now, next time Mr.

Ziegerich sends for you to find missing jewelry, you'll know exactly whom to accuse."

"No," he denied, with stolid calm. "I wont know. Not if you mean I'd suspect you. You're too clean and too white and— and too much— too much you— to steal. But it wont do you any good, just the same, to let yourself gloat over that stuff, the way you've been doing. Do you know what would have happened to Moreton if it had been Ziegerich or either of his sons, instead of me, who happened into his office, while he was fixing that thing around your throat? Well, he'd have gotten his. Six months ago, he'd have had too much sense to do such a thing."

"If you are going to begin abusing poor Mr. Moreton—" she began, her voice unsteady.

"I'm not," he made answer. "I'm not a knocker. And if I was I wouldn't abuse Moreton. I'm too sorry for him."

"Because his lungs—"

"No. Because he's crazy in love with you, and because he hasn't a Chinaman's chance. If he had, you wouldn't be calling him 'poor' Mr. Moreton. And he hasn't a Chinaman's chance for another reason— because I'm going to marry you, myself. I didn't mean to tell you so, yet awhile. But when I saw that jewel-doped look on your face, back there, today, I knew it was time."

Lenore Aken stopped dead short and stared up at him, agape. He had stated his intent as coolly as if he were citing an instance in natural law.

"Wolfe Calder!" she gasped, doubtful as to whether she were going to laugh hysterically or cry with anger. "Wolfe Calder! Are you daft— or only drunk? I—"

"I'm daft over you," he made stolid reply, "just as I've always been— just as you've always known I was. And as soon as you've said 'Yes,' I'm going to hail a taxi, for the rest of the trip home. Because, you see, it'd look funny for me to kiss you, right out here in the street. Taxies are handy things, that way. Don't go turning your face away, like that, girl! It's no disgrace. Look up at me. I said, look up at me!... . Hey, there, taxi!"

The taxi had traveled the best part of two fare-devouring miles before Calder was his wonted level-brained and iron-nerved self. Then, talking down into a mass of fluffy hair and a badly damaged little hat that nestled deep into his chest, he said:

"I was going to wait awhile, till I had things shipshape, before telling you, Baby. But, today, I saw it had to be done in a rush ; or maybe it'd be too late. Now that you've got a real live: lover to think about, you wont go mooning over dead jewelry any more— not even the Magnessen necklace."

"It's— it's so— so wonderful, Wolfe!" she protested. "Such a beauty!"

"So is the Statue of Liberty," he argued. "But folks don't go foolish over her. They're content to remember how grand she is, and to let it go at that. Still, it's not for me to knock the Magnessen horse-collar. For that's the thing that's due to put me in a position to marry you. I told you about that time it got stolen, when it was at Ziegerich's. Well, my getting it back made a big hit with Judge Magnessen. He has all the money there is, you know. And he got interested in me. I let out that I was saving to start a little jewelry business of my own— 'way uptown, in the new section that such a crowd of real folk are moving into since the spur road opened. And he's promised to back me and to help me get a first-rate start. Ziegerich is going to help me out, too. I'm leaving the store, next month. I was planning to wait till I got the new place running, before I asked you. But, after today— well, it won't do you any hurt to be lifted out of Moreton's office, and to know a sweetheart's better worth dreaming over than a safeful of jewels that aren't yours and that never can be. With men like Magnessen and Ziegerich behind me, and the good money that's pouring into that new section,— and with you,— well, watch me!"

THUS it was that "Clean-up Calder" evolved in due time into the proprietor of the more and more popular uptown jewelry establishment of "Wolfe Calder, Inc." The first few months were hard sledding. But Calder had made no mistake as to the possibilities of his location. He knew his business and he knew human nature. The Magnessen backing tided him over the bumpy beginnings. The Ziegerich and the Magnessen influence were further aids.

The line, "formerly with Ziegerich and Company," on his window and on his business cards, served as a talisman. In the fast-enlarging vicinity, Calder became the fashion.

The rest was easy.

In his very early thirties, Wolfe Calder was part and parcel of his chosen community, and was a man of substance and repute. Luck was with him. And  his level head and squareness and swiftly sure instincts kept luck from departing. Happiness was with him, too. in ample measure. And that was sup¬ plied exclusively by his dainty and still-alluring wife.

At once after their marriage— during the days when the busi¬ ness had to be kept alive by artificial respiration— Lenore had suggested that Wolfe save on at least one salary by letting her work in the store. Indeed, she insisted on it. And the two , came perilously near to a quarrel, before Calder could convince her that her work must be confined to their tiny home, and that she was to keep away from the shop.

He knew she was not of the breed— few women are— who could look on his dazzling stock in trade as mere “counters in the business game.” And he resolved, at the start, to divorce sentiment from livelihood.

So, during her husband’s long hours at the store, she had much time to herself, even after she had wrought over her apartment until it shone.

It was one blistering hot Monday, in early July, during the detective’s fourth year as “Wolfe Calder, Inc.” Lenore had been fagged by a month of ceaseless heat. Wolfe had sent her that morning to the seaside for a week or two, promising to join her there on Saturday afternoon. This was the couple’s first separation during their four-year wedded life. And Calder was unaccountably blue over it.

Business was so dull that he was half-minded to leave the store in charge of his assistant and run down to the shore, to his wife, for the rest of the week.

He was in this glum mood, when a portly old man bustled into the store. The visitor was Judge Magnessen. And he was a piteous mental case. In a spluttering handful of words he explained the reason of his call.

Mrs. Magnessen had once more broken the clasp of her necklace. The Judge, himself, had taken it to Ziegerich’s to be repaired, and to have the stones overhauled in search for defective settings. This, on Magnessen’s last visit to the city, a week I earlier. Today, during a three-hour sojourn in town, he had stopped at Ziegerich’s for the necklace.

Old Ziegerich himself had gone to the safe in which it had been placed some days earlier, to draw forth the repaired treasure and to return it to its owner.

He had opened the case, to show the necklace to Magnessen, before wrapping it up. The case was empty.

After Ziegerich's establishment had been ransacked in vain, the Judge had bethought himself of the man who, once before, had found the stolen necklace and the thief who had taken it. Therefore he had posted, with all speed, to Wolfe Cal- der. With a childlike faith in his detective prowess, Magnessen- begged him to find the priceless circlet of gems. Calder, once before, had found the stolen necklace, when the police and high- priced agency men had failed. Therefore, to the Judge's way of reasoning, he could find it again, and could do so much more certainly than could anyone else.

As Magnessen entreated, Calder was amazed and annoyed to note the thrill of the man-hunt pounding again in his blood, to discover that a score of atrophied instincts of the chase were struggling to life within him. Already, he found himself stretching out for clues, and chafing to begin the quest. He had thought himself beyond that kind of thing, long ago, he the sedate and flourishing uptown jeweler!

Then, he excused the fierce urge by reminding himself of all he owed to Magnessen; and he decided that the fever of the chase was nothing more than a laudable sense of gratitude to the man who had set him up in business. And, in the end, he awoke the Judge to ecstasies of thanks, by undertaking the job.

A sense of shame prevented him from sending word to Lenore. He knew she would make all manner of fun of him, for yielding to such a request. And he hated to be laughed at. Time enough— if he were still on the case then— to tell her of it when he should run down to the shore on Saturday.

In the meanwhile Mr. Wolfe Calder, jeweler, felt a sense of disreputable pleasure in relapsing for a space into "Clean-up Calder."

His first step, naturally, was to invade the Ziegerich establishment, where old man Ziegerich hailed his advent with heartfelt joy and put at his disposal all the resources of the place. The initial questions and searchings and examinings, at Ziegerich's, threw no light' at all on Calder's new-old path.

Not until he voiced the most seemingly banal query of his list, did he strike something resembling a clue.

"Any employees left you, this past week?" he asked at last, adding: "But of course that's the very first thing you'd have told me, if there had."

"Not a soul," replied Ziegerich. "It's even an off-week in the vacation schedule. All here— except, of course," he added as an afterthought, "poor Moreton."

"Moreton?" Calder fairly spat the name at him. "Moreton, hey? Tell me about his going!"

"He left us last Wednesday," said Ziegerich, in very genuine sorrow. "It's a mighty sad case. I wish I could do more for him. Tuesday his landlady telephoned down that he had had another hemorrhage. You know, his lungs have always been affected, more or less. And he took no sort of care of himself. Wednesday morning he came in here, looking more like a corpse than a live man. The doctor had just told him he had a bare six months to live, at best, and that he wouldn't have half that time unless he packed up, that very day, and hurried to Saranac. He came in to say good-by. Poor, faithful old chap! I could see he knew, as well as we did, that he'd never set foot in here again."

"H'm!" commented the detective sympathetically. "Too bad! Got his address, up at Saranac? I'd like to write to him, sometime. It might cheer him up."

FIVE minutes later, Clean-up Calder was hot-footing it to the boarding-house in which for years Moreton had lived. Thence, after a long and authoritative cross-questioning of a landlady (whom he reduced from lofty condescension to tearful spinelessness), he went to an address he had browbeaten her into giving him— and, thence, to three more places, in quick succession. After which, he took a train out of town— but not in the direction of Saranac.

At sunset, the same day, he climbed the steps of a small summer hotel, in a sleepy hill town, and went to the desk. There, he flicked the leaves of the register, for a moment.

He was not looking for a name. He was looking for a specimen of handwriting. A man may choose any of a million names, at will. But he can choose only one chirography. He may— and often does— try to disguise that chirography. But not once in a myriad times can he do so in a way to deceive anyone familiar with it.

Presently Calder left the desk and wandered aimlessly about the stuffy hotel lobby. Twice, he looked at his watch as though expecting some one who was late to an appointment there. Thence, he made his way, unnoted, to the stairs.

As he neared a room at the end of the second-floor corridor, the door of the apartment was opened. A man came out— a stoutish man with a short gray beard, and carrying a black bag.

"Excuse me, Doctor," said Calder timidly, as the man came toward him, down the hall. "But how is Mr. Baldwin, this evening? I only just heard he was here. And I'm worried about him. He and I have known each other a good many years. Is he very ill?"

"Yes," returned the doctor, recognizing the half cringing and wholly unhappy manner with which friends of the sick are forever approaching physicians. "He may pull through. Or he may not. He says he has had these hemorrhages before, and has always rallied within a few days. But—"

"How did he happen to send for you?" asked the humble questioner, still more meekly.

"He stopped here, overnight— or for a day or two— on his way to Asheville— down in North Carolina. He fell ill, and the proprietor called me in. The man is not fit for travel. But up to yesterday he kept insisting he must go on. Perhaps you can persuade him to give up the idea for the present."

"Perhaps I can," was the grim response. "Thanks, Doc!" Brushing past the physician, Calder strode on to the sickroom, entered it, and shut and locked the door behind him.

Then he allowed himself a quick scrutiny of the place.

On the bed, his face green-white except for the cheekbones on which the disease had flung forth its scarlet "No Surrender!" signals, lay Moreton. At the sound of the key in the lock, he turned his languid eyes toward the door. Then, with a gurgle, he sat bolt upright.

"Hello, Moreton!" said Calder pleasantly. "I've dropped in for the Magnessen necklace. You've hid it under your pillow, I suppose? Yes? You would! It's a mistake to get playing with jewelry. It's apt to turn out this way. Jewels are funny things, if once you let them get under your skin."

As he talked, he approached the bed. With one outstretched hand, he prepared to fend off any resistance from the invalid. With the other, he began to grope under the tumbled pillows.

To his bewilderment, Moreton, after that first galvanic start of surprise at sight of him, made no move. But into the cadaverous face crept a grin. It was not a pretty expression. It was not normal. And, watching it spread and ripple athwart the thin lips, Calder was aware of a shivering sense of repulsion.

"Not there!" he muttered, withdrawing his fingers from their futile quest under the pillows, and striving to force back the jarring sensation bred of the other's hideous smile. "Where is it?"

For an instant, there was no reply. Dumbly, Moreton continued to gaze on his captor, his sunken eyes beginning to light up with a strange gleam whose meaning Calder could not fathom— and that dreadful grin of derision spreading and deepening amid the creases of his lower face.

"Come!" demanded Calder, again, half sick with the sight of that cryptic smile and the glint of the pale, deep-set eyes. "Where is it?"

Then, for the first time, the tight-drawn lips parted. The invalid panted, in a cracked and breathless falsetto:

"You're in the wrong pew! You blockhead fool! You can search this place till you're tired. I haven't got it. I had it. But I gave it to— to my— my girl."

He sank back, and fought for breath. Palpably, the man was in agony. Yet never once did that dreadful grin leave his lips, nor the mockingly insane light flicker out of his eyes.

"Ask her for it, you— you cheap bully!" he croaked, between raggedly labored breaths. "You bullied her into marrying you when a better man wanted her. Perhaps you can bully her into giving up the necklace. Even if you couldn't bully her into caring for you or staying true to you. Ask Lenore!"

For a moment the grin gave way to a grimace of rank terror, as Calder towered over him, rocking with blind fury, menacing the helpless figure with upflung hammerlike fists. But at once the look of fear was gone. Moreton saw the raging giant check himself and collapse into a chair by the bed. And he knew the I peril of murder was past.

"You lie!" groaned Calder, over and over again, his words a cry of physical pain. "You lie!"

How long he sat crouched forward there, head in hands, he « never knew. But the twilight had begun to fade when a sound made him lift his tortured face and glance toward the bed.

More than once, before, Calder had heard that same sound. There is no mistaking it; there is no imitating of it. It is the last sound to leave the human throat, driven forth perhaps by the rush of the departing soul.

That Moreton was dead— that the shock had snuffed out his faint flame of life,— smote Calder with a sense of impotent wrath.

If only the man might have lived! If only he might have gotten well! If only Wolfe might have met him, foot to foot, in fair battle and have torn the lying life out of him with his naked hands! And now—

A tap at the door brought Calder to himself. Mechanically he stumbled across to the threshold and turned the key and the knob. Outside, stood a bellboy.

"Lady to see Mister Baldwin," observed the youtlq. "Says her name's Mrs. Calder. She—"

"Send her up!" ordered the man, curtly, maneuvering his own body in such fashion as to keep himself between the boy and the dim shape on the bed.

HE stepped back toward the window, and stood there waiting. His mind was still numb. But into it was crawling, like a frozen stream, this confirmation of the dead man's hideous charges. And, out of mind and heart was ebbing the last hope. The bellboy's clumping feet echoed through the hallway. Between the intermittent thuds sounded the swish of a silken skirt, and a light, elastic tread that Calder knew so well. Followed a knock at the door.

"Come in!" said Calder.

He made no effort to disguise his voice. Yet his own mother would not have recognized it. Even then, he could not concentrate his shattered thoughts.

She had come into the room. The creaking door had swung shut behind her. She was looking around, through the fast fading light. For the first time Ihe seemed to realize that it was a bedroom into which she had been ushered. She took an instinctive step backward.

Then as her gaze roved toward the bed, Wolfe Calder lurched forward. Subconsciously, he was seeking to come between her and what lay sprawled there. So, always, had it been his instinct to stand between her and the harsher sights and facts of life.

The movement drew her eyes to him A last glimmer of dusk, outside, fell athwart his face as it emerged from the shadows.

Lenore cried aloud. And, even through his dizzy numbness, he was aware of a note of gladness in her cry.

"Oh, Wolfe!"she wailed. "Wolfe, darling! I'm so glad you're here! So glad! Here! Take the horrible thing!"

She thrust into his hand a parcel, carelessly tied up in tissue paper.

"Here!" she exclaimed again. "Take it! I was in such a hurry I didn't even wait to put it in its box. I hadn't any time. I stuck it in my waist, and borrowed some paper at the station to wrap it in. It's— oh, I forgot, you don't know! It's the Magnessen necklace. Honestly it is! It's been a perfect nightmare to me, all afternoon. I— I never want to see another bit of jewelry as long as I live. Oh, Wolfe, where have you been all day? I looked everywhere for you! And how did you ever get here? They said it was Mr. Moreton's room. 'Baldwin,' I mean. That is the name he told me in his letter."

THE incoherent speech was babbled in a vain race to get it delivered in full before the tears should come. Yet something in it swept the numbness from Calder's soul, and brought back consciousness, with a rush that was agonizing. Fighting for self-control, he managed to whisper, brokenly:

"Tell me!"

"It happened, this noon." she said, choking back the sobs of reaction. "I was just going in to lunch. And a messenger boy came. He'd been sent all the way from here. He had a box for me. And a letter. They were from Mr. Moreton. The box had the— the necklace in it. It was a Ziegerich box. too. The letter was ever so much worse than anything I ever imagined. Here."—fumbling in the waist of her dress and extracting a white oblong. "Read it. And try not to be too angry, dear! Oh," she broke off, "I forgot. It's too dark to see. Turn on the light and read it, Wolfe. You must read it!"

But he only held her the tighter. And once more he whispered: "Tell me!"

"You can read it later, then," she answered. "Here, take it. It said,—don't be angry, dear,— please, please don't!— it wasn't my fault,— it said he had always loved me. Why, he'd only seen me once, since I was married. And that was last week when I went down to Ziegerich's, for you, about the duplicate for the Venetian vase. He stopped me in the aisle and asked me how I was standing the heat; and I told him I was going away and where I was going. That must be how he knew the address."

She paused, as if realizing how incoherent was her talk; then, taking fresh hold on her mentality, she went on:

"He said in the letter he'd always loved me. That he had been planning to join me at the shore today. He said he remembered how mad I was about the Magnessen necklace. (Wolfe, I loathe it!) He said he had bought it— he must be richer than we knew— because he had believed my craze for it would make me— make me—well, you'll read it, yourself! Then, he said he was taken terribly ill, here; and that the doctor wasn't sure he'd get well, and he wanted me to have it, anyhow; and to know he— he loved me to— to the death— the beast! And he said he hated you and that he yearned to live long enough to 'make you pay.' I came up to town, right away. You weren't at the store. Todd didn't know where you were or when you'd get back. So— I was all mixed up what to do! I came right here— to throw the miserable necklace in his face and tell him how I despised him. I was so cut up and angry, I wanted him to know I wouldn't keep the thing he sent me; and I wanted— Wolfe, what's that on the bed over there?" she broke off, nervously straining her eyes through the blackness. "It looks almost like somebody lying there. It—"

"It's nothing," the man assured her, a throb of insane happiness tearing at his heart, as he glanced toward the half invisible bed and realized to the full the venom of the man who had sought to "make him pay," even in the hour of his own death. "It's nothing.Come, darling! We've been in the blackness long enough, you and I. Let's go. Don't look back!"

______________

18: Innocent Bystander

Clarence Herbert New

1862-1933

Blue Book, Feb 1934

THE directors sprawled in comfortable armchairs around a long and beautifully polished mahogany table in the big private office— obviously a board room. Down the middle of the table was a neat overlapping row of trade magazines and illustrated gazettes in four languages. Against the mahogany-paneled walls were racks of financial, mining and manufacturing papers. Three stock-tickers were clicking off quotations from the New York and London exchanges and the Paris Bourse. In the outer office there were a manager, book-keepers and typists. Upon the double- doors of the hall-entrance were the words in gold lettering:

ANTWERFER SYNDICATE

DEVELOPMENT & OPERATION

London Hamburg Johannesburg New York

From general appearance, it was one of those far-reaching concerns which do a business of millions without even a rumble from their operations.

Presently a cashier tapped upon the door and came in with a large sheaf of crisp twenty-pound notes which he silently distributed in little piles at the elbow of each director.

When the cashier had retired and closed the door, Jorner crossed his legs the other way, stuck a long Russian cigarette into an eight-inch jade holder and took up future business.

"Of course," he observed without further preliminaries, "what we've all in mind today is the Rhodesian proposition. Any of you figured out what it'll prob'ly take to swing it?"

"A quarter-million, sterling. We can go in for less— an' make a good bit less— but if we control the proposition from the start we'll make from fifty to a hundred per cent."

"In how long? How soon must we have the stake?"

"Five or six months at the earliest— take another eight or ten months to clean up."

"H-m-m— well— let's see what we can run to. In six months, I can liquidate forty or fifty thousand. How about you, Braunfels?"

"Seventy or eighty. Wurtzburg, here, can furnish mebbe a leetle less."

"How much margin would that leave you two for carrying on for a year?"

"Mebbe twelf-fifteen t'ousand."

Jorner nodded.

"Hmph! Just about what I fancied! It means stripping ourselves below our reserve. Well— I fancy I'll say no to that end of it! There are a number of ways of getting a quarter- million without doing that— if we have six months' leeway."

"Y-e-e-s? You might mention a few of your 'ways' of copping it, Jorner?"

"Oh— it'll not be so difficult a matter as the majority would fancy. Why, for example— insure some fairly well-known man for the quarter-million— in our favor."

"Eh? What's that?" Tooley asked. "Insure some prom— What prominent man?"

"Anybody. That's quite immaterial as long as he's known to be one of large affairs, handling big enterprises. Here!"

He ran his finger down the overlapping row of periodicals on the table. Several of the covers bore a portrait of some individual whose activities in certain industries had made him fairly well-known. Presently, the finger stopped at a cover which bore the picture of a typical business-man who recently had been attracting attention by reason of his activities as a successful promoter.

"This chap is just about the type— he'd do as well as anyone. Not yet a financial colossus, but evidently known to have widespread interests. Looks like any one of a hundred well-groomed men you'd meet in the City or in various board rooms. All we'd need to know about him would be a few leading facts, which we'll doubtless find in this magazine, and one or two bits of confidential information easily enough picked up from some of the London houses in his line."

The periodical was passed from hand to hand for inspection.

BLOCH, the Viennese, was the first to speak "Hmph!... The 'innocent bystander'— eh ?"

"Why— aye. Might call him that, I suppose. Bit of bad luck for him, of course, that the magazine happened to publish his picture on the cover this week. If they'd given him a full-page plate inside, I fancy he'd have been quite safe. What?"

"How did you happen to pick him instead of one of these other chaps, Jorner?" asked Smith, the Australian.

"Says: 'South African Promoter,' under his name— which is a game we know a deal about— easy to make inquiries. And his face is not arresting— simply the average of a certain type— would attract very little attention in the news-sheets."

"Fancy he's big enough to be carryin' much insurance?"

"Possibly a deal more than you'd think— possibly very little. Depends upon whether he's any beneficiaries he's keen about favoring. Any of you know the chap?"

There was a general shaking of heads.

"Never heard anything more than a mention of his name as a promoter. Do you know him yourself?"

"Never laid eyes on him."

The red-mustached Tooley gave an in- credulous snort.

"I say, Jorner! Are you pulling our legs? Do you really fancy that any life assurance comp'ny would write a quarter- million policy on this chap in our favor ?"

"It would depend, naturally, upon how much they're carrying on the ay at present— of course no comp'ny will go beyond a certain amount. Under ord'n'ry conditions, however, Lloyd's would underwrite the chap for a quarter-million without turnin' a hair— if you're willing to pay their price— which would be stiffish, I fancy. Pay enough for the accommodation, an' they'll gamble with you on anything— insure your fingers or toes— mental condition or spinal column. It's all one to them."

"I say, you know— they must pay up on simply frightful losses every little while— doin' that kind of business!"

Jorner grinned shrewdly.

"Occasionally— but not so often as you'd think. They base their policies upon the law of averages, an' they have compilations of the figures for a couple of hundred years. For example— you take out a policy on your life, thinking you may die within three years. Their medico examines you, fancies you're good for twenty— an' they charge you a lower premium than you expected. Medico fancies you may die in six months— they say they'd rather not issue the policy, but if they do it'll cost you twenty per cent. Their tables show that twenty per cent is rather better than a fifty-fifty gamble for them over a space of one year in spite of their medico's report. You may die in two months— they bet you won't inside of a year— an' they win more frequently than they lose. Say you've been warned that somebody will empty an automatic into you with fatal results inside of a month. They'll gamble that half the shots will miss, that two will be negligible flesh-wounds, and that if you're shot at all it won't be for a year or more."

"Hmph! Sounds as if they may not be takin' as long chances as I fancied | But— I say! What possible excuse has the Antwerfer Syndicate for carryin' a quarter-million on this chap when none of us ever have even seen the man?"

"Simple enough. We're by way of bein' heavily int'rested in some of his comp' nies. If anything happens to him before they're on a firm foundation, they smash— an' we face rather staggerin' losses."

FOR the next hour or two, four of them were telephoning various confidential brokers while Jorner was getting inside information upon Cornelius Vandersteyn from the head of a well-known South African house who happened to be in London at the moment.

When they went out for luncheon at two o'clock, they had decided to see what could be done in the way of taking out a policy on Vandersteyn, and had chosen who was to do the job.

Jorner, Braunfels and Tooley proceeded to the Lloyd's block and up to the spacious office of Mr. Francis Yelverton on the second floor. When they were seated around his desk in a corner by one of the tall windows, cigars and glasses before them, the assistant manager (one of a large number in the association) smilingly asked:

"What has the Antwerfer Syndicate been going into now? Must be something rather sizable to fetch three of you here together— eh? By the way— how many are there on your board— anyhow?"

"Counting those in other cities, you mean?"

"I mean on the board itself. Of course you'll have quite a number of branch managers."

"There were twelve— until Marlin died, and Worpoel resigned. We've not filled their places as yet. Er— Mr. Yelverton, if it's a fair question, are you people carrying much on Cornelius Vandersteyn of Capetown? Of course I'm not asking for definite amounts— just wish to know if you might consider another policy on him?"

YELVERTON pushed a button under the edge of his desk, scribbled two words on a pad— and handed the bit of paper to the clerk who came hurrying in. "I can answer that question in just a few minutes, Mr. Jorner. Meanwhile— what's the story?"

"Well—you wouldn't have time to read up on mining notes down at the Cape— possibly have only a general idea as to who the chap is. Not the sort of man to attract attention— quiet, keeps his affairs to himself, but has a much wider lot of interests than is generally known, with a genius for organization. Sometimes a bit unscrupulous in his methods, I fancy— but generally successful. Recently he's been fighting a mining-claim suit in 'Jo'burg'— title has just been passed by the courts in his favor; the other parties have appealed. Won't do them any good because Vandersteyn's evidence is too strong to shake and covers a much larger claim than the one in dispute, which is but a corner of it. But those other claimants are sore enough to shoot him, now— and they'll be more vindictive when they lose the appeal. If he lives, he'll develop the claims and merge them in a syndicate with much larger holdings, in which we are heavily interested.

"Now— if Vandersteyn dies, many of his enterprises, being still in a formative condition, will go to smash an' quite possibly drag down everything else he has. His estate will have no money to keep on defending these mining claims in litigation— chances are the other claimants may eventually get them. Point is, if Vandersteyn remains alive and keeps developing his enterprises, we stand to make a safe and handsome profit. If he dies— we'll lose over a quarter of a million before we can pull out."

"How well do you know Vandersteyn?" Yelverton asked.

"None of us have even met the man, as far as I know. We sunk a lot of money in those other mining-claims which are being merged on the reports of first-class engineers in whom we have the utmost confidence— and the four of them swear by Vandersteyn— say he's by way of bein' a wizard at organization. So we've backed their opinion of him still further until we're pretty heavily involved if anything should happen to the man. It occurred to us that we'd best look for a bit of cover, if such a thing were obtainable."

The clerk returned with a slip of paper which he handed to Yelverton.

"Hmph!....I fancied," observed the Lloyd's man, "when you first mentioned Vandersteyn, that we must have written a stiffish sum on him— he's not so well known, as yet, but we naturally have the available data. As a matter of fact, however, we haven't a penny on the chap. How much would you wish to carry on him?"

"H-m-m— we really should be covered as far as possible— somewhere around a quarter-million, I'd say."

"For how long?"

"Well— I don't see how that claim-suit could drag along for more than a year— prob'bly settled in six or eight months. And the other enterprises in which we are int'rested ought to be on a more or less solid foundation in that time. Say— nine months."

"Natural death, of course— that's understood. We know he's a healthy risk, from the fact that a good American company has issued two five-year policies on him."

"Suppose he's shot or knifed in Rhodesia— poisoned in London or Paris? A 'natural death' policy would leave us exactly where we are now, plus the loss of your premiums— in the soup. You can see for yourself, Mr. Yelverton, that that sort of policy doesn't int'rest us in the least."

"Well— in your peculiar circumst'nces, no— it wouldn't. Of course, the whole question is merely one of price for the accommodation. 'Natural death' would cost you but a very reasonable amount per thousand. If you must have a 'Death from any cause' policy, it will cost you sixty thousand pounds for nine months on a quarter-million. Or— I'll make you another proposition which may seem a better gamble: A three-months' policy for twenty-five thousand— and we'll renew it twice at the same rate."

Jorner and Braunfels considered this a moment. Tooley was shaky inside but didn't show it. He really hadn't dreamed it would be as easy as this— couldn't believe it yet. Braunfels spoke up:

"Yess —t'e t'ree mont's wass a better proposition. Mebbe t'ings wass secure enough in t'ree or six mont's so we don't haf to renew—so we save fifty or twenty- fife t'ousand. When couldt we haf der policy, Mr. Yelverton? Der check for twenty-fife t'ousand, we couldt gif you now, on t'e Bank of Enklandt."

"Why— if we happen to have the proper blank form in this department, at the moment, I fancy I can have it ready for you in half an hour, Mr. Braunfels. The assistant treasurer will be in the building till five."

Upon the evening after they obtained the Vandersteyn policy, Jorner and Smith were locked in the private study of Braunfels' luxurious apartment, discussing the proposition with him.

"When do you figure that policy should be collectable, Jorner?"

"Well— I fancy this will surprise you abit: In about four months from now."

"But— dammit all— that'll cost us another twenty-five thousand!"

"Much more comfortable paying it than having our necks stretched, I fancy. Trouble with you chaps is that you don't stop to study the psychology of a prop- osition. Suppose Vandersteyn is done in within a month or two. Who benefits most by his death? The Antwerfer Syndicate—more than all others put together! It's recalled at once that we wouldn't consider a 'natural death' policy. We certainly wouldn't be paid until our actions for two months have been sifted down to hard-pan— limelight full on us— newspapers clamoring for our conviction on circumstantial evidence. So much for that! Suppose he's killed a few days before the policy runs out? We're in even a worse light. It would be said that we struck in time to save that next payment. On the other hand— suppose we make that payment in good faith? That acts just as strongly the other way— in our favor. Twenty-five thousand pounds is no piffling sum to pay out for insurance on a man we don't know. If our object was killing the man to get the insurance, why should we pay an' waste that extra twenty-five thousand? If we're actually payin' it to cover our investments in case of accident to him, it's exactly what we would do! That extra premium is really the best alibi we possibly could have!"

"My word! That's good reasoning, Jorner! We'll pay it. And— er— afterward? Eh? Who were you figuring upon to make the policy collectable?"

"M-well— looks rather like a call for volunteers— not? My 'hawk-face' is much too striking for any successful disguise, and I've done all the work that's been done up to now. Tooley looks too much like a horse anywhere you put him, and his nerve goes to pieces in anything really dangerous. You couldn't disguise Braunfels, here, so that he wouldn't be spotted— unless he dieted for a few years. Of course we can hire the job done— but that seems to me too big a risk: we'd hang just the same if our tools turned King's evidence."

"Hmph! Fancy Bloch an' I had best take the job on. It shouldn't be either diffic'lt or risky if handled properly— with careful attention to details. Aye— we'll look after that end of it."

On the day before the first policy expired an appointment was made with Yelverton, at Lloyd's— with the understanding that a new policy would be made out, ready for any of the syndicate who called that afternoon. And then it was that Sir Edward Coffin came upon the scene.

A remarkable man, Sir Edward! A distinguished and exciting career as an officer in the merchant marine was behind him; he'd acquired considerable wealth and had retired— and had been so bored by inaction that he'd taken on a sort of free-lance job as special investigator for Lloyd's. Now at two in the afternoon Sir Edward came swinging along the street and started up the steps of Lloyd's just as a man with a news-camera in one hand came out.

"WHY, hullo, Billy!" exclaimed Sir Edward. "Who the dickens have you been shooting this time? I thought Lloyd's were immune from journalistic persecution ?"

"They very nearly are, Sir Edward. But they have birds of rare shape and lumage coming in to see them every ttle while. I've been having a word or two with one of the latest South African promoters, this Vandersteyn chap. He doesn't talk much, but what he does say is worth remembering. Hullo!.... Who are these four coming up in that big car? Hmph! Some of the Antwerfer Syndicate! Now I wonder what the devil they are insuring with Lloyd's? Chap getting out is Jorner— an' Braunfels after him. Evidently Smith an' Bloch are going to wait in the car."

"Who did you say those fellows are in the car?"

"Brandon Smith an' Simon Bloch— both on the board of the Antwerfer Syndicate."

"Here, Billy— come along in with me! Before those other two get into the lift— hurry! I'd like to know who the devil they're going to see in this building. Idle curiosity, of course— and yet, if they're on the same board as those other two in the car—well, I'm interested."

"Why?"

"Tell you later— come along into that lift with 'em!"

The Baronet waved his hand to the lift-starter to hold the car until they got aboard.

They all got out upon the second floor— Jorner and Braunfels sauntering along to Yelverton's door, which they opened and entered. Sir Edward Coffin and Saunderson of the Daily News went on to a window-recess at the end of the corridor, whence they could see the other two when they came out.

"Now, Billy— just sketch for me what is generally known and what you personally know of this Antwerfer Syndicate— its activities and its personnel."

Saunderson did so— briefly, but conveying more condensed information than the Baronet could have obtained elsewhere.

"I still don't quite catch your interest in this lot, Sir Edward— though I'll admit they swim pretty deep."

"WELL, you said those men in the car were Smith and Bloch— been known by those names as directors of this syndicate in London for several years. Now, I have the little peculiarity of never forgetting the face of any person whom I've had occasion to glance at closely or talk with. Sometimes, it takes me a while to place them exactly or remember their names. But sooner or later I recall everything I ever knew about them— and in the course of many years on passenger-craft at sea, I've met a pretty sizable slew of folks. You say those men have been known here in London by the names you gave for ten or twelve years'at least. I say that not over seven years ago they were on my boat in the Indian Ocean bound from the Cape to Singapore under the names Bradford and Strumer— Smith wearing a Van Dyck, Bloch with a heavy mustache, instead of being clean-shaved. Now— what's the answer? Do these other directors know anything about that? Is there something fishy about the whole outfit— or only those two? The activities of that syndicate appear to need more explaining— to me."

"Quite sure about those two men, are you?"

"Absolutely. Talked with both— a number of times. You understand, of course, that I'm not making any affidavit on the stand."

"Oh, you know you're safe in anything you say to me, Sir Edward. Your interest in those chaps is a bit puzzling— that's all. Their bein' under assumed names has a somewhat fishy look— an' yet there's nothing criminal in it. Lots of men do that sort of thing for perfectly good reasons of their own. Say this syndicate wishes quietly to buy up certain properties in the Orient without being traced in the matter. If they try to do it through agents, there's always risk of a leak. If two of their board go out to do it, there's too much chance of their being recognized. But with diffrent names an' appearance, they transact the business without being spotted and keep all information of the details among themselves. How do they or their syndicate concern you?"

"Billy— you newspaper men are too damn' inquisitive! I can't really say at present whether this Antwerfer Syndicate touches in any way upon affairs in which I'm int'rested—but from what I know of those two men— well— it might. You happen to be flush at the moment? Journalism pay you well enough to be snooty about money ?"

"Not impossibly so, I fancy. I do nothing but special stuff for the Daily News—usually clean up eight or nine hundred a year—sometimes more. How much do you need, old chap?"

"Oh, I'm not borrowing— thanks. I was just wondering if you'd care to undertake a little commission for me without much trouble in it for your A hundred pounds now— another hundred if you get what I want."

"Well— I'm insulted, naturally; but I can overlook that sort of insult at least once every day. What do you want done?"

"I want to know exactly how many directors there are on the syndicate board— names, residences, all you can dig up concerning them. Addresses of the syndicate branches in other cities and how much of a staff they maintain in each. Snapshots of each director— as good ones as you can possibly get. Snapshots of their offices— don't care how or when you get them. Are you on?"

"Rather! I'll put in the rest of the afternoon on it. Where can I report to you?"

"I've just taken an apartment in Kensington— here are both the telephone- and street-numbers. And my butler usually knows when I'll be at home."

AFTER Saunderson left him, Sir Edward stepped to the door of Yelverton's offices. His secretary picked up her desk-phone and then, with a smile, nodded for him to go on into the private office.

"Hello, Frank!"

"Glad to see you, Ned! I fancied you'd possibly come in on the Berengaria if you finished up in New York before she sailed. Lookin' pretty fit, too. Well — I suppose you'll be down in Devon a while, now?"

"That was the intention— but every time I get back in this town, it seems as though some fresh complication was lay- ing forme. By the way—have you written a policy for the Antwerfer Syndicate recently ?"

"Why— aye. That's to say— we just renewed one for 'em this afternoon. Friends of yours?"

"Never even heard of the concern until today; but I know two of their board. What sort of policy are they carrying? Mining development?"

"No. One of the 'freak policies.' "

"Meaning ?"

"Insuring a chap you don't know, to cover your investm'nts in his comp'nies —in case anything happens to him."

"UMPH! How much does their investment run to?" Coffin asked.

"Quarter of a million, in this case."

"Holy cats! Say— wait a minute, Frank! Let me get this straight. If this man, whom they don't even know, dies from natural causes, depreciating his various enterprises, you're going to pay that syndicate a quarter of a million, sterling? Eh?"

"Er— quite so— if he dies from any cause whatsoever. Policy runs three months— we get twenty-five thousand— an' the same amount each time we renew it?"

"But— dammit all— that makes the chap cost 'em twenty-five thousand for every three months he stays alive— but pays 'em quarter of a million as soon as he's dead! Are you people crazy? Why— you're making 'em a straight out-and- out offer of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds to murder the man!"

"Aye, it runs to that— if they can get away with it. Of course, you'll understand that we don't pay a penny in the case of murder until the murderer is caught, tried an' convicted— or at least until it is definitely proved that the beneficiaries were in no possible way implicated."

"Hmph! Yes— that protects you somewhat. But suppose the man dies by some accident which might have been murder but which can't be proved?"

"There's a special clause in the policy covering just that point. In such a case, we have eighteen months to conduct our own investigations before paying."

"And if he turns up missing— indefinitely ?"

"Then we don't pay until the courts declare the man legally dead— anywhere from two to five years."

"I suppose that sort of policy isn't issued very often?"

"Oh, bless my soul! They're written every week or two, by a number of assurance associations— an' a lot of other queer ones besides. Why, only yesterday I wrote off twenty thousand pounds on the feet of a famous dancer in Paris, of which she'd never see a penny in case anything happened to 'em— policy taken out by her manager. Fortunately for the girl, she's carrying ten thousand pounds on 'em herself in one of the French mutuals— got the policy at a very low rate, too, as a matter of patriotism.

"But in regard to this Antwerfer policy: it appears to be absolutely straight. They've just renewed it and paid a second twenty-five thousand pounds—which you'll admit is not a trifling sum to throw away unnecess'r'ly. If they had any idea of murdering the chap, they'd never have wasted this second paym'nt— they'd have done him in a month ago. Prob'ly we'd have obtained evidence against 'em an' canceled the policy on the ground of attempt to defraud— outside of the murder-charge altogether."

"Who's the man they insured?"

"Cornelius Vandersteyn— of Capetown."

"Vandersteyn— Vandersteyn? Where the deuce have I heard that name re- cently? H-m-m— oh, yes, Saunderson, of course! Why— Cornelius Vandersteyn must be in the building at this moment! At least, he was a few minutes ago. Billy Saunderson had just been interviewing him."

"Quite likely. I saw by the papers that he was expected in London about this time. Good chance for your syndicate friends to do him in if they contemplate anything of the sort."

"There I don't agree with you, Frank. Too many chances of being seen and caught, here— too much certainty of one's movements being traced for weeks before. If I were in Vandersteyn's position, knowing what we do, I'd sleep soundly in London without much worry over being killed. Well— of course my only interest in the matter is as far as it might concern Lloyd's, and you seem to consider that policy no more risky than most of your others based upon the law of averages. I may be in town for a while before running down to Devon— so I'll probably drop in occasionally."

COFFIN, after leaving, went to the big library and reference-room in another part of the building. Here he spent an hour searching through foreign directories and making notes of the results. When he left the building, he sent. messages in code to friends in Hamburg, Capetown and Johannesburg. After reaching his apartment, he put through a telephone-call to the junior partner in a well-known New York banking and brokerage house— catching this gentleman just after his return from lunch. When the New York Exchange closed, an hour later, the banker put through a return-call to Sir Edward, who was just finishing dinner in his apartment at eight o'clock. And when this conversation was over, Saunderson was on the wire to know if he could come around at once. When the two were comfortably Sohne in the living-room, Sir Edward said:

"Suppose I tell you a few things about the Antwerfer Syndicate first, Billy—and then you can give me your story? Eh?"

SAUNDERSON nodded— somewhat in surprise.

"First— their office doors say that they have branches in Hamburg, New York and Jo'burg— with some implication of others elsewhere. Well— unless those other branches happen to be independent concerns under other names, merely acting occasionally as their agents, which I consider very unlikely— there are no such branches in existence. Their syndicate or its operations appears to be entirely unknown in each of those three cities. No operations of theirs are known at the Cape or in Rhodesia."

Saunderson nodded.

"Good work, old chap! You've beaten me on two of those points— but my man at the Cape wasn't in position to give me a quick answer, and you didn't suggest any New York telephoning. Along some other lines, I got one or two bits which you didn't— had another talk with Vandersteyn, for one— asked him about that mine-litigation story you phoned me as having come from the Antwerfer crowd. He said the suit was decided in his favor six months ago, that no appeal was made, and that he finally sold out to the men who had been suing him. There was never any idea of a merger with other claims, and he's definitely out of the whole business. I also persuaded him, in confidence, to mention all the larger shareholders in his various enterprises— and the Antwerfer Syndicate wasn't among 'em."

"Hmph! My hunch when I saw your friends Smith and Bloch in that car wasn't so far out of the way after all, Billy. We've practically got right down to the cold fact that the syndicate haven't a shilling's interest in any of Vandersteyn's enterprises— that the only six directors of whom anybody knows are presumable crooks— that the respectable standing and vast operations of the syndicate are pure moonshine, and that whatever activities they are engaged in are presumably on the shady side. Well— what's the answer?"

Saunderson moved uneasily in his chair— shivering a little, as he lighted a fresh cigar.

"A quarter of a million, sterling, reward for cold-blooded, premeditated murder! That's pretty rotten— what? Thing we'd best do at once is warn Vandersteyn to hire a bodyguard without wasting much time!"

"Wouldn't do a particle of good! A bodyguard won't stop a bullet from a rifle or pistol with a silencer on its muzzle— or a knife-thrust on a crowded side-walk in the evening. If somebody's out to kill you, a suit of plate armor is a lot more to the point than a bodyguard. One thing that would protect the man would be the instant cancellation of that policy— but Lloyd's are not in position to do that; they legally can't!"

"With all this evidence an' proof we've raked up?"

"Circumstantial evidence— not proof. The syndicate has paid fifty thousand pounds in cash for a quarter-million if Vandersteyn dies from any cause what- soever. Lloyd's have accepted the money and written the policy. Vandersteyn isn't dead— they certainly can't cancel the policy until he is and fraud is proved. We've absolutely no proof that the syn- dicate intends to commit murder— if we had, we couldn't do anything until they do commit it. They can say that their real reason for taking out that policy was a private one which business reasons prevented their giving— and offered a fictitious explanation instead. How can you prove that a lie? Looks to me as if I have some moral obligation to see if I can't protect Vandersteyn until we do get proof enough to cancel that policy— and, by thunder, I'm going to do what I can, Billy! I was figuring upon taking a month or two off in Devon, but I guess I don't get it for a while! I suppose he wouldn't have said anything to you about when he expects to leave for the Cape?"

"WHY— yes, he did— upon the distinct understanding it must not get into print. As a matter of fact, we rather took a fancy to each other when we first met in Lloyd's this afternoon. He's supposed to be in the United Kingdom for another month at least— actually, he's sailing on the Arundel Castle next week."

"And those cursed murderers are sure to get that information in some way or other! It's precisely the chance they've been waiting for! All right— I'll book on that boat myself!"

"I say! Look here, Sir Edward! If any crime is actually pulled off, it strikes me that Lloyd's should have all the eyewitness proof they can possibly get. What? An' if that syndicate can be implicated, it's a whale of a scoop for the Daily News! My arrangement with the sheet is diff'rent from that of the ord'n'ry newspaper man. I go an' come as I please— around the world, if it seems promising in the news line— an' I'm paid by what I cable in— paid very well in most cases. Nothing to prevent my bein' on that boat myself. An' I might come in handy; you never can tell. What?"

"That'll be topping, Billy! I'll take a communicating suite for us—two rooms with a bath between— and keep our names off the passenger-list."

AS Coffin's name didn't appear upon the saloon-list, the Baronet was considerably surprised to find himself seated at the captain's right— until that bluff shipmaster came below for dinner. He had been mate under Coffin in his last boat, and had subsequently gone over from the Brock Line to the Union Castle. On his left was a very agreeable gen- tleman whom he introduced as Mr. Cornelius Vandersteyn— who proved to be much the same type as the other two— a man who had seen a good deal of rough life before, during and after the World War, a man who more than once had been scared until his teeth chattered but carried on just the same. Saunderson had been placed farther down the table— but a hint to the chief steward moved him up next to them, as he was an acquaintance of Vandersteyn's and there happened to be no tin celebrities to be placated.

"Sparks," as they found out later, was another old shipmate of the Baronet's— so they were made free of the wireless-house which was a Union-Castle service not controlled by the Marconi Company. Not knowing what they might be up against before reaching Capetown, Coffin gave Fessenden enough of Vandersteyn's sit- uation to impress the chief operator with the man's danger. Then he turned to Saunderson, who had accompanied them up to the wireless-house and asked if he had spotted any of the Antwerfer direc- tors on board. The journalist was amazed at the question.

"My word! No! Did you fancy any of that lot could possibly be with us, Sir Edward?"

"Your friends Smith and Bloch are in the saloon, Billy. I told you they'd wangle the information about his departure in some way— and they did. Now we'll have our work cut out for us!  I've given Cap'n Merrifield enough of the story to show him what Vandersteyn's up against. Every steward and officer on the boat has orders to keep an eye on the man and on those two rotters as well—"

"But—-which of the saloon lot are they, old chap? I've seen nobody re- sembling them!"

"YOU wouldn't— for they're just the average type in which any slight change produces a marked individuality of another sort altogether. Smith is now Budminster— an Anglican clergyman two stone heavier, apparently, with a fuller face and mutton-chop whiskers. Bloch is now Von Blitz— Prussian ex- officer, hair en brosse, thick-lensed spectacles slightly tinted, mustache with upturned ends. Have they been using the radio, Fessenden?"

"Aye— but only with the sort of messages you'd expect 'em to send. Budminster, to his wife in a Surrey rectory— mostly about his cough and underwear. Von Blitz, to officers in a Hamburg service club about commissions on selling motorcars at the Cape."

"Exactly. Code, of course. I'm betting you could heave a cat from that 'Surrey rectory' into Smith's house below Sydenham. His butler will be phoning his messages to the other one in Jorner's West End flat. When do we make Funchal?"

"Tomorrow afternoon— prob'ly late."

"Well— those rotters won't try anything tonight because they haven't had time to get the lay of the boat and figure out what they can do easiest. When they do start something you can gamble they'll have every move laid out to meet any contingency— and they'll prove damned quick workers. The only advantage we have is the apparent impossibility of their suspecting what we know in any way. There has been nothing to direct their attention toward me or Saunderson— particularly, when they're confident we couldn't penetrate their disguise if we did know anything about 'em."

"I say, Sir Edward! Knowing they're disguised— knowing what you do about 'em— why isn't there enough to justify the Cap'n in heaving 'em into the brig until we reach the Cape?"

"There is— plenty! But how does that get us any proof that they mean to kill Vandersteyn? We haven't anything to hold 'em on, at Capetown. A man has a right to disguise himself if he feels like it— nothing really criminal in that alone. They go ashore— Van goes ashore— and he's in more danger than ever. But once we catch 'em in any criminal act on board this boat, we've got 'em where they can't wriggle out— and we've got that damned syndicate too. My impression is they'll pick a night or two before we reach Las Palmas."

As it happened, Vandersteyn had the three-room suite just across the little side passage opposite Coffin's room— and before turning in that night, had come across to offer the Baronet some prime whisky. In a few moments— when the outer doors had been locked and Coffin had taken three little bundles from his steamer-trunk— the three of them, including Billy Saunderson, were in the bathroom between, and Sir Edward was telling the Cape man what he was up against.

"It would be pretty hot wearing one of these things in the daytime, Vander- steyn— but I want you to put the thing on as soon as it gets dark and wear it all night— and every night— until those scoundrels start something. You won't believe it until you've seen the thing done— but I fired a forty-four bullet point- blank at each one of these vests and it didn't go even half through. Saunderson and I will wear the other two. Then we'll be protected against knife or bullet unless we're hit in the head. I think I've got the glimmerings of a workable scheme in my head, but haven't figured it out yet. Oh!.... By the way! We're likely to have some rainy nights before we make Las Palmas, this time of year— and I suppose you'll have fetched along a mackintosh— eh?"

"Bought two good ones in London the day before we left."

"Does either of 'em happen to have a rather loud or striking pattern?"

The Cape man laughed.

"Rather! That's the one my valet was sore about— but it tickled my fancy and I bought it. Somewhat the fancy- dress- ball effect, but everybody is wearing 'sport clothes' in these days."

"Hmph!... That's bully. Really a bit of topping luck— I'm beginning to see my way clearer. I want you to wear that rain-coat whenever there's the least excuse for it— parade around in it until everybody on board knows who it belongs to! Will you do that?"

"Why— of course— if there's any object in it. You've been mighty decent about telling me what I'm up against, Sir Edward— naturally, I'll do anything you say!"

When Vandersteyn had left them, Saunderson asked:

"What's your idea as to what those rotters will prob'ly do?"

"Study his habits until they know exactly the times of day and night when he's likely to be on any of the decks alone— particularly, the boat-deck— at night. Then lay for him— plug him a few times, with silencers on their guns— heave him over the rail while he's helpless from the shots. That's the one propo- sition in which they'll be least likely to be caught or even seen."

"But suppose he makes a point of never going about the decks alone— especially at night? He'd be a bally ass to do it!"

"But he's going to, all the same— I'll see that he does, and we'll be near enough to protect him. You haven't caught the idea yet, Billy! That's the one scheme I want them to try— rather than some other I can only guess at."

"H-m-m—fancy I'm beginning to get it. My word!"

H' Smith and Bloch any suspicion whatever that they were known as directors of the Antwerfer Syndicate in spite of their disguises, they wouldn't have made a move against the promotor that voyage— there would not have been a scrap of evidence against them—and it is entirely possible that they would have managed to kill him within another month. The two were full of devilish resources and utterly unscrupulous. But they never dreamed of being suspected and matters began to look ridiculously favorable for their plans. Coffin's trap was an exceedingly clever one, though with considerable risk to himself. They walked squarely into it....

Two nights before the Arundel Castle was due at Las Palmas, it came on to rain— a fine drizzle which was scarcely more than heavy fog. Vandersteyn had been wearing his loud-patterned rain- coat about the boat until he was thoroughly identified with it. Some time after dinner, he and Coffin went up to chat with Fessenden in the wireless-house on the boat-deck. Saunderson— who had been watching the two masqueraders in the smoke-room— saw them quietly go out, and below to their staterooms. He was close enough behind to hear one of them pull a steamer-trunk out from under the berth and take something from it. That being all he wanted to know, he hurried up to Captain Merrifield's cabin abaft the wheel-house where he found the mate, who came down on the boat-deck with him— one concealing himself behind a boat on the starboard side and the other on the port. In a moment, they dimly made out the figures of Smith and Bloch, who leaned over the rail where nobody would have noticed them.

Presently, the door of the wireless-house opened, widely. Vandersteyn's conspicuous rain-coat appeared in the glow from inside— then the door closed and the figure could be dimly seen making its way forward to the companionway. Suddenly— Bloch and Smith ran out, blazing into it with automatics which made no sound louder than a cough. As the figure staggered toward the opening between the two boats on the port side, they gave it a powerful shove which sent it through— but not before the finger-nails of one hand caught Smith's cheek and tore bloody furrows across it. Then the figure toppled over the rail and disappeared. They didn't go to the rail to look— but went quietly down to the "A'-Deck where they heard a powerful voice shouting: "Man overboard! Man overboard!"

In the rain and darkness, the figure of the presumably dying man caught at the rope from one of the boat-falls as he went over the side— slid down it to the deck below— swung inboard until he landed in the gangway— tore off the mackintosh and cap, which he flung overboard— and then ran forward, shouting: "Man overboard!"

As the two would-be murderers went down the companion, the mate ran up on the bridge— threw over the engine-room telegraph to "Stop"— "Back down." A boat was lowered. After half an hour's search, Vandersteyn's rain-coat was found and fetched aboard— but no police official or news-reporter ever got a glimpse of it— the thing was perforated with six bullet-holes.

IN Sir Edward's stateroom, shortly after midnight, when a muffled passenger had been admitted, he got out a theatrical make-up box and proceeded to alter Vandersteyn's map until he didn't know himself in the mirror— and it wasn't a matter of grease-paint either. An Oriental drug was injected under the skin until certain muscles began to swell— his hair was close-cropped— his Van Dyck shaved off. Saunderson had obtained his measure from his London tailor and had fetched along three suits of different cloth and color from anything he had worn. His valet was sent ashore with his luggage at Las Palmas and the metamorphosed "Mr. Boemer" came aboard as a new passenger with other luggage for the voyage to the Cape. Smith and Bloch were thrown off-guard by the fact that Vandersteyn's loss at sea had been sent out by the radio at once— the London, Cape and Las Palmas papers were full of it. So they never thought of suspecting the supposed "Mr. Boemer."

In the seclusion of the Captain's cabin that night, Vandersteyn expressed his intention of staying "dead" a month at least.

"My agents will have their secret advices, of course, so it'll do no harm to any of my enterprises. And I'm thinking of taking up that Rhodesian proposition which interested the Antwerfer Syndicate so greatly that they were going to sacrifice an 'innocent bystander' without a qualm. I've an impression I can so manipulate that as to bleed those scoundrels of every penny they've got. Seems rather the proper thing to do— not?"

No suggestion was made as to arresting Smith and Bloch when they left at Capetown— apparently, nobody had any suspicion of what they had done. And after three months— needing their quarter-million very badly— Jorner and Braunfels called upon Yelverton in regard to their policy on Vandersteyn.

"Fancy I don't quite get it, gentlemen! That policy you mention expired two weeks ago, an' you said nothing whatever about renewing it."

"There was no reason for renewing it, Mr. Yelverton— we've come here to collect on it. Vandersteyn was lost at sea from the Arundel Castle nearly three months ago. There has been no question whatever as to the fact—but we've given you these months to check up in every possible way—"

"An' you mean to tell me that you gentlemen were taken in by that press-men's cock-an'-bull yarn? My word! Nothing to it— not a thing! Pure moonshine! Vandersteyn's not dead! Why, demmit all, he was here in this room an hour ago— lunched with me— healthiest appetite I ever saw for a ghost! Nons'nse, man— nons'nse!

________________

19: It Couldn't be Done

C. S. Montanye

1892-1948

The Green Book Magazine May 1919

"GRACIE," I says to friend wife, "I have now got some news for you which is about fifty-fifty good and bad. In other words, Nick White— same bein' in charge of the shootin' of Robin's latest fillum— has said the last two reels of it has got to be shot down in that Palm Beach place!"

Gracie thinks it over for a coupla minutes, and then begins to laugh, like I had told her the one about the chorus-girl and the mosquito.

"Ed, this is really a joke, and I can see where both Carrie and Joe figure to cut an awful piece of graft. If you say Palm Beach to them, they will stick closer to you than a one-armed beggar lookin' for car-fare."

It was my turn to laugh.

"Yeh? Well they wont do no such thing! I have got somethin' up my sleeve besides my arm, and if Joe wants to grab an angle on where we is bound, he is gonna hear the locations are up around the North Pole, where it is so cold that it is about ninety degrees in the shade! Just because Carrie is your sister and didn't have enough sense to marry a man and not no furniture-dealer, is no reason I and you should cart them down South, givin' them the best of everythin' without the cost of a nickel to them. Simply havin' them layin' around this flat, Joe findin' my cigars no matter where I hides them, is bad enough. Not for love nor for money is they gonna graft a free trip off of me! You can tie that!"

Friend wife sighs.

"You is right, of course, Ed," she says, "and it is pretty foxy of you to make out we is goin' some place where we is not. But"— she comes through with another sigh— "you know Joe. Leave it to him to find out all about it. He is worser than a mind-reader when he gets goin'!"

I gets up and strolls across the new Chink rug I give Gracie on her most recent birthday, and which cost me practically nothin— a mere three thousand bucks. After I treated myself to a view of the Palisades, I goes back to Gracie, who is knittin' somethin' that looks like a hammock.

"Listen," I tells her. "Joe will have to be better'n any mind-reader to get the dope on this. And here is why: They is only three people in all the world, includin' Flatbush, what knows about it: Ted Gavin, what framed the scenario; Nick White; and you. I don't count myself in, as accordin' to your relatives and everybody else I'm only a dummy. Ted and Nick are both so quiet when it comes to handin' out information that they make Lynnhavens green with jealousy. Let him try to find out and see where he comes out!"

"When do we leave?" Gracie asks.

"Sometime aroun' the end of the month. Nick has shot a coupla reels already; we is only waitin' now for Jerry Davis to wire us from Florida that he is grabbed good locations."

Friend wife don't say nothin' for at least five minutes, the same bein' almost a world record for her, and then she begins to wrinkle up her nose like she used to do when the movies was in their infancy and when she was the Custard Pie Queen and me her camera-man, draggin' down a weekly insult of twenty-five bucks every Saturday night.

"Ed," she chirps, after a while, "I hope you win out on this, but as you sometimes say on Election night— I doubt it!"

I busts out laughin'.

"I think I has done my bit toward your relatives. Here I is payin' Joe and Carrie's child the small sum of five hundred dollars per each week as an actor for my fillums, and both he and Carrie is gettin' their board and rent free. It don't take no Sherlock Holmes to see why I get sore every time I think of them spongin' off of us, and then knowin' they will try and trail along down to the South. Believe me, before they get away with this, I will have growed a beard like what was wore by old Rip Van Wrinkle!" I stops to laugh again. "Anyway, as I say before, they is positively no chance for the cat to get outta the bag!"

I has hardly got the words from my mouth, when the door busts open and into the room comes no less than my brother-in law Joe Simkins — accent on the first syllable of his last name — hisself.

"Ed," he hollers, "tell me what is all this I hear about you and Robin goin' to Palm Beach, Florida!"

Gracie lets out a yell and hides her face in the pillows of the sofa, while I leans over to pick up the cigar which had leaped outta my mouth.

"What do you mean— Palm Beach?" I snarls. "Who told you anythin' about it?"

"Ted Gavin," he says. "I and him was down at Coogan's for a little brew, and after Ted had gave a good home to six glasses of beer, he begun to talk about this here trip we is in' on!"

I has all I can do to keep myself from knockin' him, while Gracie keeps on makin' funny noises in the sofa-pillows.

"Listen," I says, calm as a bird when the doctor tells him it's twins. "Talk to me all you want, but leave aside this here we stuff! I'm sorry you has found out about the trip to the South— not that it will do you no good; but I'm glad I know what six glasses of beer, with alcohol next to nothin', can do to Gavin. I suppose had he drunken a cocktail, he would have told you the profits I dragged down last year!"

"You is gettin' away from the subject," Joe answers. "The question is— when do we leave? I want to slip in an order to your tailor for a dozen pairs of these here white pants."

Gracie, comin' outta the cushions for air, goes off again, while Joe grabs a slice of bacon off of the table, which I had forgot.

"Get this now," I tells Joe, still fightin' to keep my temper under control, and to keep from doin' somethin' I might regret. "You might as well know . this here now: Gracie, Robin and me is going; you and Carrie aint— unless you dig up the dough; and that lets you out."

Joe pays absolutely no attention to my words and begins to whistle a song.

"Palm Beach," he stops to say, "is the one place I long to see. They tell me it is somethin' on the order of Grand Rapids."

Gracie goes off in another fit while I help myself to a chair. Had it not been for his child, I would have taken a shot at him right then and there. It was only that what stayed my hand. Joe, although no one would ever believe it, is the father of a six- or seven-year-old son by name Edward Simpkins, named after me, but called Robin for short on account of his hoppin' aroun' so much, I guess. Joe and Carrie sends Robin to me and Gracie to care for, while they go to a furniture picnic or somethin', and through accident the boy gets into the movies, and in no time at all he is as well known as Lillian Russell, and the exhibitors is writin' me more letters in one day, for more pictures, than Mary Pickford gets in a week.

It was because Robin is such a card that I lets his parents lay aroun' the flat without doin' a tap. When you has a star what boosts your income tax every week, you can sometimes put up with stuff that otherwise would send them what wrote it to the hospital.

I thinks of all this while I sits in the chair, givin' Joe the up-and-down, and keepin' my hands in my pockets for the sake of safety first.

Just at that minute in breezes Carrie, Joe's fifty per cent better half.

"Gracie," she chirps, "haven't you got a book what shows the latest styles that is bein' worn this winter down at Palm Beach?"

"Maybe Ed knows where they is one layin' aroun'," Gracie laughs, slippin' me a wink.

Carrie comes over to me, and I slides behind Joe.

"Ed!" she says in a voice as soft as feathers. "How many people is goin' South with you, outside of them from the studio and little Edward?"

"Two," I yells. "Me and Gracie!"

Carrie draws herself up to her full height, which is five feet nothin'.

"If such be the case," she smiles, "I cannot allow Robin outta my sight. Goodness, I should be worried to death about him."

"You wasn't worried," I answers, "when you stuck him and the nurse on a rattler out in Grand Rapids with directions they should be flung off in New York."

"No," she snaps, "I wasn't worried then, because I knew they was no snakes or nothin' where he was goin'."

"Lay off that stuff!" I says. "The biggest snake in the world is right here now!"

Gracie, decidin' it is time to horn in on the conversation, gets up off of the sofa and comes aroun'.

"Have a heart, Carrie!" she begs. "What do you think my husband is, anyhow— the president of the subtreasury or somethin'? Or what? I suppose you think they is sellin' trips to Palm Beach for a dollar ninety-eight! Personally, also, I think Ed has gave you both enough charity to last about thirty-five years!"

"Yes," I yells, "the only thing I have not done for the pair of you is to buy Joe's furniture-store off of him!"

Carrie looks at Joe. He looks at the ceilin'.

"We wont argue," she says, fillin' her voice with this dignity thing. "Either we go, or Robin don't!"

I turns my back on her just as Robin bounces in on the arm of Miss Murphy, his nurse-girl.

"Runcle Ed!" my nephew hollers. "We was up to Bronnix Park, and we seen ephalents and monkeys what looked like Pop, an' everythin'."

He comes over to me for a kiss, payin' about as much attention to his old man and Carrie as the Allies pay to the demands of the late Kaiser. Carrie makes a grab for him, but he slips under the sofa and comes out with a pair of gum-drops with dust on 'em.

"Gimme that candy!" Joe hollers.

Instead of doin' it, little Edward ducks back under the sofa. While his parents drop down and begin to crawl in after him, I grabs my hat and beats it.

Outside in the hall I encounters Roger, my valet, a bird what grafts a livin' off of me by pickin' out my shirts in the mornin', turnin' on the water in the bathtub and tellin' me what clothes I should wear.

"Roger," I says, as he salutes me, "I wanna give you somethin'."

"Yes sir— thank you, sir," he answers, stickin' out his hand.

"It ain't money," I says. "It's advice! You're a single man. If you ever gets married, tumble for a dame what ain't got a sister married to a bird's-eye-maple fiend!"

Roger treats himself to a smile and bows, as the elevator comes up.

"Yes sir— thank you, sir," he says.

When I gets down to the studio of the Enterprise Comedy Fillum Co., which same is my own property, I was feelin' about as happy as a raincoat-manufacturer durin' a dry-spell. I busts into my private office, wavin' a coupla million job-hounds away, ready to take a fall outta anybody from Joe to Jess Willard.

No sooner I got seated at my desk, than in marches Miss Holliday, my private secretary, who is as full of curves as a fish-hook and as nice to look at as a new century note.

"Good morning," she says, tossing a coupla smiles over to me. "I hear you is goin' to Florida—"

I accidentally throws my collar and tie into the trash-basket and lets out a yell.

"Lay off of that stuff. The first one that says anythin' more about Palm Beach aroun' here can see the cashier and beat it! That goes!"

Miss Holliday keeps right on smilin'.

"Oh, pardon me," she murmurs. "I didn't know that was a forbidden subject with you."

"It is about as forbidden as booze will shortly be," I explains, beginnin' to roll up my sleeves. "You is forgave. Now just slip away and send Ted Gavin in to me, dead or alive!"

"I'll do just that!" she chirps, blowing out.

Well, in about ten minutes or so, the door opens again, anc in totters Ted Gavin, shakin' like a line full of wash on a windy day.

"Boss," he moans, "please don't be hard on me— I didn't wanna give away no secrets, but drink turned my mind!"

I laughs coldly.

"If you call imitation beer drink," I says, "I suppose bay rum would go to your head. How's that for a joke? But," I snarls, "all foolin' to one side, you has got me into a peach of a fix, and it's up to you to get me outta it!"

He goes to the window and gives the view the double-o. Then he comes over to my desk and almost lays on it.

"Boss," he whines, "I oughta get canned, I know, but have a little pity. Every one of us has human failin's. Redeye is my particular curse."

"Redeye," I tells him, "will get you a black eye if you spill any more of this here information stuff. No, Gavin, I'm not gonna can you— I'm gonna do worse than that. I'm gonna make you write all over them last two reels. Instead of Palm Beach, you're gonna make the sets somewhere else. Get that?"

Fear and surprise, also misery, is wrote all over his map, and he lets out a groan that sounded like a tire goin' bad.

"Anythin' but that!" he pleads. "Why, you is ruinin' my masterpiece! Them Florida sets are knockouts!"

"Yeah!" I cries. "Knockouts is right— knock them out!"

He begs for mercy and digs up a tear or two, but I'm hard as the Huns in Belgium, and when he sees they is nothin' doin', he pulls hisself together and creeps to the door.

"I'll do it," he moans. "But it will bust my heart!"

"If you don't do it," I answers, "it will bust your contract. Now be on your way and fix them new scenes up different. When they is complete, I will cast my now— ah— eagle eye across them. Make it snappy, kid. Nick will wanna begin shootin' around the end of the month."

His answer is nothin', and he slunk away like a prize-fighter what has got the worst of it. I laughs as he goes. Gavin thinks as much of his scenarios as a chorus-girl does of her looks, and to have to dope them all over again affects him worser than a pet corn.

Once he is gone, I sends for Nick White, Robin's director, and a bird what can find a laugh in an ambulance and put it over for the screen so the movie - fans will fall outta their seats, laughin'. When he comes in, I waves him into a chair and breaks the news gently.

"Nick," I begins, "no more than five minutes ago, more or less, I told Ted Gavin to change the locations for the last two reels of Robin's new picture. I don't know where he is goin' to lay them, but they wont be in Florida or near it! So far, so good— as the bird says when he's climbin' Pike's Peak! Here's the idea: no matter where the scenes is laid, I want you to make out we is still due to travel down to the land of alligators, thin yellow suits and rollin' chairs. Understan'! If my brother-in-law or his wife or anyone asks you where we is goin'— say Palm Beach and stick to it like mad. I can trust you, can't I?"

He nods.

"From a nickel to a million! It's too bad," he sighs. "We gotta give up the trip, but of course you is the boss, and not me!"

I takes a slant at my clock and touches a button for Miss Holliday.

"Listen," I tells her when she appears, "I and Nick is goin' downstairs to take a look at what is already finished of my little nephew's fillum. If Robin and his nurse, Miss Murphy, comes here durin' my absence, shoot them down and don't not let them lay aroun' this office."

She promises. Then she slips Nick a wink what she thinks I don't oversee, and we goes out. Downstairs in the studio they is great confusion, owin' to some rats used in Robin's picture escapin' and scarin' the gals stiff. Pete, our animal-man, is roundin' them up one by one, as we goes in and gets a flash of our star, Miss Norma Beautiful, settin' on top of a stepladder and makin' out she is posin' for one of these here hosiery ads.

"Ed," she screams, "my contract don't call for gettin' scared to pieces by wild rats! If you don't furnish me with protection, I'll go over to the Sunbeams!"

Nick begins laughin' at this while Pete chases the last rat into a burlap bag and marches out, grinnin'.

"It is funny, Norma," Nick says, "how, after foolin' with wild lions and the like, you should be afraid of a few harmless rodents whose teeth are all wore out. I am ashamed of you. I thought you was as hard.as fifteen cents' worth of nails!"

Norma pulls down her skirt and comes back to earth.

"I wasn't chased up there by rodents," she says, comin' down off of the ladder. "I was chased up by rats!"

Nick laughs like she was pullin' a new joke or somethin', and then the three of us busts into the room where the first showin' of our fillums is made at.

"The boss is down here!" Nick bawls to Steve Clancy, our operator. "Give us all of 'The Heir to the Throne' you has got, and don't loose no time doin' it!"

Well, it didn't take no Foch or Napoleon to understan' 'The Heir to the Throne' is a whale of a picture from the first scene. In it Child Edward is at his best, which is about the same as sayin' the Giants is back to form; Norma looks as good as a million dollars; and Larry Keegan, our best comedian, is as funny as a souse on ice-skates. Lightin' and direction couldn't be beat, and the sets in themselves is enough to make all our imitators tear out their hair by the handfuls.

The story what Gavin doped out is laid in one of these here toy kingdoms in the Balkans Mountains. It is called Bumsyl- vania. Keegan is cast as the king of the place, Norma is the queen, and Robin is their child, bein' known as Prince Augustus. In the first reel my little namesake shows off some of his best tricks, such as swipin' the king's crown and using it for a hoop, fallin' into the royal moat— a ditch full of water— and foolin' aroun' with the royal animals.

Also they is some plot, which concerns a band of revolutionists what resemble the Bolsheviki, bein' in need of soap, water and razors. They is plannin' to bust into the Palace and kick out the King and Queen and little Gus. Among other things they smuggles in some bombs which Robin finds and has a great time bowlin' with. They is also a bunch of comedy that's a riot.

In reel the second we sees how the revolution gets goin'. Robin, Larry and Norma gets dispossess and has to leave in a hurry. Just like the first reel, Robin again cuts a comedy melon and has some situations which would have shooken laughs outta a mummy. The fade-out at the end of the fillum shows them all slippin' aboard a boat bound for the land of the free and the home of the shave.

"Now," says Nick, when the lights come up again, "the scenario goes on to tell how the king gets himself a job as a cook in one of them swell hotels at Palm Beach. Norma, here, signs up as a waitress— what on accounta her looks gives divorce- lawyers plenty of work; and Robin naturally continues to be the particular pest of the place. If you thinks these here scenes was howls, wait till you see what I does to the rest of the fillum. On the level, Ed, I'll bet my homestead in Yonkers against a defective nickel that Charlie Chaplin himself will be bitin' off his nails when he sees what Robin has in the line of laughs. Not only this, but if the exhibitors don't mob the exchanges for the picture, you needn't pay me a cent's worth of salary! That is what I thinks of it!"

"Yes," chimes in Norma, "the fillum is certainly a wonder. Did you notice how well I registered in the close-ups?"

"They is only a few little things to clean up," Nick horns in, "before I will be ready for the hotel-stuff."

FOR the next week I'm as busy, both at the flat and at the office, as a one-man barber shop on a Sunday mornin'. Nick has cleared up all the details and has only one thousand feet to shoot before bein' ready for the hotel-stuff. Meanwhile, Ted Gavin has turned inside out the last two reels and has added new scenes, makin' Rockefeller richer by his use of the midnight oil. He has added a brand-new ending, the same takin' place now at a place known as Shore Beach and bein' located in the wilds of Long Island. I recalls Jerry Davis from a life of ease in Florida, and when he gets back, shoots him down to Shore Beach and tells him what to do. He goes there, shiverin' and cursin' the weather, and comes back in a coupla days with the news he has hired the Hotel Breakers outright, at a price which almost breaks me.

"Ed," Jerry says on the minute of his return, "you're now takin' a terrible chance of gettin' damages-suits against you, from the bunch, takin' them down to that place. It is so cold there, a fur coat feels like you has only got on your Beve D's. Imagine, with the script callin' for 'light summer clothin',' how the gang will feel all dolled up in tissue-paper suits, with the temperature next to nothin'." He stops and then adds: "Now, if you had only gone down to Palm Beach—"

"Yeah!" I hisses. "And if I had only gone down to Africa, we wouldn't have needed no clothes at all, and I would have saved money!"

One mornin' durin' the last week of the month, Carrie and Joe breaks into breakfast, where I and Gracie is reducin' the egg- supply and watchin' snowfall outside, arm in arm.

"Where is the heir to the throne?" I asks, after we tosscs aroun' this-"Good mornin'" thing. "How comes it Robin aint out of the hay yet?"

"Oh, Miss Murphy and our darlin' child has been up long hours ago," Carrie says, tyin' a napkin under her double chin. "They is down on Riverside Drive for a walk. The air always gives the little dear a good appetite."

"If such be the case,' I says, "it is a good thing for Belgium and France that Joe don't take a walk before breakfast too."

"What do you mean by a crack like that?" my brother-in-law snarls.

"Nothin'," I answers with a grin. "Only, if you got any more appetite than you now has, they wouldn't be no food left to send to Europe."

"For goodness sakes, says Carrie, "can't you men never stop bitin' at each other?"

JOE tries to look like he wasn't guilty of nothin' at all.

"Oh, I'm used to it," he says in a sad voice. I suppose when I got a rich brother-in-law what is takin' us to Florida and puttin' us up in the best hotels, I gotta stand for somethin'."

Oh, boy!

"Sure," I replies, steppin' on Gracie's foot under the table. "When a guy has a brother-in-law what is a sucker, he must stand for everythin', no matter even if he gets the bust in the eye or what! Aint I right, hey, Joe?"

"Gracie," says Carrie, turnin' both her head and the conver- sation at the one and the same time, "you should ought to see them swell pongee and silk dresses what Lady Jordan Almonde has made up for me. She says that in them I will be the talk of the Beach!"

"In them or out of them," I butts in, "you would be the talk of the Beach!"

This goes over the fence for a three-bagger as far as Carrie is concerned; and at the same moment Gracie, not bein' able to stand it any longer, gets up coughin' and stuffin' her napkin in her mouth, and makes out she has to go and see the chef.

"Has you bought our tickets yet?" Joe asks suddenly. "Ii so, I hope you got me a lower berth and not an upper one, in which I couldn't sleep, on accounta the heat."

If Gracie had been in the room, I would have busted out, but as it was I takes a deep breath and nods my head.

"The tickets and everythin' else is in the safe at the studio," I lies. "Don't worry about nothin', Joe, nor loose any sleep. Everythin' is bein' took good care of. I am spreadin' myself on this treat, so you both should have somethin' to look back upon in the after years what are comin'!"

Joe looks as happy at this as a janitor after swipin' the tenants' milk. He knows more about the word graft than the guy what wrote it, and if he thinks he is gettin' away with somethin', it pleases him better'n an introduction to Mary Pickford.

Gracie comes back, and fearin' to be in the same room with her, with Joe ready to pull a boner at any moment, I slips out and tells Roger to telephone the garage and have the limousine sent aroun'. Then, while waitin' its arrival, I goes downstairs and gives the scenery the once-over, hopin' to catch a glimps? of my child star and his nurse. They is nothin' of them both in sight, however, and so I has the pleasure of ridin' down to the studio minus my little nephew's feet all over me.

No sooner does I get into my private office than Pete blows in, carryin' a handful of tickets.

"Boss," he says, "you is gonna right now be set back a few bucks. I have in my hand tickets for the Fillum Exhibitors' Ball, which same is bein' gave a week from to-night. They is a dollar a throw. Will ten be enough?"

"Here," I says, partin' company with a new two-bone bill, "never mind the humor; gimme two."

He slips them to me and goes out whistlin', just as Nick comes in.

"Ed," he says, while I put the tickets away in my card-case, "everythin' now is ready for us all to go to Shore Beach. Can we leave to-morrow?"

"Yes," I says; "and the sooner the better. You, Norma Keegan and the rest of the bunch, can go by automobile. I, Robin, friend wife and the nurse-girl will be democratic and let the railroad make a little money off of us."

NO sooner he leaves, I grab the telephone and gets Gracie on the other end of the wires. "Listen," I tells her, when she knows it is I and not the people what live under our flat, callin' up to complain about Child Edward's noise. "We is all set to leave to-morrow. So pack our grips and leave enough room in mine for my razor. By the way, dearie, has Robin left for the studio yet, and where is Joe and Carrie at?"

"Robin has already left," Gracie answers. "And Carrie and Joe has gone down to your tailor to see about them white pants he's ordered. Ed," she continues, with a change in her voice, "I know the pair of them is a coupla bandits, but all the same, Carrie is my own sister, and it's a dirty trick to kid them along and then ditch them at the last minute."

She stops, and I hears her coughin'.

"Go ahead," I snarls, "and let me hear the rest of the song. What about it?"

I hears somethin' like a sigh comin' a thousand miles.

"I think," she says, "that under the circumstances you had better loosen up and buy the both of them each a one-way ticket Then they will never have no chance to say you did them dirt, nor will they have anythin' against you. You know what a hound Joe is. If you should do this, he might take Robin away from your company just for spite. Anyhow, play safe, Ed, and do this. I ask you, isn't it a good plan, don't you think?"

"I knew they was some kind of a joker in it," I retorts. "I can't never try to put anythin' over for myself without somebody crabbin' the act. But you is my wife, Gracie, and I suppose I will have to do what you say. But please don't never ask nothin' like it again."

She promises and rings off. I tells Miss Holliday to get on her hat and coat, and when she does the same I slips her some dough and tells her to beat it to a railroad ticket-office and to buy two one-way tickets for Palm Beach.

THE followin' mornin' being the day of our departure, they is more excitement in our flat than they is in the whole of Russia. Joe and Carrie have a lot of fun lockin' their trunks and bags every five minutes and then openin' them the next to put in somethin' they has forgot. By the time the limousine is announced as bein' at the door, we is all nearly ravin' maniacs. Then, to make it more pleasant, Roger blows in to say Robin is stuck under the ice-box. At this we all has to rush into the kitchen, Carrie screamin' worse than if the house has caught afire. Here we sees nothin' in sight except the Jap chef tryin' to drag Robin out from under by the heels.

"Leave my child be, you yellow peril!" Carrie yells, knockin' him to one side. "How dare you lay the weight of your fingers on my precious!"

With Joe's assistance she drags Robin out. The child is all covered up with dirt and dust, and yellin' like an Indian. He rubs some black dirt from his eyes and sees me.

"Runcle Ed," he howls, "make 'em leave me alone! I wasn't doin' nothin'! I was on'y chasin' a crockroach, and now he has gotta away on me."

Miss Murphy removes him from our presence to throw him into some clean clothes, and we all returns to the livin'-room, where Joe remembers he has forgot his tooth-brush. At exactly the same moment Carrie comes to life and says she has forgot her curlin'-iron, which is on the sill in the bathroom.

Finally they is nothin' left in the flat except the closets, and we all piles in the elevators and goes down, loadin' up the car like it was a movin' van, and until they was more junk in it than they ever was in the whole of the German navy. Ther, while we creeps in and sets down to await for Robin, just so we wont get bored nor nothin', Joe and Carrie starts a fight about which one shall sit on the back seat.

They is still fightin' about it and bickerin' back and forth when we gets to the railroad-station and climbs out. Without no fatalities except Robin fallin' down, we finds out where the Florida trains leave from, and it is here I pulls the ace I has so long buried.

"Joe and Carrie," I says to them both, "as we all stands in the shade of a car what is named after a cigar, bein' called 'Seminole,' right here and now I'm gonna give you both the surprise of your lives. You has been so insistent about goin' to Palm Beach ard takin' it for granted we all is goin' too, you has both never stopped to ask us about the trip to the South and so forth. However, we're not goin', and never had no idea of it. I, Gracie, Robin, Miss Murphy and the studio gang is goin' to a dump down on Long Island known as Shore Beach, where we is gonna finish up 'The Heir to the Throne.' It is a N.G. place, bein' so cold that stuff freezes while cookin' on the stove. Now, actin' on Gracie's advice, I has bought you both a ticket for Palm Beach. It won't cost you a nickel to go there. Here is the tickets. Use them or leave them; come with us or go to the South— only hurry up and make up your minds."

Both Carrie's face and Joe's face, as I finish speakin', is as blank as a piece of note paper. They is a silence, and then Joe's eyes begins to glitter, and he grabs the tickets I has took out of my card-case, outta my hand.

"I couldn't expect nothin' different from you, Ed," he snarls, "on accounta your Irish blood. But I and Carrie will fool you both. We will go. Come on, dear," he says to his wife. "Let us each get a kiss off Robin, and then beat it away from here."

They do this just as whistles begin blowin' and a bird with a watch in his hand yells: "All aboard!"

Then the train begins to pull out, and the last we see is Joe lettin' Carrie struggle to open the window next to their seat.

THIRTY minutes later, Gracie, I, Robin and Miss Murphy is all settin' on a fast-movin' express train in a parlor-car, friend wife and me admirin' the view, and my child star a cake o' chocolate I buys for him off a guy what come aroun' with a basket.

Everythin' continues to be as pleasant as a July fishin'-trip until the bird what collects the tickets comes roun'. Robin, after gettin' a slant at the puncher the guy carries, wants it for his own, and it is only by threats and bribery Gracie can make him change his mind. Then I pulls out my card-case, opens it, and seein' what is in it, before my eyes, lets out a yell and almost falls outta my seat.

"For heaven's sake, Ed," Gracie cries, "has you gone ravin' crazy or what? What is the matter with you?"

I pulls myself together.

"Nothin'," I hollers, still shakin', "only I bought two tickets off of Pete for the Fillum Exhibitors' Ball, the other day, and by mistake I have just now give them to Joe instead of the Florida railroad-train tickets you made me buy."

_______________

20: The Fifth Eye

H Bedford-Jones

1887-1949

The Green Book Magazine Oct 1920

"CERTAINLY, Miss Bothwell; I'll be up at three. Thank you!"

Mangustan hung up the receiver and pushed back the desk telephone. He glanced at his partner, a flame in his dark eyes.

"Hooked her!" he exclaimed with deep and powerful exultation.

The other frowned. "Bothwell? I don’t know the name."

"Look her up, fool!" Mangustan laughed in scorn. "The daughter of R. V. Bothwell. They live in the fifties. The girl runs things generally. The father’s an obscure downtown lawyer."

"Eh?" Mangustan’s partner regarded him curiously. "Why bother with that class?"

"That class?" Mangustan groaned. "Oh, you fool! They don't advertise; no pictures in the fashion journals. Rich— quiet home at Tuxedo— visit only titles in England. Why, your common herd of rich gentry aren’t admitted to the Bothwell home, I teli you! Look up the name, and you'll learn something. This is my first chance at the inside game, and if I pull off what I mean to, we're made!"

"What does she want, then?"

"Two rooms decorated. And she'll get— me!"

The other turned slightly pale. "Mangustan!" An undernote of fear lay in his voice. "If—if this is as you say, have a care! Play too long with the devil, and he'll trip you!"

Mangustan gave him a slow smile. He was handsome, this interior decorator whose name was potent along Fifth Avenue— a man of strong features, well modulated voice, a dazzling smile. He exerted the strongest of all influences, personality. A slight swarthy wave lent his features a trace of the foreign, but only a trace; this, and his name, hinted enough at the Oriental to render him interesting, yet were not strong enough to raise that instinctive barrier which in America is so swift to rear itself between the native born and the Oriental. Of this subtle mystery, this alien thought and blood, there was no suggestion about Mangustan. He was cheerfully pleasant; he was a prime favorite everywhere; he had an air of straightforward sincerity which had already carried him far in business and social life. He mixed always with Americans.

"I shall decorate." said Mangustan, picking his words and rerarding his partner with that slow and terrible smile, "with the five eyes of turquoise. You will please get the roll from the bank vault, and have it ready for me at two-thirty."

"You— you would do this?" said the other chokingly.

"Have you ever seen Miss Bothwell?" asked Mangustan.

"Of course not."

"Ah!" Mangustan took a cigarette from the table and lighted it. "You are an ignorant Armenian; but I am something else. I have learned that the greatest prize in this world is a woman— of a certain type. That is all. I cannot expect you to understand."

"By Him that lives!" cried the other with a sudden access of anger. "I am an ignorant Armenian; but I am an honest man!

"And I am not." Mangustan laughed softly. "Conceded. Will you attend to the roll, please?"

The five eyes of turquoise had been fabricated by a madman of Khorassan, and were like nothing in heaven or hell. Only Mangustan knew their origin, and he was very careful to tell other stories. Sometimes Mangustan knew what fear was, when he looked into those eyes.

At three precisely he left his car before a most unassuming house in the fifties, a house no different from its neighbors, a house which might have passed for a couturier’s shop or a modest dwelling. It was neither; it was the house which Edith Bothwell ruled.

Mangustan rang the bell. A butler opened the door and stood back silently. Evidently this visitor was expected; but Mangus- tan had not anticipated stepping into such a room as he now entered. The roll he carried was placed upon a table. The butler took his hat and vanished. Mangustan glanced around, somewhat staggered.

The room was not large. To the average eye it seemed to contain nothing but a suit of ornamental but useless armor— it seemed to have many unappreciated opportunities. But to the keen and crafty eye of the decorator this one room was a marvel! No decorator had touched this place, decided Mangustan instantly. Only the sheer genius of a woman could have produced this wondrous blend of hangings, carpet and furniture which made the whole thing absolutely unobtrusive— a dull harmony of colorings, a soft richness of velvets, which made that mounted suit of armor the one outstanding object in the room. A glance showed him the reason for this: the armor was Elizabethan, was gold-incrusted and was authentic. Such a thing could have come only as a gift from some high source.

In the moment or two of waiting, Mangustan readjusted his whole outlook and campaign. In this one room he subtly perceived danger. He was dealing with no wealthy fool who would give him carte blanche to go ahead and decorate; he was dealing with that rarest of clients— a woman who had created a home. He was dealing with a finer intelligence, a rarer taste, than his own. At a single false step, he saw clearly, he would be dismissed.

Another man, unfortified, might have been tempted hastily to leave the house. But Mangustan glanced at the roll on the table, and his thin lips parted in a smile. What if he must forget all his professional "patter," all the imposing knowledge which so impressed his usual clients? No matter! He would play the game, and he could not lose. The woman who ruled this house was, after all, built from human flesh and blood; and Mangustan felt that he could safely defy any creature of flesh and blood so jong as he had for his accomplices the five eyes of turquoise, the fabricated dream of that madman who had lived and died under the Maden hills of Khorassan. And why not? You have heard of Hokusai, who painted horses that lived, and of that Greek at whose painted grapes the birds came to peck; well, this was what the mad Persian had done with bits of turquoise from the mines, bits of old silk from some forgotten tomb, and a crazed mind.

The smile was still lingering on the handsome lips of Mangustan when the butler summoned him to follow. Instantly the shadowy smile vanished. So she would not come to him— he was being led to her presence, like. any tradesman, like any paper-hanger! A business acquaintance, not a personal acquaintance! Well, then, let her look out.

A moment previously Mangustan had been merely ambitious. Now he was dangerous.

Still, he noted the other rooms through which they passed— rooms which, if he had decorated or furnished them, would have been advertised all over the country in illustrated magazines as the dernier cri in interior decoration. He noted bits of furniture for which museums might have sighed. So, at last, he came to the presence of Edith Bothwell.

SHE was awaiting him in a room absolutely bare— a room newly plastered, but without so much as a molding or baseboard on the walls. Mangustan knew that she was barely twenty-one, but as he saw her standing here, slim and graceful against this bare background, the vibrant youth of her startled him.

His detailed eye noted the gown, richly inconspicuous, of black twill striped with gold stitching, finished by the string belt and bone buckles; but it was upon her face that he lingered. Wide-eyed and piquant, the dominant note of that face was its perfect poise, its perfect friendliness with the world, its level clarity.

"Behold our problem, Mr. Mangustan!" said the girl, laughing and indicating the bare room with a sweep of her hand. "You see, we begin with the bare essentials— four walls and a roof!"

Mangustan bowed slightly, tucking the roll more firmly under his arm.

"With such a background, Miss Bothwell, the genius of beauty may be most superbly adorned," he said, and left her to doubt whether this were a personality or a polite compliment upon their future work. "It is only a question what you desire done."

"Good!" She walked to a door and flung it open. "You see, these two rooms have just been freshly plastered. In a month or so my sister will return from Egypt, where she has been engaged in Red Cross work, and I wish to turn them over to her as a pleasant surprise. Here is the nucleus of the idea."

Mangustan joined her at the doorway, and gave a slight start of surprise. The only object in the adjoining room was a bed. He perceived instantly that it was an antique Egyptian piece in perfect preservation; the posts were figures of black and gold; the carving was severe; the lines were simple and perfect. A royal cartouche was in evidence.

"An original piece, is it not?" he inquired. The girl nodded.

"Yes. It is one of three which were discovered in a tomb on the western desert. It was in very bad condition, but my sister so admired the three that this was presented to her by the government official in charge of the excavations. She had it put into condition and sent home. I wish to decorate the two rooms in conformity with this piece."

I see," murmured Mangustan. "You wish me to use my own judgment?"

"Not at all," was the cool response. "I have certain ideas to talk over with you. I want nothing bizarre or exotic, nothing useless; above all, I want nothing chosen for its color alone, at the price of its utility or authenticity. The sins of decorators extend to the third and fourth generation unless obviated in time." She laughed brightly. "You don’t mind my being quite frank about ald

"We are in entire accord, Miss Bothwell," said Mangustan soberly, "A certain class of people demand certain things; we decorators must supply the demand, whether it be for color or Imitation furniture or what not. We are helpless in the tide of demand."

"Yes, but you should lead, and not follow!"

"Precisely why I brought this to show you." And Mangustan laid his roll upon the bed. "I had no idea that you desired Egyptian settings; yet this would fit in with anything. It is very unique and something so out of the ordinary that I was moved to bring it. I only obtained it the other day."

The clear eyes of the girl clouded slightly. This was approaching dangerously near just what she was determined to avoid— letting herself be supplied with what she did not want. But she said nothing, and watched while Mangustan opened the roll.

"Will you turn aside one moment, please?" He glanced up, with his dazzling smile. "It must be on the wall, to give the first effect which I desire."

With a slight shrug she turned her shoulder. The danger was not lost upon Mangustan. He had given orders; he was falling into the patter; only the result could now save the day. But he was confident of the result. He put two thumbtacks in place and stepped back.

"Voila, mademoiselle!"’

The girl looked at the thing on the wall and stood motionless. She started to speak, then checked the words. Her gaze clung; in her cheeks mounted a faint tide of deeper color.

There was some excuse for this startled surprise, particularly to one who knew fabrics. On the wall hung an irregular piece of dull silk, something less than a yard square. This silk had been mounted on a firmer foundation, but its texture and pattern were remarkable. It was, in effect, one of those Sassanid textures of which there are only a half-dozen samples extant— a doublet silk, woven under the Sassanian emperors of Persia thirteen hundred years ago.

But this piece of silk was not so marvelous as that which it bore.

Fastened to this silk, which served as a background, were a large number of fragments of turquoise, forming an irregular pattern, apparently quite haphazard. Suddenly one perceived that these sky-blue fragments of stone had been exquisitely and minutely fashioned into queer shapes, crossed with odd lines of matrix, even traced by hand with faint lines and markings. And little by little this haphazard pattern of blue stones evidenced itself to the imagination as five eyes, roughly indicated— decidedly queer eyes, too!

"What is this?" asked the girl slowly. Mangustan made a gesture.

"I can tell you whence it came, but not what it is," he said. "I have an agent in Cairo who buys for me such things as I might like, from the surplus stock of the Museum, which as you may know is disposed of. "This was in the last shipment. From the turquoise, which is that of Persia and not of Sinai, it is evident that the thing itself is not Egyptian; it dates probably from the ninth or tenth century. The silk is a Sassanid doublet of the eighth century. Neither the Metropolitan experts nor private connoisseurs can determine what it is. My own opinion, which seems to be confirmed, is that it is of Coptic origin. The Copts were supposed to be magicians, you know, and this is an extremely odd thing. The colors are marvelous. Its only utility is that of a wall ornament."

The girl stood silent for a long moment, gazing at the five eyes.

"The combination of colors is bizarre," she murmured, "but extraordinarily beautiful! You have a price on this thing?"

"One thousand dollars," said Mangustan. He had bought it for twenty from the cousin of the madman who had fabricated it. "May I ask whether there is any haste in this decoration?"

With an effort the girl removed her eyes and glanced at him.

"Any time within a month will do. Why?"

"Then, if the proposal would suit your convenience," said Mangustan smoothly, "I would venture to suggest that we take a few days for consideration. I am leaving town Monday for a short visit with friends. If you will keep this thing, I believe that you may obtain from it some ideas as to color-schemes which will be excellent for these rooms. One should really take brush and palette, sit down before this— shall I call it a picture?— and endeavor to match some of these unique combinations."

EDITH BOTHWELL looked again at the five eyes and nodded. "That might be done," she said. Much of the vivacity seemed to have left her face. "I shall be out of town next week— I might take it with me and study it." At this instant the butler entered the room. The girl glanced at him inquiringly.

"The things from Josephine have arrived—"

"Tell Félice to pack them for the Gilmores,"'broke in Miss Bothwell.

The butler vanished.

The girl turned to Mangustan, and evidenced a complete change of manner. Her smile was almost comradely.

"I shall be very glad to follow your suggestion," she said, "if you will allow me to borrow this queer hanging! I shall see you at the end of the week, and we may decide what we want and go to work at once."

Mangustan bowed slightly, and his smile was radiant.

"I am at your service, Miss Bothwell. Good afternoon!"

Almost absent-mindedly, it seemed, she extended her hand: Her eyes went again to the five turquoise eyes upon the wall; Mangustan left her still gazing at the thing.

Once in the street, Mangustan strode rapidly to the Avenue, entered the first available telephone-booth and looked up a num- ber in a small notebook. It was a private number. Two minutes later he was speaking with Harold Erskine, a gentleman of impeccable social position, absolutely no morals and practically no money. Erskine lived by such means as Mangustan was now fol- lowing.

"Hello! Erskine?" Mangustan spoke with blunt brutality. "You're thick with the Gilmores, I believe? The Long Island Gilmores, you know. They’re entertaining next week. Five hundred for an invitation."

Erskine’s voice came back to him in something like a gasp.

"But my dear chap! That’s quite impossible, you know!"

"A thousand cash," said Mangustan. "After all, I met Mrs. Gilmore at Tuxedo three weeks ago. You remember the Spursby affair?"

"Yes, but that was a rather— er— mixed assemblage.

A thousand, you say? ’Pon my word, old man! Give me un- til this afternoon—what? It might be managed. I’m to be there most of next week myself."

Mangustan left the booth, smiling thinly

There were numerous versions of Mangustan at the Gilmore place, placing him variously as an Afghan chief, an Arab sheik and a descendant of Mohammed. These simmered down into what was generally accepted as the truth— namely, that he was an American, several generations removed from Armenia, and was by right a prince of that country. Also he was related dis- tantly to a princely Russian house.

All this mattered little to the Gilmores or their guests, except that it made Mangustan interesting. He was a Fifth Avenue decorator, of course, but that was just a hobby.

As for Mangustan, that gentleman was very wary, finding himself in a new en- vironment. Here was none of the false glitter of newspaper society. These people had known each other all their lives, very intimately. There were only one or two outsiders— a diplomat from Washington, a famous author from England. The apparent lack of all formality at first startled Mangustan, but he was astute enough to watch his step.

Almost upon his arrival he made so pleasant an impression that he found it his duty to take in Edith Bothwell to dinner that evening. This was their first meeting. At the introduction their hostess surprised a startled glimmer in the girl’s eyes, and asked:

"You've not met before?"

"Never," said Mangustan, bowing, "have I had the privilege, madam."

Edith Bothwell did not contradict, and Mrs. Gilmore, relieved of the fear of some possible faux pas, left them. Mangustan met the girl’s level eyes centered upon him.

"Why did you say that?" she asked tonelessly.

"Why?" Mangustan laughed lightly, very glad of his perfect grooming. "Because, Miss Bothwell, business life is one thing, social life is another. I never mix the two."

"Ah, you are a strategist!" she said, and took his arm. Mangustan almost trembled at those words, which were quite true, until he remembered the five eyes of turquoise. Already, he observed, the girl seemed slightly distrait. Further, during dinner some one undertook to rally Edith upon her sudden liking for the dinner wines; from the general laughter Mangustan gathered that she had heretofore been abstemious.

He smiled to himself, well satisfied.

Within two days, Mangustan established himself very solidly, His bridge was infernally perfect, and courteous; bridge infallibly betrays character and breeding, makes friends or enemies almost by instinct, and even affirms mental caliber. Here Mangustan scored heavily. In other ways he effaced himself, noted and digested what went on, while his air of grave dignity and his very cheerful but strong personality impressed itself upon the men around him.

"Hm!" observed the visiting author. "I had rather fancied that interior decorators, you know, were all silly asses— sissies, that is to say. This chap Mangustan is most extrawnry, what? A deal of character there."

"He’s all right," said R. V. Bothwell, placidly stroking his heavy mustache.

Harold Erskine, who had been watching with a rather vicious hope that Mangustan would find the going very slippery, was so astonished that he really felt pleased with himself for having discovered this interesting person.

Edith Bothwell, meantime, was finding herself in the grip of a new sensation.

Among her friends she was noted for pronounced athletic tendencies; a good mount vied for her favors with an open fairway or a taped court. All this was now suddenly abandoned. She did not so much as mount one of the famous Arabs from the Gilmore stables. Instead she locked herself in her room each morning on the plea of work; when she came down to luncheon, her pallor was pronounced, and much of her old buoyant vitality seemed gone. Some one suggested that she must be writing a book. As she did not deny the charge, it became an accepted theory.

She was not writing a book, however. She was studying the five eyes of turquoise. In creating this thing the madman of Khorassan had brought into the world something which, if not new, was at least original. Edith Bothwell found it new.

During the three days of Mangustan’s visit he observed various little things which gave him supreme satisfaction. At the Tuesday evening dance, for example, he competed very successfully for the favors of Miss Bothwell. Against the whirl of glittering costumes, the slender girl stood out markedly in simple black satin, with downward-pointed panniers of black tulle; and as though to deny the somber hints of this creation, she was imbued with a fierce gayety. She did not refuse the punch, which was potent, and Mangustan did not miss the too-feverish excitement which seemed to goad her onward.

"Edith is fascinated by our handsome Armenian prince," observed Mrs. Gilmore to R. V. Bothwell.

"Bah!" said the lawyer, who was nearsighted. "Edith is able to control her fascinations— never worry!"

Or observe the slight occurrence on the following afternoon on the lawn, when some one proposed colin-maillard. There was a sprightly and merry game, and presently it fell to the lot of Edith Bothwell to be blind-man. There was great pursuit and laughter, amid which Mangustan perceived that the girl was steadily gravitating toward him despite his changes of position. Here was final proof, if he had desired any; and lest others observe the curious fact, he allowed himself to be quickly captured.

It was that same evening that he made his farewells, under retense of important business. An extremely clever move, this. He was missed to an amazing extent; the men commented upon his clever stories of cosmopolitan life and his admirable knowledge of the world, while the ladies compared his invariable courtesy with that of the visiting diplomat— to the disadvantage of the latter. On the whole, he had created an extraordinary and very favorable impression, and his early departure left him much talked about.

As for Mangustan, he went back to his Fifth Avenue shop and cashed Edith Bothwell’s check for one thousand dollars, in pay- ment for the five eyes of turquoise. His partner refused to take any share of the money. The two men quarreled violently, and it ended by Mangustan kicking his partner out the door— the back door, of course, for the sake of discretion.

"After all," laughed Mangustan after the affair was done, "he was only my partner in name— a link with the Oriental business houses! I shall get another man who can attend to that work just as well. This one was too honest—and ignorant."

All this was true enough. Mangustan, like many another American business man, had found that it pays very highly to have an Armenian partner who keeps in touch with the Oriental merchants. Occasionally it costs very high, also; but this aspect of the affair did not occur to Mangustan

Upon Friday afternoon Edith Bothwell walked into Mangustan’s shop and greeted the proprietor with a handshake and a warmly cordial smile. The week which had passed since their meeting at the Bothwell residence seemed to have changed the girl's manner appreciably. But Mangustan was not astonished to find himself treated almost en famille; he had expected this.

"I have some colors for you to see!" she exclaimed gayly, taking from her bag a small ivory palette. "I’ve been thinking over the decoration scheme."

Mangustan sat beside her on a rosewood napoleon, and listened.

"Excellent!" he approved. "Your idea of a plain black velvet carpet is superb! Now, this central shade, which contains the peculiar star-color of that silk, would be admirable for the ceiling, as you suggest."

"And this,"— she indicated another color on the palette— "is as near as I could come to the matrix in one of those turquoises. I think it would do for the walls, with a trim of pure turquoise. Will you attend to the details? Oh—do let me see that charming poudreuse over in the corner! And isn’t this bit of tapestry a real Chinese brocade? Why, I never fancied there were real ones to be had."

Mangustan arose and began to exhibit his treasures. An hour passed, and he was busily engaged in discussing with his fair visitor the relative merits of real Sheffield and the imitation variety which floods the American market. At least, this was the point of departure for the discussion; in reality Mangustan and Edith Bothwell were rapidly getting acquainted.

Another hour, and one of the two Armenian assistants was serving tea. The service, which was of Georgian silver and tiny Imperial faience, was really remarkable even for Fifth Avenue; the tea itself came from a lacquered chest which bore the sixteen-petaled chrysanthemum of the Japanese royal house. At this point only did Edith Bothwell refer to the five eyes.

"Those turquoise fragments," she said carelessly, "are really exquisite! I discover something new in them every day; it is remarkable what an infinitude of detail comprises the whole affair!"

"I am happy that you appreciate it," said Mangustan smoothly. "How the Cairo museum came to let it slip through I cannot say; but to know that it is in your possession is far preferable to turning it over to a museum. One likes to have these things where they can be appreciated."

Trite enough, certainly; but their parting was not trite, for Mangustan bowed over her hand, and she smiled as his lips touched her fingers. And then she was gone.

UPON the following morning Edith Bothwell sat in her own room, and gazed at the five eyes, which hung now upon the wall beside her dressing-table. She had slept little during the night.

"What has come over me?" she was thinking as she gazed at the thing on the wall. "What was it that drew me there yesterday, made me enjoy myself so vividly? Could it be the man himself? Certainly he is the most charming man—"

A little color crept into her cheeks.

Those five eyes upon which she gazed, were really very curious things. In them there was a fascination which it was impossible to resist, and equally impossible to explain. Their peculiar likeness to eyes grew more marked at every inspection; yet they were such eyes as no artist ever drew, these things of mosaic turquoise!

What lent them such power, such appeal to the imagination, was the intricate detail work upon the flat segments of turquoise. True, the blue stones themselves were cut and grouped with a very diablerie of ingenuity, but the lines upon their surfaces held the imagination. Those microscopic lines, natural and artificial, had been placed by the sheerest form of genius; in each of those gravings was conveyed a volume of impressions. Like the horses of Hokusai, which appeared in the morning with fresh mud upon their hoofs, these five eyes of turquoise had the actual semblance of life in them.

More than once had Edith Bothwell taken pencil and paper in the endeavor to trace the lines and discover the secret of their unconquerable power; she could not pierce it. How could she, indeed, when this entire creation had been fabricated by the flame-tipped fingers of a madman in far-off Khorassan?

Now she gazed again at the thing. Each of those eyes conveyed an entirely different illusion, a distinct impression. There was a central eye, surrounded by the other four. That at the top, once it was properly understood and grasped. conveyed a hideous and fantastic mirth; that at the bottom, a frightful and awful sorrow. To the right sparkled a fairy-like malice, to the left, twisted and melancholy scorn.

Now, it is certain that any artist can portray these emotions. Only a very rare and great artist, however, can do so in such a manner as to make the beholder really feel the emotion within himself— faintly. Not once in a thousand years does there arise a man who can so com- mand his art as to give, at a word, a line, a brush-stroke, the actual impression of what he wills; this, indeed, is not art at all: it is inspiration, either from heaven or hell. It is more than even inspiration; it is hypnotic in quality. Sometimes, at rare intervals in history, has arisen a maniac who could do this thing. There is some unresolved connection, no doubt, with the marvelous art-impulse received and transmitted by abnormal persons— Verlaine, Dowson, Gauguin, to quote mild examples from the Western world.

In order to properly conceive the genius of the fifth eye, that encircled by the others, one must regard the Oriental world. There, even among the Shias of Persia, any representation of humanity is blasphemous. There, where men have probed too deeply into the realms of thought and where Satan is worshiped in cold, actual fact by whole tribes, much comes to pass that is incomprehensible to Western brains.

This fifth eye presented to Edith Bothwell no emotion, as did the others. stead it very definitely conveyed to her a personality, a presence. She came to realize this gradually but surely. In vain she studied the fragments of turquoise and matrix; in vain she copied down, line for line, those intricate and minute tracings which en masse presented so wonderful and mysterious an effect. One can copy a Vermeer, but to copy the mysteriously translucent light and the glorious magic of the master’s brush is impossible. Edith Bothwell could set down the lines and could obtain a grotesqueness which was weird enough—but she could not copy the personality of that fifth eye: It pertained to the mad master’s work alone.

Alluring to study? It was fascinating merely to gaze upon. The girl sat before it, and thought faded within her mind. She no longer wondered why she, Edith Bothwell, had gone to a man’s shop, had spent the afternoon, had taken tea with him— and had enjoyed it! She felt the irrepressible desire of going to him now, at once. She felt as though, somehow, Mangustan himself were with her. A confusion, a very pleasant confusion, seized upon her mind.

She was, if you like, a victim of auto-hypnosis. This explanation, however, must be admitted to be very thin and pale. Mangustan was absolutely no more to Edith Bothwell, in the ordinary course of human events, than a clod of dust in the street. He had no attraction for her; there was no point of contact whatever. You must seek farther than auto-hypnosis to account for all this. But why seek farther than the fifth eve itself, and the madman of Khorassan?

Upon this Saturday morning Edith Bothwell was thoroughly conscious that she had fallen into an infatuation, of a sort; and she quite enjoyed the sensation.

She looked at the first eye, and it laughed at her in a fantastic, insane spasm of mirth which compelled a smile on her own lips. She looked at the second cye, and a swift poignant grief welled in her heart; a tear trembled at the verge of the turquoise orb. She looked at the third eye, and it jeered at her with a fairy malice and vast understanding of another world. She looked at the fourth eye, and it glowered upon her with its morose scorn, as though reflecting all the unhappy insolence which her own little world would cast upon her when her secret passion became known.

She looked at the fifth eye, and she was gazing into the comforting, mysterious eyes of Mangustan. The sense of his presence thrilled her. She was held and gripped in this allure and found it warmly pleasing. At the same time, there was the impulse which she had felt from the very first time she looked upon this thing— the impulse to abandon all that she knew and believed, the impulse to enjoy to the uttermost all the base matrix of human life and passion, the impulse to darker ways and things.

Thus gazing, she was oblivious of time and circumstance. Three times the knocking came at the door of her room before she heard it. Then she started, drew her gaze from the fifth eye, and called to enter. Her maid, Félice, stood in the doorway.

"Pardon, mademoiselle— but your father seeks you at once on the telephone."

Edith Bothwell passed into the adjoining room and sat down to the instru- ment. The voice of her father came to her.

"My dear, I’m bringing Hackson home to lunch with us, if you don’t mind. Sir Ernest Hackson. You remember meeting him at Mentone? He may stop with us for a day or two."

"Very well, Father."

Hackson! She remembered him, of course— the famous  Orientalist and scholar. She was still sitting in meditation when Félice appeared at her elbow and handed her a note.

"M’sieu. Hicks’— the butler, this— "says this was left for you at the door by a person who appeared to be an Armenian."

The girl tore open the soiled envelope and drew forth two sheets of paper. One was fresh, recently inscribed. the other was old and faded and incredibly dirty. Both were written in strange characters that looked like shorthand.

Edith Bothwell laughed and laid the curious missives down. She glanced at a clock.

"Mercy! Félice, I must dress for luncheon at once. The gray frock— no, give me the blue taffeta with the sash and plaits from Doucet. Quick! I had no idea it was so late!"

IT was unusual for R. V. Bothwell to come home for luncheon; this was, of course, in honor to his guest. Business did not worry him particularly, anyway.

Sir Ernest Hackson was a tall, bearded, quiet old man whose deep eyes possessed much hidden wisdom. Luncheon was nearly over when Edith suddenly drew from her pocket the letter she had that morning received, and smilingly laid it before the guest.

"Perhaps you can tell me what this is, Sir Ernest! Hicks says that it was left at the door by a man who seemed to be an Armenian— a stranger. It was addressed to me in English, but the two notes inside are entirely incomprehensible."

The Orientalist took up the freshly written note, and his eyes smiled.

"Hardly incomprehensible," he corrected, "since this is written in very good Turkish. I— ah— er—"

His voice died out, very curiously, and his eyes dilated a little.

"What’s the matter?" prompted the girl.

"This— er— this is certainly most odd," slowly replied Sir Ernest. He frowned, and there was a storm of trouble in his eyes, as though he found himself in some dilemma. Then a gleam of determination lighted his face, and he threw a smile at the girl.

"To tell you the truth, I thought it was Turkish!" he said, and chuckled. "It appears to be no more than a hoax, or some jest that seems in very bad taste. Would you mind if I were to keep these two papers for further examination?"

"I’m sure I don’t want them!" And the girl laughed lightly. dismissed.

After luncheon, Sir Ernest, who had arranged to stop a few days with the Bothwells, pleaded the hand of advancing age and the necessity of following custom, which would not deny his regular afternoon nap. At the suggestion of Bothwell, Edith ordered out the roadster, with the intention of driving her father back downtown and returning at three to take Sir Ernest to an appointment. Accordingly the guest was shown to his room and left to his nap.

Sir Ernest Hackson at this juncture, betrayed an astonishing tendency to prevarication, for he took no nap whatsoever. Instead he bent over the two papers, tugging hard and often at his beard; finally he lighted his pipe and strode up and down.

"Dammit!" he ejaculated. "Why, upon my word— it’s embarrassing! If the girl learns about it, trouble; it not, trouble; dammit! I'll act, and tell Bothwell later."

Accordingly he rang for his man. A moment later the latter appeared.

"You called, sir?"

"I did. Have Mr. Bothwell and Miss Edith gone out?"

"I believe so, sir. Shall I inquire from one of their servants—"

"No. Send the butler to me."

"Very good, sir."

Three minutes later the inperturbable Hicks stood in the doorway.

"Hicks, come in here and shut that door. How long have you been in the family?"

"Twelve years, Sir Ernest."

"Ah! That’s good. Have you observed that Miss Edith has acted oddly of late?"

Hicks opened his mouth, then shut it. He flushed. He shifted his footing—

"All right," Sir Ernest smiled. "Never mind saying anything. Now, my man, can you tell me whether there has come into this house anything in the shape of a wall-hanging, consisting of a queer turquoise mosaic in the shape of eyes?"

Hicks broke into a profuse perspiration.

"That there has, sir— it’s a most ’orrible effect, sir! I wouldn’t dare speak of it—"

"Where is it now?"

"I believe, sir, it’s ’anging in Miss Edith’s room."

"Ah! Hicks, it is highly necessary that I should see this thing before Miss Edith returns home. I wish that you would take me to it at once. I may say that you will have the full approval of Mr. Bothwell when I inform him of all the particulars."

Hicks bowed. "Very good, sir."

THE two men went to the room in which hung the five eyes of turquoise. For a moment Sir Ernest stood in front of the thing, then he felt in his pocket and drew forth a knife. He opened a small blade, leaned forward.

The lower part of the fifth eye was formed by a single irregular-shaped fragment of pure cerulean turquoise, of rather large size. Very carefully Sir Ernest inserted his knife-blade between this and the silk to which the stone was fastened. Upon removing his knife, there came also a small, tightly-rolled lock of hair fastened together by glue.

"Shades of Havelock Ellis and Freud!" murmured Sir Ernest, gazing upon it. "Would any jury believe this thing? I wonder what effect it has had, if any! Still, I have learned not to take chances. The less I know of that girl’s mind, the better." Then, aloud:

"That’s all, Hicks. You will say nothing about this except to Mr. Bothwell."

Hicks assented gravely.

Once in his own room again, Sir Ernest put the lock of hair on the table beside the two mysterious notes, and then got out pencil and paper.

"I'll translate these for Bothwell’s benefit," he resolved, and set to work. He first took in hand the freshly written note— which was, indeed, in Turkish characters.

Whoever translates this must say nothing to Miss Bothwell until the hair has been removed from behind the fifth eye. Otherwise she would not believe; nor would she permit the hair to be removed, so strong is the power of the eye.

I who write am John Ashgian, until yesterday partner to Mangustan the decorator. Mangustan sold the five eyes of turquoise to Miss Bothwell, and behind the fifth eye he put a lock of his own hair. I can no longer endure this work of the devil. I have seen it at work before, and I know what it can do to a man or a woman; no person can withstand it, The five eyes were made by the old madman who lived in Maden, the village of the turquoise mines near Nishapur. He was of the sect who worship Melek Tasu or Shaitan, but because he was mad, no man hindered him. The five eyes were brought to America by his cousin and Mangustan bought them.

The enclosed paper will be proof of what I say. I am an ignorant Armenian, it is true; but, by Him that lives, I am an honest man!

Ashgian.

When he had finished this writing, Sir Ernest took up the old and faded paper, This was written in cursive Persian characters, and was brief.

The five eyes were made by my cousin, who was of the sect which worships Melek Taus— whom may Allah and the lord Hussein smite! In this there is the work of Shaitan. Place behind the large stone of the fifth eye any scrap of intimate garments, and the rest is in the hand of Shaitan. May the curse of Allah fall upon all who use this thing!

Sir Ernest sat back in his chair and lighted his pipe. He wiped a tiny dew of perspiration from his wide brow.

"This is— this is the very devil and no mistake!" he murmured. "I don't know whether there’s anything to it or not, and I don't care. I’m going to do some missionary work."

He called his man, and once more s moned Hicks.

"Hicks," he said, "do you know a person named Mangustan?"

Hicks changed countenance. "I do, sir. He is a hinterior decorator, who has been ‘ired to do some work in the ’ouse."

"Very well. When Miss Edith returns, kindly ask her to pick me up at this man’s shop. By the way, do you know where it is?"

Hicks told him. "Shall I order a car, sir?"

"If you will, please."

HALF an hour later Edith Bothwell came home to receive the message left by Sir Ernest. She had torn a glove, and went to her room to get a fresh pair. While there, it occurred to her to glance at the fifth eye—a temptation which assailed her at every opportunity.

Accordingly she stood before the hanging. To her intense surprise there was no thrill of recognition; there was no life— nothing! The fifth eye was perfectly blank! And what was most strange and mysterious— she suddenly conceived a distaste for the whole thing. The thought of Mangustan occurred to her, and she frowned perplexedly. Could it be possible that she had really liked the man?

"Félice!" she turned to the maid. "Take this thing from the wall and lay it away."

There was anger in her face as she drove the roadster to the Avenue and headed for the shop of Mangustan. Anger— at herself. She suddenly found herself incomprehensible and anything but pleasing to the critical view. What on earth could have brought her to think of Mangustan at all— to carry his image in her mind’s eye? She was disgusted with herself.

When she reached the shop, she found Sir Ernest waiting on the curb. He had just bought a new pair of gloves, which were obviously much too large for his hands. As she halted the car, he glance: at the gloves and smiled.

"Oh, you noticed them, did you?"

The girl laughed. "I’m ashamed of myself, really!"

"My dear girl," he said calmly, "don't be, I beg of you! By the way, have you any word for this decorator? I understand that he was engaged—"

If you wouldn’t mind," said Edith, "will you tell him that I have reconsidered the matter and shall not have any work done at present? He may send in his bill."

"Gladly."

Sir Ernest turned to the shop. As he approached the door, one of the Armenian assistants shrank back from it very hurriedly. Sir Ernest opened it himself, and entered. He looked at the assistant, and a smile lightened his face. He spoke in Turkish.

"Has your master recovered yet?"

"Not— not yet, effendi," stammered the assistant. ‘"They— I think his jaw is broken."

"I hope to Allah it is!" said Sir Ernest. "Tell him that Miss Bothwell wishes to have nothing more to do with him. Tell him that if he sends her any bill or addresses her in any way, I will come back here and give him a second beating that will land him in the other world instead of in the hospital! You understand, dog?"

"I understand, effendi," other, turning pale.

Sir Ernest turned and went out to the car.

"Very good of you to pick me up," he said casually. "About these gloves— a trifle large, eh? I had a nasty knock on the knuckles a while ago, and got the gloves to conceal the plaster. Oh no, nothing bad at all. Perfectly ripping day, isn’t it?"

"Glorious!" exclaimed the girl with enthusiasm. "The most glorious day we've had in weeks!"

Sir Ernest inspected the first drops of rain on the windshield, and smiled thoughtfully. After all, the weather is largely a state of mind.

__________________

Index to Past Masters Nos 61-94

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

—Death Cometh Soon or Late 94

—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

—The Understudy 94

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

—The Fifth Eye 94

—Not Upon the Sleeve  79

Francis Beeding

—Condemned 94

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

Stephen Vincent Benét

—Floor, Please 94

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

Reginald Campbell

—The Howling Of Dogs 80

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

—The Chance Clue 94

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

Richard Connell

—The Doctor and the Lunatic 94

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

—The Man Who Was Damned 94

—Red Evidence 84

—Rose Window 94

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

—Yeggs Florentine 94

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

—The Hollow Lens 94

—Over Billowing Bunkers 94

—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

—It Couldn't be Done 94

—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

—Innocent Bystander 94

—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

—"Jadis" 94

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

Marjorie Pickthall

—Freedom 94

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

Frank Savile

—Burning Horseshoe 94

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

Albert Payson Terhune

—The Clean-Up 94

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 Cult of the Skull 94

—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

Mrs C. N. Williamson

—The Great Boycott at the Hotel D'Angleterre  94

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: Rose Window / Charlton L. Edholm

- 2: The Man Who Was Damned / Charlton L. Edholm

- 3: The Hollow Lens / Henry Leverage
- 4: Over Billowing Bunkers / Henry Leverage
- 5: The Understudy / Robert Barr
- 6: Burning Horseshoe / Frank Savile

- 7: The Great Boycott at the Hotel D'Angleterre / Mrs C. N. Williamson

- 8: The Doctor and the Lunatic / Richard Connell

- 9: Condemned / Francis Beeding
- 10: Floor, Please / Stephen Vincent Benét
- 11: Yeggs Florentine / Guy Gilpatric
- 12: The Chance Clue / Scott Campbell

- 13: The Cult of the Skull / Henry S Whitehead

- 14: Death Cometh Soon or Late / Robert Barr
- 15: "Jadis" / Barry Pain
- 16: Freedom / Marjorie Pickthall
- 17: The Clean-Up / Albert Payson Terhune

- 18: Innocent Bystander / Clarence Herbert New

- 19: It Couldn't be Done / C. S. Montanye
- 20: The Fifth Eye / H. Bedford-Jones
- Cumulative Index to #61-94